I hated it when I did this. It reminded me of the insecure shy kid I’d been in high school and how much time I’d spent over-analyzing my interactions with girls—especially Paisley Hayes. Whenever she’d been at our house to hang out with Molly, I’d looked for hidden meaning in every word she said to me. Not that she spoke to me very much. But that hadn’t stopped me from wondering if I could find a hint that she liked me.
She hadn’t liked me. She’d mostly ignored me, or rolled her eyes at me. And all these years later, I still felt like an idiot for how much time I’d spent looking for clues that she had a secret crush on her best friend’s brother. They hadn’t been there. It had all been wishful thinking.
What was I wishing for with Hazel, anyway? That this attraction that made no sense wasn’t one-sided? Regardless of the way I reacted to her physically, we didn’t like each other. Pondering what her comments meant was a waste of energy.
“Corban?”
I startled, my attention coming back to reality. Damn, I hadn’t been listening. What had she just said? “Sorry, what?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, fine I was just thinking about…” I paused, searching for a believable topic. “Data collection techniques.”
She eyed me for a second, her pen hovering above her notepad. “Okay.”
As we got deeper into the logistics of running the next phase of the study, my brain stopped circling around Hazel and focused. We didn’t argue over any of the details. Just got to work, both of us bringing our experience and expertise to the table. We divided up areas of responsibility, at least enough to get us started, and set preliminary goals and deadlines.
I tried not to dwell on it, but I didn’t hate working with Hazel. She was organized, intelligent, and passionate about her work. So passionate, it made me wonder what else she had going on in her life.
She tapped her pen against her notepad. “This looks good. I think Elliott will be pleased.”
She was right, we’d gotten a lot done. “Yeah.”
Our eyes met and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about work anymore. My brain darted back to her eyes and how they lit up when she was excited about something. Her lips and the way they puckered when she was annoyed with me. I wondered what those lips tasted like.
She glanced at the pen in her hand, as if remembering it was there, then touched the tip to the side of her neck. Moving her hand slowly, she absently traced it down her skin, toward the open collar of her shirt.
My eyes followed, drawn toward the swell of her breasts behind that tantalizingly proper blouse.
Then I noticed she’d drawn a blue line down her skin.
I cleared my throat, hoping she couldn’t tell how turned on I was. Why did she have such an effect on me? “You got some ink on your… right, um, there.”
“Oh god.” She looked at the pen and abruptly opened her fingers like she’d been burned. The pen bounced off her lap, landing on the floor. She touched her neck, muttering to herself.
I was still too distracted by her chest to think clearly. Because noticing how good her boobs looked in that shirt made me think about ripping it off, sending her buttons flying in all directions. Burying my face in her tits. Licking the hard peaks of her nipples and—
“Did you know a male pufferfish can spend days creating patterns in the sand on the ocean floor to attract a mate?” I blurted out, talking fast.
She’d grabbed a tissue from somewhere—her purse, maybe; I wasn’t sure what had just happened—and her hand froze in the act of trying to rub the ink off her neck. “Really?”
“Yeah. If a female likes his work, she’ll lay her eggs in the middle so he can fertilize them.”
Her eyes darted from side to side. “I didn’t know that. I’m afraid my knowledge of pufferfish mating habits is limited.”
I had no idea why I was suddenly talking about pufferfish. I tended to blurt out random facts when I got nervous or wanted to change the subject. And that brief but powerful fantasy of ripping Hazel’s shirt off had left me feeling flustered as fuck. So naturally, I kept babbling.
“The patterns he creates in the sand are symmetrical, which makes you wonder what that tells the female about his suitability as a mate. What does the ability to rub against the sand and leave symmetrical tracks have to do with health or virility? Fish don’t care for their offspring, so her instincts wouldn’t drive her to seek a mate who can shelter or protect their babies. All she needs are sperm to fertilize her eggs.”
“Perhaps that’s the answer. The patterns the male creates are a targeting system, designed to show the female a location for depositing eggs that is most likely to lead to fertilization.”
“Good point. That’s a solid possibility. But I kind of feel bad for them. All that work and all the male gets is a pile of eggs.”
“But said pile of eggs satisfies his instinct to mate and he’s able to pass on his genetic material.”
“I know, but he just releases his sperm and that’s it,” I said. “He doesn’t get to actually mate with the female.”
“You’re saying you feel pity for pufferfish because the male’s efforts to attract a mate don’t culminate in sexual activity in the manner of humans or other mammals?”
“Yes, exactly. The poor fish doesn’t even get to have sex.”
“Is it because you think a male should be sexually rewarded by the female for the work he puts forth in the process of attraction?”
The corner of my mouth lifted. She was baiting me into saying I thought a girl should put out. I could feel it. “Not at all. I just think fish who don’t get to physically mate got the short end of the evolutionary stick.”
“Do you enjoy sex that much?”
“Absolutely. I love sex.”
I wasn’t sure if I was more surprised by her question or the fact that I’d answered with so much enthusiasm.
We blinked at each other.
Great, I’d made it awkward.
Or had she made it awkward?
A few more seconds ticked by. It didn’t matter. At this point, we were swimming in awkward.
And then I made it worse.
“Don’t you?”
Her posture stiffened. “Don’t I what?”
“Enjoy sex.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture I’d never seen from her before. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“I don’t know. It probably depends on who they’re having sex with.”
“Maybe.”
Had Hazel ever been with someone she’d enjoyed? Maybe she didn’t have a lot of sexual experience.
This wasn’t a conversation we should be having. Especially since only moments ago, I’d been fantasizing about licking her tits. But I’d never been good at saying the right thing.
“I guess if you haven’t had many good sexual experiences, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Are we talking about me, or pufferfish?”
“You. Or the fish. I don’t—”
“I’m not lacking in good sexual experiences,” she said, cutting me off. “I haven’t had an excessive number of partners, but I’m no naïve virgin either.”