And I was mad.
I held up the piece of paper. “I’m going to tell them all it was a wrong number and they should text you.”
“That won’t work. Your name is on the flier, too. Unless you’d like me to pretend to be you in my interactions with them?”
I growled again. “Never mind. But remember, you started this.”
“I most certainly did not,” she said, sounding offended. “You started it by freezing my lunch.”
“This started well before I made your sandwich a little frosty.”
“It was yogurt.”
“Are you serious? Damn it, frozen yogurt is delicious.”
Her lips twitched again. “Indeed.”
“But you started it, Hazel. You came after me online before I ever set foot on this campus.”
“Someone had to raise the important questions.”
“You said if you could rate the quality of my research, you’d give it negative ten stars and that I needed to stop spreading nonsensical fantasies wrapped in the guise of science.”
Her eyes flicked back and forth a few times. “I don’t seem to recall that particular comment.”
“Well, you said it. Or typed it. You know what I mean.”
She pursed her lips again. It was probably the single most aggravating thing she did. Worse than her online comments, or scathing looks, or the flier. Those things were irritating, but that was all. There was no confusion as to how I felt about them.
But when she looked at me like that, her eyebrows drawn together like she was trying to solve a puzzle, her lips puckering slightly, I felt a thousand things at once. And the strongest two—anger and attraction—shouldn’t have been able to exist simultaneously.
I wanted to hate her, not feel like I’d do just about anything to get my hands on her.
“Stop doing that,” I snapped.
“Doing what?”
Closing my eyes, I let out an agitated breath. “Never mind. Don’t put up any more fliers.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
I turned to go, but she spoke up again before I’d taken a step toward my office.
“Did you find the one by the restrooms on the first floor?”
I groaned. “No.”
She stood. “I have to go down there anyway.”
I stepped aside as she swept past me and headed for the stairs, her heels clicking on the floor in the empty hallway. She was wearing a polka dot skirt that showed off the curve of her ass. God, what an ass. Her hips swayed as she walked, a sultry back and forth motion that was at odds with the straightness of her spine and the typical stiffness of her posture.
Why did she have to be so fucking sexy?
At least she isn’t married or dating someone else.
Scowling, I tightened my fist around the crumpled flier. Why had I thought that? It probably would have been better if she was married, or at least dating someone. Maybe then my brain would quit being stupid, thinking about her ass. And kissing her. And… other things.
I glanced down at the bulge in my pants. No. No kissing. No sexy ass. We don’t like her.
Unsurprisingly, my dick didn’t listen.
And I didn’t actually know if she was dating anyone. Was she?
Damn it. I didn’t care.
With another roll of my eyes and a low groan in my throat, I adjusted my pants. I was just about to stalk into my office when the nameplate on the wall caught my attention. The one with Hazel’s name on it.
I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then slid the nameplate out of its holder. Turned it backwards, so the blank side faced out, and replaced it.
Petty? Yep. But the urge to annoy her was an impulse I couldn’t control.
Because if I didn’t indulge that impulse, it would be a lot harder to keep from giving in to the other impulses I was having.
And that absolutely could not happen.
9
Corban
“I think lovemaking is a lost art.” ~Pedram Shojai
Hazel’s presence behind me made it hard to concentrate. Her pen scratched against her notepad while I recalibrated the motion capture equipment. We were running preliminary tests today, using grad students as our subjects. The data wouldn’t be included in the official study, but we’d agreed it would be beneficial to gain some experience with the equipment.
At least we’d agreed on something.
She was dressed in her typical button-up blouse—pale blue today—with a matching blue cardigan and dark gray skirt. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders. Every bit the hot librarian.
The texts from her stupid flier had died down. Hazel had come back to my office that afternoon and offered to reply to each, explaining that the fliers had been falsified. I’d told her it wasn’t necessary.
Truthfully, I’d snapped at her, saying I’d deal with it myself.
I wasn’t exactly proud of that. But the woman made me crazy. I considered myself a reasonable guy, but every time I was near her, reasonableness went right out the window, replaced by that potent mix of hate-lust I couldn’t seem to shake.
Case in point, I couldn’t stop thinking about how good she smelled, even though the sound of her writing notes was driving me nuts. She smelled like vanilla frosting and it was stupidly delicious.
“What are you doing over there? Writing another dissertation?”
“No. I’m working on an initial draft of the pre-study questionnaire. We’ll need to collect a variety of information on the test subjects.”
I grumbled something incoherent. She was right, we did need to do that, and it was good she was being proactive about getting it ready.
She was quiet for a long moment. Not even her pen made a sound. “Would you like to see what I have so far?”
I turned my chair around. “Sure.”
She ripped off a piece of paper and handed it to me. I recognized the same messy handwriting I’d seen on her lunch bag. I could read it, but only just. It was a little bit gratifying to know she wasn’t perfect.
I scanned down her list of questions. She’d covered just about everything. “This is good. Did you add anything in here about their relationship status? That might be something we’ll need to know.”
She wrote on a fresh sheet of paper. “Of course. What’s yours?”
“My what?”
Her voice was matter of fact. “Relationship status.”
“Why?”
She looked up, blinking as if something had surprised her. “I don’t know.”
Was she really asking me if I was dating someone? That was weird. But there wasn’t any harm answering. “It’s fine, it’s not like I keep it a secret. I just don’t know why you asked.”
“No reason,” she said quickly. “I was just writing down the words relationship status and it occurred to me that I don’t know very much about you on a personal level, including whether or not you’re in a relationship. So, I asked.”
“I’m single.”
“Oh.” She gave a little nod and wrote something else on her notepad. “So am I.”
I chewed the inside of my lip and shifted uncomfortably in my chair. The impulse to analyze every detail of what she’d just said—from her body language to her tone of voice—sent my brain running in multiple directions. Was she making idle conversation? Was she trying to get information out of me? Had she offered the fact that she was single as a signal?