Page 23 of A SEAL's Protection
“Looks five-star,” I tell her.
“That’s ‘gourmet stew,’ thank you very much.”
She laughs and hands me a fresh pita bread. I tear it apart, then stuff beans and vegetables inside. After living on ration packs, it tastes like heaven.
“Not just a renowned scientist,” I murmur appreciatively. “You’re also a world-class chef.”
Allegra takes a bite and makes a face.
“It could use some seasoning. Chilli, sour cream, and corn chips would go really well.”
She moans softly at the thought of her imagined meal, and the sound reverberates through me. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the thought of watching her eat a decent meal.
“Sounds like you’re describing tacos,” I tell her. “There’s a place in Hope that does the best tacos on the mountain.”
She raises her eyebrows. “That’s a pretty bold claim. I’d have to do a scientific experiment and try every taco place on the mountain.”
I shrug. “Since I’m practically your research assistant, I’ll have to come along.”
She laughs, but I’m deadly serious. Allegra thinks I’m joking. She doesn’t realize I’ve just asked her on a date—a lot of dates—which is a bad idea. I laugh too, pretending it was nothing.
The fire crackles as we finish the meal in silence, and I try to imagine a world where I could do something as simple as take a girl like Allegra out on a date.
Allegra produces another pita bread, tears it in half, and offers me the other side.
“Want to lick the bowl?”
She dips her bread into the pot, scooping up the last of the sauce. She holds the pot out to me, and I scoot closer. When I dip my bread in, our fingers brush. My knee bumps hers, and every point of contact sparks. Allegra pops her bread into her mouth and smiles at me through her mouthful.
“This is good.”
She seems relaxed, more so than she has all trip.
It’s time to get some answers.
“So what is it you’re really doing out here?” I ask.
Her wary eyes flick to mine. “I applied for a grant for my PhD.” She shakes her head and stares into the fire. “It was rejected.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“I had a great application. My theory was sound.”
“Then why did they reject it?”
She plays with the last of her bread, tearing it into pieces without eating. “Everyone thinks I’m lucky to grow up with my father, who he is. And I know my position comes with privileges most people can’t even dream of. But sometimes I wish it didn’t.
“I got into that course on my own merit. But because my father gave a donation to the science department, no one believed it. Not my fellow students, not my professors. I had to work twice as hard to prove I deserved to be there. It’s hard enough being a woman in this industry, but being the daughter of a tech billionaire? No one took me seriously.
“When I applied for the grant for my PhD, Professor Wainwright couldn’t wait to reject it.”
“But surely it wasn’t just him. There’d have to be a panel?”
“Oh, there was. And I did have allies, but his was the deciding vote. He said—and I quote, “In good conscience, I can’t spend the university’s money on something that could be funded privately.”
Her voice is laced not quite with bitterness, but with resignation.
“So you decided to do it anyway?”
