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For all the time she spent in India during some of her most formative years, Samira never truly grew accustomed to the arid heat. She’d spent most of her time inside anyway, holed up in her room with books and math flashcards and the occasional stray dog she lured in, much to amma’s chagrin.
Now, over eight thousand miles and twenty years later, her scalp has begun to burn under the West Texas sun. She can’t fathom anything hotter than this, though her weather app insists she’ll have to in the days ahead.
To make matters worse, his voice—a low drawl, already recognizable though she’s barely been in town for forty-eight full hours—ratchets up the temperature a few more degrees when he asks, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
Loath as she is to tear her gaze from the lush field of blue across from the latest mobile clinic they’ve set up, Samira turns to face her companion. He’d caught her attention upon her arrival in Seminole to assist with the measles outbreak: something about the way he carried himself, drawing himself up into a series of firm lines. His broad chest and shoulders, too, broader still with the way he stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back emphasizing his nametag:
Jack Abbot, MD, FACEP
County Health Authority
She surmised he’d be a pain in the ass to work with, him and all the other wannabe cowboys she’d met from the South Plains Public Health District and the Gaines County Sheriff’s Office. But that was before he opened his mouth and those firm lines softened, curved. Before he subverted every one of her expectations.
Big city girl from the Northeast out in the country—she knew she was coming in at a disadvantage. Only a year into her CDC fellowship and she was already all too used to introducing herself on the defensive: either for her age, or, depending on where she was responding, for her race; and if for neither of those, then due to fomenting distrust in the Center’s work in the wake of the pandemic.
But Jack Abbot had simply responded to her rattled-off credentials with a low, impressed hum, then by pulling her into conversation about disaster medicine as if they’d been peers, equals, in the field forever.
(There was also the matter of the cowboy hat. She’d always found them to be a touch ridiculous, but on him—well.
She sees the appeal.)
“Stunning,” she agrees as he strolls over. It’s a gross understatement. She’s never seen anything quite like the sea of bluebonnets before them, their white caps like foam on a wave as a rare breeze blows through.
“I guess Texas has a redeeming quality after all,” she adds demurely once he’s closed the distance between them.
That wins her a twitch of his lips. A dip of his eyes down to her mouth, too, then even lower, no expedience in the way he looks her over. It’s one of the only times they’ve been around one another sans PPE and he appears to be taking advantage of it, cataloguing every bouncy wisp of hair, every inch of bronze skin sheened lightly with sweat.
Despite the heat, she shivers.
“Stick around and you’ll see we have a few.” He lets the words hang for long enough that their implication is undeniable before saying, “Bluebonnets are certainly top of the list, though. Have you smelled one up close yet? They’re so sweet.”
God, the way his mouth forms around the O, the way he leans in a little more, entirely unnecessary—Samira adjusts her stance at the nascent pulse between her legs. If he notices, he gives nothing away, merely continues, “Some folks find the scent too saccharine, but others don’t smell a thing at all. I’m curious which is the case for you. I’ve got myself a theory and everything.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, far be it for me to get in the way of empirical research.” Humoring him, she crouches to pick one of the flowers. Brings it to her nose, makes a contemplative sound. “That is sweet. It smells – familiar somehow.”
“Think you can put a name to it?” he nudges.
Her eyes flutter closed, as if fewer demands on her senses will allow her to identify the scent faster. There must be something to the instinct, because she instantly finds herself back in Chennai, accidentally spilling fizzy marble soda down her shirt in a clumsy splash of purple; back in Jersey, making a playground trade of a green Jolly Rancher for a coveted square of—
“—grape bubblegum!”
She blinks her eyes open to the sight of him beaming at her. “Well done, Dr. Mohan. Grape bubblegum is the most common answer. Do you know why?”
She can still remember the experiment from her O-chem days. “Methyl anthranilate. It’s naturally occurring in some flowers to attract pollinators, but it’s also used for artificial grape flavoring.”
Jack whistles. “You’re smarter than all of us, aren’t you?” It’s only after she’s tucked the bluebonnet into the breast pocket of her scrubs for safekeeping that he chimes back in with, “‘Course, I suppose I should let you know that picking bluebonnets is an arrestable offense in Texas on account of them being the state flower.”
Still crouching in front of him, Samira gapes.
The Seminole climate barely registers now that she’s discovered a new brand of heat: mortification. Fury, too, at having allowed herself the distraction from her work. She can hear Robby’s griping already; as is, he’s been scrutinizing her every move since she joined his Epi-Aid team from Al-Hashimi’s—those two had history, she had no doubt—and this will surely only make him worse. As for the locals, they already didn’t want the CDC here to begin with, but now she’s gone and made things worse by committing a fucking felony, and for what? Just because she found Dr. Abbot interesting, was out of the proverbial saddle enough to delude herself into thinking he might be flirting with her? Of course he wasn’t. Why would he be? Why would he be any different from the others?
Her train of thought is interrupted by a laugh. She looks up at the culprit, ready to bite, but his eyes are fond and the sound isn’t mocking, it’s warm. Even a little bashful.
“I’m kidding, doc. It’s not illegal, that’s just somethin’ we tell tourists.”
Samira says nothing as she rises smoothly to her full height—just holds his gaze, challenging him to look away. When he doesn’t, and when her heartbeat finally returns to normal, she plants a hand on her hip and fixes him with a cool smile. It’s mostly eyebrow, barbed but beautiful.
“You know,” and it’s her turn this time to make a show of looking him over, from the crown of his Stetson to the tip of his toe, “I hate to say it, but as far as first impressions go, you’re not really doing the whole Southern hospitality thing justice.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, ducking his head repentantly. It’s undermined by his grin, though: boyish, in spite of the silver salting his curls and stubble. “How can I make it up to you, Dr. Mohan?” he asks, more than a bit pointed.
She can think of a few ways.
