Page 25 of Love in the Lab (Delaneys in Love #2)

Chapter twenty-one

Molly

B efore we leave the relative safety of the Rigolets for the Gulf, Jonathan advises me to put anything I don’t want to get soaked or washed overboard down below. His words make the risks of this trip feel suddenly real, and my stomach flips with uneasiness.

He stops the boat and lowers the anchor so we can prepare. I take my bag, which contains my wallet and phone, below deck and secure it in a cabinet.

Jonathan comes down and meets me at the bottom of the steps.

He slips a bright orange life vest on me from behind like a sweater and spins me around to adjust the straps and buckle it in the front.

Though his motions are brusque and purposeful, the tender attention and concern behind them stir my heart.

Jonathan cares about my safety. He cares about my happiness. He cares about my work. He cares about me .

“Do you get seasick?” His voice cuts into my thoughts. I blink to refocus my eyes and see Jonathan strapping on his own life vest.

“What?” I ask.

“Do you know if you get seasick or have motion sickness?” he repeats.

I lift my shoulders. “I’m not sure.”

He hands me a large brown capsule and a bottle of water.

“Take this,” he instructs. “It will help keep you from getting seasick.” He reads the question in my expression and answers before I even have a chance to ask it.

“The water is going to get rough. Between the wind and the waves, we’ll be pitching and yawing like crazy. ”

“Okay.” My voice is faint, even to my own ears. What am I getting us into here? I’ve never done anything like this before. I swallow the pill with a gulp of water.

“It’s not too late to turn back,” Jonathan says, like he’s reading my mind. He brings a hand to my cheek and strokes his thumb across it. His eyes lock onto mine. “Are you sure this is what you want, Carrots?”

I think back to the sticky note waiting on my refrigerator for me last night: “You meet challenges with courage and strength.” I’m not sure that’s true, but I’d like it to be.

I’ve been so afraid for so long—afraid to let my guard down, afraid to try something new, afraid to be myself.

My fear and caution haven’t gotten me where I want to be. I need to step into the unknown.

I push down my doubts, lifting my hand and placing it over Jonathan’s on my face. “The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward, right?”

His eyebrows flash up. He smiles with his whole face, his eyes gleaming. “Attagirl,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

We return above deck to find that the wind has picked up.

Metal clangs rhythmically against metal as the shackles of the dock lines hit on the railings.

The boat leans to the side and a spray of water comes up over the railing.

We’re in the control center of the boat where the steering wheel sits.

It’s enclosed, with all the windows closed; a safe haven as the waves outside turn gray and foreboding.

“Stay here in the helm until we need to go out to launch the gliders,” Jonathan instructs.

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I wait as he ducks outside and to the front of the boat to pull the anchor up. He flips a switch, and I see the anchor chain start to move. Though it comes up automatically, he has to reach over and untwist it every so often.

Soon he’s back at the wheel, and we’re on our way under the bridge and through Lake Borgne. The weather holds until we reach the Gulf, where the waves are so strong, they make the boat lurch.

Jonathan sets his jaw. “Hold on,” he says, not taking his eyes off the front of the boat as we climb the swells in front of us and then plummet back down with a splash. Water crashes across the front of the boat.

I grab onto the railing next to me as we bounce up and over waves. As we travel farther from shore, the waves don’t crest as often or as high, so the ride smooths out some. For now. I still feel the wind rocking the boat back and forth, though.

Because of the conditions, the trip takes longer than normal. It’s another hour before we reach the location I calculated as the most ideal to launch the gliders. We’re still fifteen minutes out when the rain starts. The waves are back now, too, buffeting us from every direction.

Finally, we’re in place. Jonathan turns off the engine and motions for me to stay put while he lowers the anchor. Between the rain and the crashing waves, he’s soaked within seconds of stepping out of the control area.

I groan to myself, knowing I’m next.

When Jonathan returns, he closes us in the control area. “It’s pretty rough out there,” he tells me, clenching and unclenching his jaw. “Stay with me. You turn on each glider, and then we’ll work together to unstrap them and get them into the water.”

I nod, but Jonathan shakes his head. “Answer me with words, Carrots. I need to know you understand.”

I clear my throat. “I understand. I’ve got it.”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath, pulling me to my feet. “Are you ready?”

I shoot him a weak smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Let’s go.” He takes my hand, then opens the door. Though the control area isn’t remotely soundproof, I immediately discover how much sound those thin walls and windows were muffling.

The sound of the waves is deafening, layered below the splash of raindrops and the roll of thunder.

Every so often, lightning cracks across the sky, electrified light cutting through the heavy clouds.

Really, if it wasn’t so loud and terrifying, the sound alone might be soothing—a day at the beach and a thunderstorm rolled into one.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped moving until Jonathan tugs on my hand.

Focus, Molly , I scold myself. We carefully slide our way to the gliders.

Trying to walk while the boat pitches back and forth reminds me of the bounce houses I played in as a child.

One minute, the ground is beneath my feet and the next it’s gone, and I’m floating until the deck finds the bottom of my feet again.

By the time we’ve made it the few feet to the first glider, I’m drenched. My board shorts stick against my thighs, my boat shoes squelch with every watery step I take, and my glasses are dotted with beads of rain. I shiver against the wind whipping through my now-wet clothes.

I let go of Jonathan’s hand, bending over the gliders so I can flip the switch on each one to power them on.

My hair is soaked, and the feel of it sticking to my neck irritates me. I toss my head back and forth and roll my shoulders to push it back without using my hands, which are busy on the gliders. I wish I’d thought of putting it up before we came out here.

I feel Jonathan at my side, his warm body temporarily blocking the stinging rain. “I’m going to tie your hair back!” he shouts.

“I don’t have a hair tie,” I call back.

I tilt my head enough to see him take a black hair tie from his pocket. Wordlessly, he pulls the hair away from my neck and gathers it in his fist. He brings his other hand up and gently combs his fingers through the hair on the top of my head, smoothing it down.

Forget about the buttons on the glider. Jonathan has my full attention. I’m frozen, slack-jawed as he twists the hair tie around my ponytail twice. When he’s done, I stand and face him, my back to the boat’s control center.

His eyes meet mine with a sheepish expression. He puts his mouth close to my ear, so I can hear him when he says, “I started carrying them after I noticed you never have one when you need it.”

I … have never heard anything so thoughtful in my life. But that’s business as usual for Jonathan Stanch—accommodating, empowering, and bolstering me at every turn.

Before I can react or think of a response, the boat bobs again, pitching Jonathan toward me.

With impressive reflexes, he puts his arm up in time to catch himself against the roofline of the control area so we don’t collide.

It does mean that I’m boxed in between the wall and Jonathan’s body, which is mere inches from mine.

My eyes are aligned with his life vest, his shirt dripping and sticking against his shoulders and biceps.

When the deck steadies, I expect him to move away, but he doesn’t. I lift my head, and he’s staring down at me, fire in his eyes.

Blame the adrenaline, or his proximity, or even the motion of the boat—I feel that fire down to my very core.

I don’t know who leans into whom, but the next thing I know, our mouths are fused together.

Our lips, slick from the rain and ocean spray, slip against each other as we struggle to gain purchase.

Jonathan moves his free arm behind me, settling it between my shoulder blades and pushing me closer to his chest. Our bulky life vests bump, but I hardly notice, save the annoyance of not being as close to him as I’d like.

As I link my hands behind his neck, my vision narrows. All I see is Jonathan. All I hear is his heavy breathing. All I smell is his clean, citrus scent. All I taste are his lips. And all I feel is his skin sliding against mine.

Then the sky flashes, and our surroundings funnel back into my consciousness. Water sluices down my back. The waves crash against the side of the boat.

A laugh bubbles up inside my chest. What starts as a soft giggle against Jonathan’s lips intensifies until I’m laughing so hard, I can barely breathe.

Jonathan cocks his head, still inches from my own. “Something funny?” he asks into my ear.

With my hand, I gesture wildly around at the rain pelting us, the crashing waves, and the deck pitching beneath our feet.

“I can’t control any of this,” I shout. I also mean my feelings for Jonathan—the unrestrained way my body craves his nearness, and my heart demands his attention.

He raises his eyebrows. “No, you can’t,” he agrees.

I laugh again. “And I’m okay!”

I have no control over any variables right now.

I’m out of the lab. I haven’t had a consistent schedule in days.

And while I am focused on work, I’m also allowing myself to enjoy a bit of distraction in the form of one very handsome, very drenched co-researcher.

The story I’ve built up in my mind for years, the “truth” I’ve held onto, would suggest I should feel overwhelmed and dysregulated, but I’ve never felt stronger in my life. I’ve never felt so powerful.

It’s no small part because of Jonathan.

He grins at my epiphany. “Yeah, you’re doing great.”

He brings his mouth back down to mine and kisses me slowly and deeply, like he’s drinking me in, savoring the taste of my lips. When he pulls away, he hugs me to his life vest and wipes the water from my face with the sides of his hands.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he yells above the commotion around us.

I don’t know that, but I’m beginning to hope it’s true.

After deploying the gliders, it takes us twice as long as normal to get back to the marina. Jonathan pilots the Pulse like a pro, but I’m sure he must be exhausted, battling the wind and waves like he is.

He radios ahead to let the marina worker know when we’re close. As we near the shore, the rain lets up, though the waves become more intense in the shallower water. Finally, we reach the dock.

I stand under an awning while Jonathan helps the marina worker get the Pulse lifted into its dry dock, strapped down, and covered. Jonathan promises to come back in a few days to check on it and dry it out properly.

It’s a relief when we make it back to Jonathan’s truck in the marina parking garage, the roof overhead a respite from the steady deluge of rain now falling as Hernando’s outer bands come ashore.

Standing next to the truck, Jonathan peels off his shirt. I couldn’t move my eyes away even if I wanted to. “What?” He shrugs. “It’s soaked.”

I look down at myself and, using my thumb and pointer finger, pluck the wet shirt away from my skin. “Wish it were that easy for me,” I mutter.

“Hey,” Jonathan smirks. “I wouldn’t complain.” I scoff and shake my head.

He opens his truck door and pulls out two towels, handing one to me.

After dabbing it across my body to absorb as much of the water as possible, I wrap the towel around my shoulders, reveling in the soft warmth.

Opening the passenger side door to the truck, I move to spread the towel on the seat, but Jonathan stops me.

“I have a couple more towels for the seats,” he says. “Keep that one.”

I nod, and he lays a giant striped beach towel on the passenger seat. I climb into the truck and settle into the seat. Jonathan does the same. We’re cocooned in the cab of the truck, the air warm around us.

“Where to now?” Jonathan asks.

I sigh, looking beyond the walls of the open-air parking garage to the wind and rain beyond. “Can you drop me off at my apartment?” I ask. “I know it’s out of your way.”

Jonathan scoffs. “You misunderstand,” he says. “I mean where are we going now? I’m not leaving you alone for the storm.”

I startle. “No, I’ll be fine.”

Jonathan sets his jaw, his eyes holding mine in a level glare. “I’m not leaving you alone,” he repeats. “Either I come home with you, or you come home with me. Your choice.”

I drop my eyes. Though I’m plenty warm now with the towel draped over me and the heat pulsing out of the vents into the truck cab, I shiver.

Dark ringlets of hair are plastered against Jonathan’s forehead.

I watch a droplet of water form at the end of one curl, getting heavier until it drops free and rolls down his cheek and onto his neck.

I swallow thickly before meeting his eyes again.

It’s clear there’s no point in arguing with Jonathan about this, and honestly, I don’t think I want to. Facing my first hurricane, even a low-category one, by myself is not appealing.

Finally, I say, “My cat is at my apartment.”

He frowns. “What flood zone are you in?”

“X.”

He nods. “Me too. In Metairie. Do you have a hurricane kit or emergency supplies?”

My face warms. “I do not.” See, these are the kinds of things I don’t think about.

In one decisive motion, Jonathan shifts the truck into reverse and starts backing out. “We’ll go to your apartment first and pick up your cat, and then we’ll hunker down at my place.”

I slump back against the seat, feeling one hundred pounds lighter.

“Sounds good,” I say. One less decision I have to make. One less plan I need to formulate. One less thing for my brain to consider. I study the profile of Jonathan’s face, his jaw still set in determination. Yep. A decisive man is a sexy man.