Tempting Meredith Page 4

  Last month Meredith had begun the year-long process of becoming a tenured professor. If she succeeded, which she fully expected, she would be the youngest to receive tenure in TIMT history. She already had the distinction of being the youngest Associate Professor. “No questions. It’s coming together quickly. Makes me think I’m doing something wrong. Last time it was such a beast.”

  Rae chuckled. “Practice makes perfect.” She cocked her head and was silent for a few moments. Meredith waited. The reflection meant Rae had something important on her mind, and Meredith wondered what it was. “I’m taking off my department head hat and putting on my concerned friend hat.”

  Uh-oh. Was Rae anticipating some bumps in the tenure process? But where? Meredith had been working her ass off. Research, teaching and service. She’d known many would see her youth and gender as a liability. To make matters worse, her size made her seem younger. She’d fought against it for as long as she could remember. So she’d busted her butt to overcome those obstacles. Even her student evaluations were the highest in the department...although that hadn’t always been the case. When she’d first started teaching, she’d been lost. In her arrogance, she hadn’t realized it until the end of her first semester while reading her student evaluations. She’d gone in expecting nothing but praise for her approach to her passion.

  Hah! She still cringed when she remembered some of the comments. “Clueless” was her favorite. Luckily, one student had provided a more in-depth evaluation. He’d started positively by saying he appreciated her enthusiasm for physics, but it was interfering with her teaching. That the tangents she went off on were at the expense of clearly explaining the material. And that when a student didn’t understand and asked a question, she merely repeated what she’d said in a louder voice. She didn’t attempt another method of explaining it.

  Physics was easy for her, intuitive. And she’d treated her students as if they shared her innate understanding of the subject. Clueless had been kind. The anonymous student who’d gone to the trouble to explain her low marks had been kinder.

  So she’d done what any good geek would. She’d researched teaching methods online, asked Rae to give her notes and audited education classes. She’d learned which high school science teachers in her district had the best reputation and had observed their methods, imitating them until she was comfortable enough to add her own twists. The result? Her evals had improved over the next year until they were glowing, even from students who, go figure, didn’t like physics.

  To thank the high school teachers for their help, she’d started two programs. The science nights she’d organized at local elementary schools had been well received. The only complaint was that there was a waiting list of schools that wanted to participate. She’d also started a two-week summer science camp on the TIMT campus for high school girls to entice more of them into STEM careers. So the service part of her professorship had evolved from her initial inadequacy as a teacher.

  Her research involving radiation transport didn’t even bear consideration. It was her raison d’être. She published, attended conferences and brought in the bucks. Her work funded as many grad students as Rae’s did.

  And her appearance? Always professional. She never set foot on campus in jeans. She wore a suit and heels to make her appear taller and older and pulled her hair back into a severe bun to tame her wild curls. Like Rae, casual Fridays meant slacks, a shirt and tailored jacket.

  “I know you’ve been busy the last five years. The tenure track doesn’t leave a lot of time for social activities. But you’re almost there, and it’s time for you to slow down and enjoy your life.”

  Relief flooded her. “I am enjoying my life. I love my work.”

  “I hate to sound trite, but there’s more to life than work.”

  “Have you forgotten the two-week vacation I took in January?”

  “It was supposed to be two weeks. You only took one.”

  And only to keep an eye on her sister, but she didn’t mention that tidbit to Rae. In the end, it hadn’t been Nikki’s high-risk pregnancy that had sent them scrambling home. It had been Nikki’s sister-in-law’s homicidal ex.

  “And that’s the only significant time off you’ve taken since I hired you.”

  That wasn’t true, was it? Of course it wasn’t. She spent Christmas and Thanksgiving with her brother and sister. But Rae was talking about actual vacation days, not holidays. “I’m planning on taking some time off when my nephew is born.”

  Rae snorted. “What? A day?”

  That had been her plan. Better revise it. She tried not to squirm like a recalcitrant school girl beneath her teacher’s disapproving gaze. “No. Two or maybe three.”

  Rae leaned forward. “I know you think I’m being unreasonable. But I used to be you. I loved my work, especially the research, and I didn’t understand people who didn’t.” She paused. “But I got stale. Not burned out, although I was probably on my way. I still loved the work. But stagnant. My teaching and my research. I won’t go into details, but I had to force myself to take time away from my work in order to bring it back to life.”

  Meredith was stunned. “Are you telling me my work isn’t up to par?”

  “No, no, no,” Rae said as she waved away the suggestion. “You’re not there...yet. But I don’t want you to get there. At your best, which is where you are right now, you’re an incredible asset to this department and the university. Your students love you. Your colleagues respect you. Your community service projects have garnered rave reviews. But Meredith, you’re here twenty-four-seven. I can’t force you to take time off. However, I’d like to suggest that you avail yourself of weekends. Read a book—fiction, not physics. Go hiking, see a movie, catch a concert.”

  “I went to a football game last fall,” she said. That sounded lame, but it had been an all-day affair, complete with tailgating. “And I spent a couple of weekends in Houston helping my brother move and decorate his condo.” That sounded even lamer.

  Rae beamed. “Excellent.”

  “And I took a firearms safety class over the weekend.”

  Rae’s smile dimmed. “Guns?”

  “I know. But it was my brother-in-law’s idea. He gave me the gun, a late Christmas present.” She flicked her hand in the air as if that would wipe away all the nastiness. “It all stems from that aborted vacation.”

  “Is there something the university should be aware of? Are you in danger? If so, we need to increase security.”

  “No. It wasn’t me. It was my brother-in-law’s sister. She had trouble with an ex-boyfriend. It’s taken care of. Nothing to worry about.” Although Meredith’s blood pressure still went through the roof when she thought of that asshole manhandling her sister to get to Hailey. If she’d had a gun then... Well, there was a reason she hadn’t argued too hard with her brother-in-law about the pistol.

  Concern filled Rae’s voice. “I’m sorry to hear that. Domestic violence can be an impossible situation to deal with.”

  Yes, and Meredith didn’t want to dwell on it. She glanced up at the clock. Five more minutes. “Anyway, I enjoyed the target shooting so much that I’m going to the range again tonight.” There. That should make her happy. Meredith debated mentioning her date. But honestly, she wasn’t comfortable discussing her private life at work, not even with her mentor. Maybe that was why Rae didn’t think she had a life. She did date occasionally. Whenever her sister forced a fix-up on her. Speaking of Nikki, Meredith hadn’t told her about tonight. Not that there was anything to tell. It was one date. Still, if it slowed down Nikki’s matchmaking for a while...

  Nikki was relentless. She wanted everyone to be as happily coupled as she was. And now that their brother had settled into a relationship, Meredith was the recipient of Nikki’s undivided matchmaking attention.

  Meredith changed the subject by asking Rae’s advice on a progr
amming problem. Thirty minutes later she locked her door and headed home to change into jeans. She picked up the mail at the curb and riffled through it as she strode up the sidewalk and stairs to her 1928 Sears prefab home. The last envelope in the stack stopped her in the middle of the covered porch as if she’d stepped knee deep in mud. Her heart plummeted to the soles of her feet.

  She knew what it was without opening it. And she wouldn’t open it. Not now. It would ruin her date. The determination didn’t lighten her steps when she continued to the solid oak door and unlocked it. She tossed the stack of mail on the secretary just inside the door, along with her keys. She slid the leather backpack from her shoulder and let it drop on the dark hardwood floor. Then she stared at the envelope a moment. Four times a year they came. She’d just recuperate from one reminder—as if she ever really forgot—when the mailman would deliver another. An ebb and flow of pain. Never dissipating, just receding a bit before the next wave.

  Huggins wove around her ankles, her purr insistent. Meredith scooped up the tortoiseshell ball of fur, which she’d named after a female pioneer of astronomy, and kissed the top of her head. “Are you ready for dinner?” she cooed.

  The cat wiggled until her chin rested on Meredith’s shoulder. Her purr grew louder, vibrating against Meredith’s chest.

  “Alrighty. Cuddle time first.”

  She carried Huggins upstairs to the bedroom. As she stood in her walk-in closet and tried to decide what to wear, she scratched behind the cat’s ears and occasionally buried her nose in the rabbit-soft fur. When the decision was made, she returned downstairs to the kitchen and fed Huggins.

  Alone in her bedroom, she pretended to ignore the dresser drawer, the top right one that beckoned her heart. In the shower, she considered calling Charlie, breaking their date, staying home and wallowing. But what would that accomplish? The envelope would still be there tomorrow. The drawer of photos would wait. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t memorized every single one. Why was it more painful actually holding them, looking at them?

  Tears she refused to let fall clogged her chest and throat, and her neck spasmed with the effort. She cried out, grateful that no one could hear her. Bending over, she braced her hands on her knees. Deep breaths mingled with fingers of water drumming against her back. Her head spun, but she focused on breathing—in and out, in and out—until the spasms passed. She straightened and rolled her head, feeling more than hearing the snap, crackle and pop of her spine.

  She filled her lungs with one last deep breath, this one of determination. Not tonight. Tomorrow, she’d have a glass of wine and open the envelope. After she memorized the photo inside, it would join the others. Tomorrow.

  Chapter Four

  Meredith parked behind the shooting club. Charlie was outside waiting for her. He looked good. Cowboy boots and snug jeans. She loved a man in boots. Loved what they did for the male ass. She couldn’t wait for Charlie to turn around so she could check his out.

  He opened the car door while she grabbed her bag off the passenger side floor. She placed her fingers in his hand and let him help her from the car. He crowded her, which she surprisingly didn’t mind. Instead she admired his broad chest and inhaled the clean, spicy scent that made her want to bury her nose in his neck. It was slightly intoxicating, and she swayed toward him, off-balance.

  He grabbed her upper arms to steady her then gave her a once over. “Don’t get me wrong. You look great, but do you think you can shoot in those heels? Maybe you should change into some tennis shoes.”

  She’d layered a body-hugging baby-blue tank over a mint-green cami and poured herself into tight jeans that ended at her ankles. The four-inch sandals were a dusty blue suede with fringe. Her hair was down. Casual but sexy. And she was determined to be sexy tonight because she wanted sex, wanted an orgasm that would blow the top off her head and make her forget that envelope waiting for her at home. Tennis shoes were not sexy. Besides, she liked the extra inches added to her height. “What? If I’m mugged, I’m supposed to tell the crook to wait a minute while I change into tennis shoes so I can shoot him?”

  “I appreciate your optimistic attitude, but if you’re mugged you probably won’t have a gun handy.”

  “How’s this for optimism? I can do anything in heels that I can do in flats.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Positive. I’ll race you to the door to prove it.”

  He held up his hands. “No. That’s okay. I believe you.” But she detected a hint of skepticism in his raised brows.

  His palm was warm and firm against the small of her back as he guided her through the gun club to an outdoor shooting range Meredith hadn’t seen before. “Is the indoor range full?”

  “You need to practice outside. It changes things.”

  “Environmental factors,” she said matter-of-factly. “Light and shadow, wind.”

  “Yep.”

  The outdoor range was empty except for them. They set up in lanes next to each other, and the first thing Charlie said was, “You’re going to start with dry fire.”

  “What? You mean no bullets?”

  “Right.”

  He didn’t think she was good enough for real bullets. That sucked. She deepened her accent to cover her embarrassment. “That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  Charlie frowned. “No flirting on the range. I want all your attention on safety.”

  “First, I wasn’t flirting, and second, what’s the point of a date if I don’t get to flirt?” She almost bit her tongue when she realized he’d never used the word “date.” Maybe this wasn’t a date. Maybe it was just two friends hanging out. Mortified heat crept up from her chest to her face before she remembered that he’d insisted on paying for tonight. That made it a date, right?

  Charlie just grinned. “That’s what dinner’s for. And if you’d let me pick you up, we could have flirted during the drive here.” He leaned forward and murmured in her ear, “Keep that in mind for next time.”

  It took her a few seconds to recover from what sounded like a promise, a very sexy promise. When she thought she could speak without stumbling over her words, she asked, “Why dry fire?”

  “You’re flinching. Dry fire will cure that.”

  “I am not.”

  He chuckled. “It’ll also prove to you that you are flinching.”

  Or prove that I’m not, she stewed.

  “What’s the first rule of dry firing?” he asked.

  “Same as live.”

  He raised an eyebrow, inviting a more detailed answer.

  She hated repetition. Had since elementary school. Writing the same word ten times. Repeating her times table over and over and over again. What was the point when you got it right the first time? Obviously, he wasn’t budging until she answered the question. “All guns are always loaded.”

  “Exactly. There’s no such thing as an unloaded gun. And the second?”

  “Only point your gun at something you want to shoot. Third, finger off the trigger until your sights are on the target. Fourth, be sure of your target and what’s behind it.”

  “Excellent.”

  He took her through the process of making certain her .22 was unloaded by sight and touch. Then she loaded the magazine with snap caps. Charlie stepped back and put on hearing protection. She fitted her own earmuffs before firing off a few shots, remembering to hold position for two seconds after firing. There was no way of knowing how close she was to her target. It was frustrating for someone as goal oriented as she was.

  Charlie’s voice rose so she could hear him through the muffs. “Okay, that’s good. Cease fire.”

  She benched her weapon and spun to face him, whipping off her hearing protection before fisting her hands on her hips. “This is a waste of time.”

  He shook his head. “Did you see the
flinch?”

  “No. Why would I flinch on a dry fire?”

  “Try again. But when you fire, I want you to notice what the muzzle does.”

  She saw it on the first shot. The muzzle dropped. What was that about? She tightened her grip and shot again. Same thing happened. Once more, same results. She benched the weapon and stared down range, trying to figure out what she was doing wrong. She picked up the gun again and this time paid attention to the smallest detail of her finger on the trigger.

  And there it was. The hitch. The hurry up of her trigger finger. And she knew exactly why she was doing it. The natural sway of her arm as she aligned her sights with the target. As soon as the front sight was dead center, she hurried to get off the shot, even when she didn’t have a prayer of hitting the bull’s eye because she didn’t have a live round in the gun.

  She benched the gun and pulled down the earmuffs so they hung around her neck. “The muzzle’s dropping because I’m not exerting even pressure on the trigger. I need to calculate the arc of the sway and the rate of—”

  “No. You just need to pull the trigger smoothly.”

  “But if the sight’s not centered, I won’t hit the bull’s eye.”

  “The arc and the rate of motion will change from one shot to the next, depending on the weather, how tired and how strong your arms are, what kind of muscle memory you’ve developed, even small changes in your stance.” He glanced at her shoes. “And footwear.”

  “I’ve seen you shoot. Are you telling me it’s just luck that you hit center every time?”

  “Nope. Not luck. Practice—the right kind of practice. And a big part of that is squeezing the trigger with even, consistent pressure.”

  That couldn’t be all there was to it. It was too easy.

  He cocked his head. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t think you’re lying. I just think there’s more to it than that and you don’t realize it. Maybe you’re making the calculations instinctively.” Like her grasp of physics.