Page 19 of Love in the Lab (Delaneys in Love #2)

Chapter sixteen

Molly

I feel almost criminal as I loiter in the shadows outside the lab building waiting for Jonathan to emerge.

I can’t believe he’s upstairs right now taking the blame for my misconduct.

I got carried away, that much is clear to me now.

Even though I did it in a responsible way, I should have never involved the water samples—our research—in my prank.

What was I thinking?

Tired of waiting in the shadows, I walk across the parking lot to lurk near Jonathan’s truck instead. I need to talk to him. I need to apologize. I need to thank him.

Soon, I see him exit the building and walk in my direction.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I take the opportunity to study him.

The strap on his messenger-style computer bag crisscrosses his broad chest, and his hands are tucked into his front pockets.

His eyes, usually warm and playful, are lowered, watching the ground in front of him as he walks.

His hair, dark and curly, flops onto his forehead. His gait is confident and strong.

The more I watch him, the more my heart pounds and my stomach flutters, and the more obvious it becomes that I’m not just attracted to Jonathan. I don’t want to just apologize or thank him. I definitely don’t hate him. Maybe even … the opposite? Or something close to it.

He’s only a few feet from the truck when he sees me. “Hey!” he says, smiling slowly and stumbling back a step. “I thought you went home.”

“I wanted to wait for you.” I can’t look away from him, especially now that he’s as focused on me as I am on him.

Jonathan has me mesmerized, without even trying.

The air between us feels electric, like we’re two atoms with opposite charges being drawn together.

We’re within an invisible force field, and I’m powerless to do anything but drift closer to him.

I don’t know if he feels it, too, but he steps forward so we’re toe to toe. “I’m glad you did.” He takes his hands out of his pockets as his eyes dip to my mouth.

It’s all the invitation I need. I launch myself forward and up—he’s so tall, at least compared to me—my lips crashing into his.

For a terrifying second, he freezes, and I’m afraid my impulsive action is yet another mistake.

I start to pull away. Jonathan wraps one arm around my back, pulling me closer, while the other arm comes up, his hand cupping the back of my neck.

He’s kissing me back. What’s more, he’s taking control of this kiss, moving his lips against mine with frantic, desperate energy. I reach my hand behind his head, tangling my fingers in his curls, silky against my skin. He groans softly against my mouth.

His lips leave mine, moving to trail kisses across my jawline. “Thank you,” I breathe out. “I’m so sorry I got you in trouble—”

“With this reward, it was one thousand percent worth it,” he murmurs, running his lips over my neck.

“Something can’t be one thousand percent,” I say. “Cent means hundred, so—” The rest of my explanation is lost as his mouth covers mine again. I feel him smirking against my lips, and I pull back slightly.

“Are you laughing at me?” I ask. Almost every nerve ending in my body screams at me to lean back in, kiss him again. The self-preservation part of me keeps me in place.

Jonathan leans his forehead against mine, breathing heavily.

When he catches his breath, he tilts his face away enough to look me in the eye.

“No, I’m not laughing at you. I’m finding you delightful, as always.

” His hazel eyes are bright and sincere as he lifts his hand away from my back and gently caresses a finger across my cheek.

“You’re incredible, Carrots. I’ve wanted this for a while. ”

All coherent thought leaves my head so quickly I get lightheaded. “A while?” I repeat, dazed.

He chuckles. “Yeah.”

“Me too,” I admit.

He grins and wraps me in his arms, squeezing my body against him.

It feels better than being bundled up in the most luxurious weighted blanket, especially when he presses a kiss to the top of my head.

I inhale against his shirt. He has a subtly clean smell, like laundry detergent and the hand soap in the bathrooms at the lab, nothing overpowering.

“Does this mean you don’t hate me anymore?” he asks, his voice muffled in my hair.

I smile and nestle my cheek into his chest. “I think it does.”

My mantra of the day is “What was I thinking?” I thought it after I learned Dr. Perron was visiting the lab this morning.

I thought it as I waited for Jonathan in the parking lot after work.

I think it now—a refrain that’s looping through my head—as I lie in bed trying to get to sleep after kissing Jonathan Stanch.

Of course, the answer on all counts is that I wasn’t thinking.

I was giving in to my impulses in a way I haven’t since freshman year of college.

I let Jonathan poke holes in the walls I’d constructed not only around my heart, but around my mind as well.

Walls that were designed to keep me on track and focused.

Now, layers of regret are filling in the holes like bricks being cemented into place.

Yes, Jonathan is handsome and charming. This, I’ve always known.

He’s also, I’ve learned to my bewilderment, thoughtful and kind and supportive and funny.

Add to that his apparent romantic interest in me, and a weaker woman would have given in weeks ago.

I take a kind of twisted pride in that. At least I held out this long.

The sad truth is, I don’t hate Jonathan. I’m not sure I ever really have, deep down. But I also can’t have him.

If I had been focused on my work these past weeks instead of playing games with Jonathan, I’d probably be closer to cracking the proverbial code on my data model.

I’d have already worked out a plan to test my hypothesis about the effect of tropical systems on harmful algal bloom outbreaks.

I wouldn’t have been on the receiving end of that disappointed look from Dr. Gantt.

My phone pings with a text notification.

Jonathan:

Don’t forget we’re out on the boat tomorrow. See you in the morning, Carrots

I’m supposed to meet him bright and early by the bench in the grassy area behind our lab building. He’s probably picturing a romantic day on the water with some work threaded in between flirtatious looks and hot kisses.

Honestly, that sounds amazing. Imagining his lips on me tomorrow, remembering how they felt against my skin earlier tonight, my heart flutters, and my hands feel jittery. It’s desire, and as much as I’ve tried, I can’t control it. Not around Jonathan.

So, I need to control the variables I can: my proximity to Jonathan, my focus on my work, my insistence on staying in the lab.

I text back a thumbs-up, but I already know I’m not going on that boat tomorrow.

Jonathan’s already waiting when I arrive at our meeting spot the next morning. As soon as he sees me, his face splits into a huge, authentic smile. Then he must notice the expression on my face, or maybe that I’m not dressed for the boat, because he dims.

I wring my hands as he approaches. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Did something happen?”

I shut my eyes. “Yes. I’m sorry, but this was a mistake. Last night was a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t.” I force my eyes back open and look right into Jonathan’s deep, unblinking gaze. His eyebrows are furrowed, his jaw clenched.

“It was,” I insist. “I made a mistake. I don’t usually do impulsive things, but—”

“You have ADHD,” he cuts in. “Isn’t impulsivity a primary characteristic?”

The words sting, but when I assess his expression, he doesn’t look angry, just matter-of-fact. I push away the hurt and try to explain. “Yes, but I’ve gotten very good at suppressing impulsive urges. I purposely fight against them; I don’t follow them, no matter what.”

His eyebrows pinch tightly together. “Even if it’s something you want?”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. It might be something I think I want in the moment but will derail my long-term goals, jeopardize my work.”

Jonathan rocks back on his heels, his expression morphing into hurt. “I get it. You’re scared. You’re scared of what we could have for the same reason you’re scared of fieldwork. You think you’ll get distracted and fail.”

“I don’t think ; I know . It’s happened before. I can’t risk my work.”

He grabs my hands in his. “Freshman year of undergrad was a long time ago! You’re so worried about how you’ve failed in the past you don't realize that when you suppress the characteristics of your ADHD, you’re losing yourself.

Over the last two months you’ve shown me this amazing side of yourself; a side that’s funny and fiery and nurturing and sexy.

Why don’t more people know this about you?

Why did you show me ? I’m more than a distraction; we’re more than a distraction, and you know it. And it scares the hell out of you.”

It does scare the hell out of me. Everything he says is hitting its mark, striking me right in my heart. There’s another piece of this puzzle, though. The piece that tells me he deserves better, even though he doesn’t realize it yet.

“I like you,” he continues, impassioned. “Just the way you are. You. Whether you’re locking your keys in the car or creating complex data models or scowling or laughing. I’m … I’m falling for you. I want you .” His voice breaks, and he looks away.

I shake my head. He may think so now, but when it’s day after day of picking up after me and dealing with my issues, how quickly will that feeling fade?

No, it’s better for me and for him, even if he doesn’t realize it now, to stick to the plan.

No dating, no distractions. Focus on work.

Control what I can control to stay afloat.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I just can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” His eyes cut back to me.

“It’s not that simple,” I protest, pulling my hands away from his.

“It is if you let it be.”

“We can still be friends. Partner up on our projects at the lab.” Even as I say it, I know it’s impossible.

His eyes darken. “I'm not interested in being friends. I … can’t. It’s all or nothing for me. Either take this risk with me, or we go back to being semi-cordial colleagues. Your choice.”

Why is he making this so hard? I swallow a sob, willing myself to stay stoic, at least until I’m alone. “I'm sorry,” I say again, voice cracking despite my effort.

Jonathan's shoulders tighten. “I have fieldwork to do. I guess I’ll see you around the lab. Goodbye, Molly.”

As I watch him walk away, a quiet whimper breaks through my facade, and tears start dripping down my cheeks. My legs are suddenly weak; I drop onto the bench when I’m not sure they’ll continue to hold me upright.

If this morning is about correcting the mistake I made when I kissed Jonathan, why did I feel so at ease in his arms last night, and why do I feel so heartbroken now?