Page 6 of Love in the Lab (Delaneys in Love #2)

Chapter four

Jonathan

A fter I dropped Molly off at home yesterday afternoon, I went to the last two sites by myself and got the samples we needed.

The cab of my truck smelled like lavender the rest of the day.

The fragrance seemed to radiate from Molly the minute she was drenched.

Her shampoo, maybe? Either way, it lingered in my nose long after it faded in the truck.

Now we’ve got a few days for Molly to recover in the lab before we need to venture out again.

As I walk into the lab, I feel uncharacteristically nervous. My palms are sweaty, and my muscles feel twitchy. What am I nervous about? Seeing Molly?

I saw a lot of Molly yesterday. Her drenched clothes didn’t leave much to the imagination.

They clung to every curve, though I tried my hardest not to notice.

Strangely, I think seeing her in my sweatpants and T-shirt, baggy as they were, caused an even more intense reaction in me.

I liked it. A lot. I found myself fighting these primal urges to protect and defend her.

In evolutionary terms, men are biologically predisposed to protect their mate and offspring to ensure the survival of their genes.

But Molly isn’t my mate. I don’t want Molly to be my mate. Molly would never want to be my mate.

I’m pulled from these ludicrous thoughts when my boss approaches me.

“What exactly happened yesterday?” Dr. Gantt asks.

“What do you mean?” I ask quickly, my mind still on Molly in my clothes. Molly changing into my clothes in the back seat of my truck. Her stunning blue eyes narrowed at me as she scarfed french fries while wearing my clothes and sitting in my truck—

“Molly called in sick today.”

A flash of adrenaline makes my stomach tighten. “What? She was fine when I dropped her off yesterday.”

Dr. Gantt puts a hand on her hip. “She said she had an allergic reaction to mosquito bites. Didn’t y’all wear insect repellent?”

I did. Plus, I had on long sleeves. The mosquitoes didn’t bother me. But … Molly had on short sleeves, and did I ever give her the spray to put on? I’m guessing no.

Good thing Molly isn’t my mate. I’d do a sucky job protecting her. Great. Another reason for her to dislike me.

“Do you mind if I go check on her?” Dr. Gantt narrows her eyes as if trying to analyze pieces of a problem. “I feel responsible,” I explain. “I forgot to make sure she had insect repellent on.”

“Go ahead then. Tell her we’re all thinking about her, and that I hope she feels better soon.”

“Thanks.” I turn around and head back out the door. Of course I can’t show up empty-handed, but I’m also not sure what she likes, other than boneless barbeque wings, which don’t seem appropriate at nine in the morning.

I do know a New Orleans treat that everyone loves, though. I can stop on the way.

I grab the paper sack from the passenger seat and walk toward the entrance to Molly’s apartment building. It has an intercom system with labels for each of the residents. I find the code for “Delaney – 2B” and punch it in.

The speaker crackles to life. “Hello?”

“Hey, Molly … it’s Jonathan.”

“Go away.”

I rub my chin. “I just wanted to check on you. Dr. Gantt said you had an allergic reaction to mosquitoes?”

“I’m fine. Go away.”

“I brought beignets.” Even though she can’t see me, I shake the bag in front of me.

The intercom goes silent. Then the door buzzes and makes a loud clanking sound. I grin as I pull it open. After it closes securely behind me, I find the stairs and make my way up to 2B.

I knock. “Molly?” I call.

I hear rustling behind the door. “Can you just leave the beignets on the doorstep?”

I chuckle. “I’d really like to come in and check on you.”

“And if I say no?”

“More beignets for me.”

She sighs so loudly I hear it through the door. A lock clicks and those blue eyes peer out at me from a tiny crack.

I flash a smile. “Hi.”

She sighs again and opens the door wider. Her face and arms are covered in gloppy white cream mixed with what looks like aloe vera gel. Her hair is tied in a messy bun on top of her head and the lenses of her glasses are smudged.

Adorable.

I quickly school my expression.

“Come in, I suppose,” she invites.

As I walk through the door, I take in the apartment.

I can’t tell how big it is, but it looks like a studio.

The living room is crammed with bookshelves full of messy stacks of books and papers.

The love seat sized couch is a nest of blankets and pillows.

A small television across from the couch is paused on an image of a young Anne Hathaway in a peasant blouse and long blue skirt, a cape wrapped around her shoulders.

A light blinks on a DVD player on the shelf under the TV.

I do a double take. Who still has a DVD player?

I move a blanket to the side to sit, placing the bag of beignets on the coffee table next to tubes of antihistamine creams, a large pump bottle of aloe vera, and a bottle of Benadryl. She opens the bag and pulls out a beignet, immediately taking a bite.

“Mmm,” she says. “They’re still warm.”

My heart rate ticks up, and I take a breath to calm my reaction. “So, what happened, Mol of America?” I ask.

Donut squarely in front of her face, she narrows her eyes. “Are these inane nicknames off the cuff, or do you have a list somewhere that you work on in your free time?”

I consider a minute. “Mostly off the cuff, but a list isn’t a bad idea.” I scratch my chin thoughtfully.

“Anyway, what happened is that some jerk made me go in a swamp yesterday. I got bitten up by mosquitoes, and apparently, I’m allergic to certain types of mosquito bites.

My whole face swelled up, and I had to DoorDash medicine through the tiny slits of my swollen eyelids.

Also, I got sunburned, so that’s painful. ”

The attitude is on point, but there’s no fire in her tone.

“And if the jerk is really sorry and promises to give you insect repellent next time?” I ask, hoping she feels more forgiving now that I’ve plied her with sugar.

She lowers the donut. “Ugh. Next time.”

The powdered sugar from the beignet is stuck to the cream on her face. I smother a smile. “But can you forgive the jerk?” I wheedle.

She glares at me out of the side of her eyes. “Only if he brings beignets.”

I grin. “Perfect.” I knew bringing beignets was the right move.

She pops the last bit of donut in her mouth and chews thoughtfully.

Then, she sits up and levels me with a stern gaze.

“I get there has to be a next time for fieldwork. Dr. Gantt says. But, please, next time, can you give me a heads up? Let me know what to expect so I can be prepared? I’ll be easier to work with if I know what’s going to happen. ”

Does not like surprises. Got it.

“Understood. I’m sorry. I’ll communicate better next time.”

She takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Then, she smiles—a real smile with her teeth showing and her eyes crinkling in the corners. Just like yesterday when she smiled at me in the bayou, I’m breathless. I’m desperate for more of her smiles. What I wouldn’t give to be the one to make her smile like that every day .

That’s a weird thought. This is Molly Delaney. Yes, I’ve always been attracted to her, but she hates me.

I run a hand through my hair and stand, suddenly eager to leave. “I’ll get out of your hair now. There’s more beignets in the bag. All yours. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thank you for the beignets.” She stands and walks with me toward the door.

I step into the hallway. I’m halfway to the stairwell when she calls, “Jonathan!” I turn around and from the open doorway, Molly tips her head in a teasing expression. “I still don’t like you.”

She makes me work for every inch of progress, that’s for sure.

I grin. “I didn’t expect you would.”

My phone rings on my way back to the lab. It’s my sister, Tamara, so I answer.

“Hey, sis! How are the girls?” My sister is mother to my three delightful nieces, aged somewhere between two and … nine, I want to say?

“Hi, Jonny. The girls are great. They miss you. We all do.”

Tamara and her family live in Ohio, just a couple of streets over from our dad, who still lives in the house I grew up in. When she says, “we all do,” I know she’s including Dad. It’s her subtle way of saying I should call him more.

“Did you miss a call from Dad yesterday?” And that’s her not-so-subtle way of saying it, I guess.

“Oh, um, not sure. I was busy yesterday.”

“Jonny,” she scolds.

Even though she can’t see me, I roll my eyes.

“Okay, yes. He called when I was out with a colleague.” I realize how that sounds and backtrack.

“Well, you know, not ‘out’ with a colleague like a date or anything. She was … we were … visiting our sample sites and … collecting samples,” I finish lamely.

Tamara is quiet for a second. “Okay, there’s a lot to unpack there, but I just don’t have the time today, baby brother. Dad’s going to call you again tonight. You should answer.”

“Maybe I have plans.”

“Do you?”

“No. But I often do have plans, you know.” I could have plans if I wanted to have plans. I just haven’t wanted to lately.

“I’m sure you do, Casanova. Tonight, your plans are to talk to Dad when he calls you. Okay?”

“Why?”

“He has news he wants to tell you.”

I consider this for a minute, dread already starting to turn my stomach sour. “Good news or bad news?”

“ I think it’s wonderful news. You may not agree.”

I groan. “He’s marrying Sharon, isn’t he?”

“Talk to Dad. And be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” I grumble.

She laughs. “You’re usually nice. Less so when you talk to Dad.” I hear a crash in the background. “Ugh, gotta go. Mia’s getting into something. Love you, Jonny!”

“Love you, Tams.”

The call ends just as I’m pulling into a parking spot at the lab. I switch off the engine and groan as I lay my head back against the headrest.

My parents have been divorced since I was twelve, and Dad’s been dating Sharon for two years now.

She’s a nice lady. I don’t have anything against her, except that she’s the total opposite of my mother in almost every way.

Mom has black hair and Sharon’s blonde. Mom is outgoing, the life of every party, and Sharon is quiet and reserved.

Mom has strong opinions about most things, and Sharon goes along with what everyone else wants.

It’s as if, by now choosing Sharon, Dad is admitting how wrong he was to choose my mother the first time around. It’s like he’s saying their marriage was a mistake; my mother was a mistake.

Tamara loves Sharon. Tamara’s husband, Mike, loves Sharon. The girls love Sharon. My dad, obviously, loves Sharon. And I guess he’s going to marry her.