the new Trish, proper and devoted to God. Besides, she wasn’t supposed to encourage even a hint of interest. She’d be breaking rule number one.
She could be calm and professional.
Trish hid behind her computer monitor, which blocked her view of the doorway. She wondered when Spenser would move in.
He walked in a second later with a cardboard moving box. He dropped it to the floor with a plunk that betrayed his still-simmering temper.
Trish eyed his box. That was fast. “How long have you known?”
“My supervisor told me this morning so I would join Diana’s group meeting.”
Trish bristled at his clipped tone. Grumpy. She stared at his back, which wasn’t that broad.
He tossed pens and his calendar onto one of the two desks at the other end of the room, ignoring the one right next to hers. Refusing to let him get away with his snot-nosed attitude, she leaned back in her chair. “Good idea. I’m sure it will be much easier to collaborate if I have to throw the data sheets across the room at you.”
Spenser swung his head around to frown at her.
Trish’s sense of humor took over, and she flashed him a cheeky smile.
He turned back to the cubicle he’d chosen, then looked at the one next to hers. His glower melted into a rueful expression. Then he had the audacity to wink at her. “You want me close so you can play footsies with me.”
Trish’s mouth opened in shock before she exploded into peals of laughter. “Yeah, right. Your ego’s not going to fit into this office.”
Spenser grinned. “My ego wouldn’t fit into this building.”
She hadn’t thought he was able to laugh at himself.
He scanned the floor. “I need a power strip. Got one?”
Trish rummaged for the extra surge protector in her desk drawer and gave it to him. He glanced at the mess of papers surrounding the keyboard on her desk. “Are you finished with your last project?”
She caught where he was heading. “I’m writing the final report now. I’ll be done by the time you get settled.”
“Good. We can start on the model this afternoon.” He gave her a satisfied nod. “I think we’re going to work well together.”
He transformed his brooding face with a blinding, charming smile — and dimples! He had dimples! — that made her mouth go dry and her stomach plummet to her knees.
Oh God, help me . . .
“Hey!”
Spenser heard Trish’s complaint a split second before she smacked the back of his hand. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Put on fresh gloves before you touch my pipettors.” She continued aspirating supernatant from a 6-well cell culture plate.
Spenser pulled off his gloves, dropped them in the biohazard bag, and reached for new ones in the nearby box. “Want to check under my fingernails, too, Mom?”
She stuck out her tongue at him. “And remember to put that pipettor back in the right place this time, too.”
He still didn’t get how Trish’s desk looked like a tsunami had hit, but her workbench had the neatness of Mr. Monk’s house. “Bossy.”
“Grouch. You’ve only been working with me a week and you’re already complaining.” But she smiled as she said it. “Here.” She passed him the plate she’d been working on so he could do his DNA prep on the cells.
They worked smoothly in silence for a while. He tended to work quickly, but Trish kept up with him, passing him another plate just as he finished the old one.
“I’m done with the protocol for the mesenchymal osteoblasts.” Trish pipetted supernatant into a microfuge tube.
“I’m almost done solidifying my assay for those. The cells — ”
“I ordered them . . .” She stopped to think. “Yesterday. Did you double-check the micro-plate reader? That one tech from Virology always leaves a terrible mess — I mean, the last time there was reagent spilled all over the counter, and I never heard the end of it from the guys in Arthritis — anyway, he was the last one to use it.”
Good to know, otherwise he might have lost
She could be calm and professional.
Trish hid behind her computer monitor, which blocked her view of the doorway. She wondered when Spenser would move in.
He walked in a second later with a cardboard moving box. He dropped it to the floor with a plunk that betrayed his still-simmering temper.
Trish eyed his box. That was fast. “How long have you known?”
“My supervisor told me this morning so I would join Diana’s group meeting.”
Trish bristled at his clipped tone. Grumpy. She stared at his back, which wasn’t that broad.
He tossed pens and his calendar onto one of the two desks at the other end of the room, ignoring the one right next to hers. Refusing to let him get away with his snot-nosed attitude, she leaned back in her chair. “Good idea. I’m sure it will be much easier to collaborate if I have to throw the data sheets across the room at you.”
Spenser swung his head around to frown at her.
Trish’s sense of humor took over, and she flashed him a cheeky smile.
He turned back to the cubicle he’d chosen, then looked at the one next to hers. His glower melted into a rueful expression. Then he had the audacity to wink at her. “You want me close so you can play footsies with me.”
Trish’s mouth opened in shock before she exploded into peals of laughter. “Yeah, right. Your ego’s not going to fit into this office.”
Spenser grinned. “My ego wouldn’t fit into this building.”
She hadn’t thought he was able to laugh at himself.
He scanned the floor. “I need a power strip. Got one?”
Trish rummaged for the extra surge protector in her desk drawer and gave it to him. He glanced at the mess of papers surrounding the keyboard on her desk. “Are you finished with your last project?”
She caught where he was heading. “I’m writing the final report now. I’ll be done by the time you get settled.”
“Good. We can start on the model this afternoon.” He gave her a satisfied nod. “I think we’re going to work well together.”
He transformed his brooding face with a blinding, charming smile — and dimples! He had dimples! — that made her mouth go dry and her stomach plummet to her knees.
Oh God, help me . . .
“Hey!”
Spenser heard Trish’s complaint a split second before she smacked the back of his hand. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Put on fresh gloves before you touch my pipettors.” She continued aspirating supernatant from a 6-well cell culture plate.
Spenser pulled off his gloves, dropped them in the biohazard bag, and reached for new ones in the nearby box. “Want to check under my fingernails, too, Mom?”
She stuck out her tongue at him. “And remember to put that pipettor back in the right place this time, too.”
He still didn’t get how Trish’s desk looked like a tsunami had hit, but her workbench had the neatness of Mr. Monk’s house. “Bossy.”
“Grouch. You’ve only been working with me a week and you’re already complaining.” But she smiled as she said it. “Here.” She passed him the plate she’d been working on so he could do his DNA prep on the cells.
They worked smoothly in silence for a while. He tended to work quickly, but Trish kept up with him, passing him another plate just as he finished the old one.
“I’m done with the protocol for the mesenchymal osteoblasts.” Trish pipetted supernatant into a microfuge tube.
“I’m almost done solidifying my assay for those. The cells — ”
“I ordered them . . .” She stopped to think. “Yesterday. Did you double-check the micro-plate reader? That one tech from Virology always leaves a terrible mess — I mean, the last time there was reagent spilled all over the counter, and I never heard the end of it from the guys in Arthritis — anyway, he was the last one to use it.”
Good to know, otherwise he might have lost
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