Page 15 of Love in the Lab (Delaneys in Love #2)

Chapter thirteen

Molly

W ednesday morning, I lock my apartment door with the spare key, triple checking that it’s tucked safely in my pocket before walking to the lab.

I know I need to deal with a locksmith for my car today, but all the steps needed to make that happen feel so overwhelming.

Just getting started will be a Herculean task I’m dreading.

I wave to my car in the parking lot, noting that the windows still look intact, which means no one broke in overnight. That’s a relief.

I trudge up the stairs, wishing I’d taken the elevator.

Then, I stash my lunchbox in the fridge in the breakroom and settle in at my desk.

I’m following my normal routine this morning and it feels strange.

Almost … boring? Your day is not supposed to be exciting , I remind myself.

It’s supposed to be stable and focused .

Still, I’m feeling dissatisfied, which is why I light up when Jonathan approaches my cubicle. He pulls his hands from behind his back and jangles something above my head. Wait, not something —

“Hey, my keys!”

The metal keys clank against my desk as he sets them down. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How’d you get them?” I reverently pick them up and clutch them to my chest.

He leans his shoulder against the doorway wall. “I called AAA last night. They sent a locksmith out.”

I pause, tilting my head as I look up at his face. “They let you call a locksmith for a car that doesn’t belong to you?”

“Oddly, yes. Kind of makes you wonder, right?” He chuckles.

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, you’re all set.” He raps a knuckle against the desk and turns to leave.

I’m not ready for him to walk away yet. The fact that he dealt with the locksmith for me is a huge deal, making my day infinitely easier.

I’m not even sure he realizes how huge. It’s the kind of thoughtful service my dad would do for me.

Accepting it from Jonathan does funny things to my heart.

“Jonathan!” I call after him, more loudly than I intended.

He turns around, a smirk on his lips. “Yes?”

I take a breath. “Thank you. I’m not sure you understand how much agonizing you saved me.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and meets my eyes. “I just wanted to make your day easier.”

I nod. “You have. Thank you.”

His face turns serious. “Listen, I have a weird question that I know I have no right to ask, but it keeps bugging me, and I know it’ll bother me if I don’t at least try .”

I laugh nervously. “O-kaay?”

“Can I make a copy of your apartment key?” He grimaces.

“You want a key to my apartment?” I narrow my eyes.

“Not to use . But, like, to hold for you, in case something like this happens again. I could be your hide-a-key,” he explains.

Is it strange that I believe him? He got pretty worked up last night about how “unsafe” the hide-a-key is.

Is it even stranger that I trust him? Jonathan’s annoying, but he’s never done anything to make me think he’s dishonest or unreliable.

Is it the strangest of all that the idea of Jonathan protecting me, wanting to protect me, stirs up all kinds of butterflies in my stomach?

My bewilderment must show on my face because Jonathan backpedals quickly. “Never mind. That was stupid. It’s a stupid idea.”

His expression of bald insecurity is one I’ve never noticed on my coworker before.

Usually, he’s confident, annoyingly smug.

But now, instead of his characteristic smirk, he’s wearing a tentative smile.

Instead of his typical, relentless eye contact, he’s staring at his hands. It feels sincere. It’s … endearing.

Maybe that explains what I do next. I reach into the pocket of my pants and slide out the extra key to my apartment. I hand the key to Jonathan.

His eyes widen. “Wait, really?”

I smirk. “Yeah, I kind of like the idea of you doing my bidding.”

His eyes flash. “So do I.” He mutters it under his breath, but he’s standing close enough that I hear it anyway.

I do the only thing I can think of doing: ignore the comment. Instead, I smile and tease, “But if I catch you raiding my kitchen in the middle of the night, I will shoot you.”

He scoffs. “Do you even have a gun?”

I tap a finger against my chin. “Hmm, I am from Texas, you know.” I don’t own a gun. I’ve never even touched a gun in my entire life.

He laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

After checking into their hotel late Friday afternoon, my parents meet me at my apartment where we’ll make plans for dinner.

We exchange hugs all around and I lean in, trying to remember how long it’s been since I’ve been hugged.

Probably not since Nicole was here in April.

That’s probably why physical contact with Jonathan is affecting me so much.

Simple human touch deprivation. Humans are meant to have physical contact with other humans.

It’s not him or his touch specifically; it’s a natural biological reaction to touch starvation.

My dad is tall—just under six feet—his long legs providing half that height. His graying hair is mussed from travel, but his gray-blue eyes are bright.

Growing up, my dad always joked that I’m my mother’s mini-me. My face still looks like a younger version of hers, except her eyes are blue-green hazel and mine are just plain blue. We’re about the same height, but her brown hair has changed to gray, and she’s thicker around the middle than I am.

My mom notices the stack of picture frames on the coffee table.

I still haven’t gotten around to hanging them since the morning, over a month ago now, I had to stop so I could get to work on time.

She picks them up, shuffling them to see the photos.

“Ooh, pictures! These are so cute. Ben, you should help Molly hang them while we’re here. ”

Neither of them comments on the clutter stacked on every flat surface of the apartment.

They didn’t nag me about that kind of thing when I was a kid, either, even though my room was always a disaster.

I wasn’t allowed to leave my belongings in the common areas of the house, but in my own room I could organize or disorganize how it made sense to me.

Still, I can’t help but feel a degree of inadequacy when I look around my apartment through my parents’ eyes.

My deodorant sits on top of the TV. A giant mixing bowl is taking up space on the nightstand next to my bed.

My electric toothbrush, cap on, stands upright on the kitchen counter.

I really hope neither of them checks the refrigerator or cupboards, because I’m not even sure what’s in there.

Maybe some shriveled carrots and stale crackers?

There’s definitely a layer of dust on the lampshades and fan blades.

Now that I’ve noticed what a wreck my apartment is, it’s all I can see.

All of a sudden, the space is overwhelming, and I feel the impulse to clean and organize everything.

I resist and suppress, forcing myself to focus on my parents, though my fingers are literally twitching to grab a dust rag and get to work.

“Molly?” My dad’s voice breaks through my distraction. The way he’s watching me with an affectionate smile on his face, I know this is not the first time he tried to get my attention.

I smile ruefully back. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Mom asked where you’d like to go for dinner.”

I look between my parents. I have a difficult enough time making decisions when it’s something I care about, never mind when the outcome won’t really matter. “Oh, wherever you want. There are over one hundred restaurants within walking distance, so…” I shrug.

Dad’s eyes light up and he rubs his hands together. “How about some traditional New Orleans food?”

I think of the spread Jonathan provided earlier this week. “Oh, actually I do know a place like that.”

I pat my pants’ pockets for my phone but don’t find it. I wander into my bedroom and see it charging on the nightstand. I unplug it and bring it back into the living room, typing as I go.

“Cafe Beignet. There are several locations. The closest one is a fifteen-minute walk from here.”

“Sounds great!” Mom says at the same time Dad exclaims, “Let’s do it!”

We walk to the restaurant, my mom chattering about the buildings and people around us. When we arrive, Mom and I grab a table while Dad writes down our orders, so he can wait in line.

“Red beans and rice,” I tell him confidently. “With an order of beignets, please.”

My parents exchange a look. “You like red beans and rice?” Mom asks.

“You’ve tried red beans and rice?” Dad adds.

I don’t tell them I discovered just this week that I like the dish. Instead, I say, “Yes. It's not too spicy here. My … um, coworker encouraged me to try it.”

“Well, isn’t that nice?” Mom says and gives Dad her order.

He leaves us at the table to wait in line to order.

I’m looking around at the exposed brick, white wrought iron bistro tables and chairs, and shelves against the wall stocked with New Orleans seasonings, baking mixes, and cafe merchandise.

This place is cute. And I already know I like at least two things on the menu.

The air smells heavenly—a mixture of savory seasonings, coffee, and sugary sweet dough.

I feel my mom watching me and mentally brace for an inquisition. “You tried red beans and rice because of a coworker, you said? Which coworker?” She pauses, waiting until I’m looking at her before adding, “Was it Jonathan?”

“Actually, yes,” I say airily. Super casual. Nothing to see here.

“Hmm. That’s interesting. Isn’t he the coworker you always complain about? He sounded so nice on the phone the other night.” Her eyes are locked on my face, studying, assessing, delving in a way that makes me believe she can really see my thoughts.

I scoff, fiddling with the zipper on my sweatshirt. “That’s what he wants people to think.”

Her eyes sparkle. “All part of his nefarious ruse, then?”

I set my jaw. “Maybe.”

She chuckles. “What do you have against him, anyway?”