The woman in the back of the auditorium had fired me up, and I couldn’t let it go. It had been her. Kiegen314.
I sat in a coffee shop across the street from campus, stewing. The rest of my talk had been great. Even the young woman who’d offered me her number hadn’t fazed me—not too much, at least. Overall, the reaction from the audience had been exactly what I’d hoped for.
Until her.
I knew exactly who she was. The one who’d been coming after me online. She popped up everywhere with her long-winded attacks on my work. And now she was here?
I was aware of the limits of my research. I never claimed anything that wasn’t true when it came to my data. Those disclaimers were in every article I wrote and every talk I gave, especially when I was addressing academics. I was already an outsider—a data guy intruding on the soft science of psychology. I was careful to speak their language and not make any claims I couldn’t back up.
But my results were real, and they were too conclusive to ignore. The data didn’t lie. Every couple who’d used my questionnaire had fallen in love.
Except me. But I didn’t like to talk about that.
The solution to that problem was simple anyway: Leave myself out of the data. The fact that I was the one aberrant data point didn’t matter because my personal results were too biased to include in my findings. If the academics of the world wanted to find fault now, they’d really pick me apart if they thought I’d been experimenting on myself.
But my romantic failures weren’t what was bothering me today.
There was nothing wrong with a good debate, and I was used to fielding questions. But Angry Hot Librarian in the back had come after me like she had a bone to pick.
The fact that she was hot had nothing to do with anything. But I was a guy; of course I’d noticed. There was something about that ponytail and glasses. The blouse with the top button open.
Of course it would be the hot girl who hated me.
It also bothered me that Elliott had stepped in and cut us off. It wasn’t public knowledge yet, but my talk today had been the culmination of the interview process. Elliott was considering me for a position in his department, and I really wanted this job. It was a great opportunity to gain access to the resources I needed to continue my research.
Research that would legitimize my theory in the scientific community in a way even Angry Hot Librarian couldn’t refute.
A muffled beep, followed by a second soon after, made me glance around. Was that a timer behind the counter? I heard it again. Then another one. That was weird, it sounded like it was coming from—
My pocket.
Right, my phone.
I pulled it out to check my messages. It was my twin sister.
Molly: How did it go today?
Molly: Why haven’t you texted me yet?
Molly: You know I can’t handle the suspense.
Molly: Did you get the job????
Me: Not yet. I’m still here.
Molly: But you gave your lecture? How was that?
Me: Fine, except for Angry Hot Librarian in the back row.
Molly: Who?
Me: Never mind. It went well. I’m meeting Dr. Sheffield for coffee in a few.
Molly: And he’s going to offer you the job?
My sister was a little excitable, especially since she’d gotten pregnant. I wasn’t sure how Martin, my brother-in-law, was handling it. She was driving me crazy and I didn’t even live with her.
Me: I don’t know yet. I think so.
Molly: What do you think your chances are? Percentage wise.
Me: Seriously?
Molly: Since when do you not have a calculation for something?
She had a point. I did a quick estimate in my head. Prior to the question-and-answer session at the end of my talk, I would have put my chances of a job offer at ninety-eight point four. But now?
Me: Fine. 92.6%. Approximately.
Molly: Why do you say approximately when you added the point six? That’s a very specific number.
Molly: Never mind. Just get the job.
Me: Why are you freaking out?
Molly: I’m not freaking out. I just don’t want you to move to freaking New Jersey.
So that was where this was coming from. I’d made the mistake of telling her I had an opportunity at a private research facility in New Jersey. I wanted this job a lot more, but there was no guarantee Dr. Sheffield was going to hire me. Moving was a possibility.
Me: I know. Stop worrying.
Molly: Have you met me?
Molly: Don’t answer that, it wasn’t a real question.
I backspaced my reply about how of course I’d met her; we were twins so we’d essentially met in utero.
Me: It’s going to be fine, Moll. And I’ll text you as soon as I know.
Molly: Okay. Good luck!
Me: Thanks.
I re-pocketed my phone and a clunking sound jarred my attention back to my surroundings. A woman had set—or rather, dropped—her purse on the table next to me.
It was her.
At least four trains of thought took off in my brain, chugging locomotives heading in different directions, each laying their own track as they went. It made it hard for my mouth to keep up.
“Oh great, it’s Angry Hot Librarian,” I muttered, realizing a beat too late that I’d said it out loud. But once those trains got going, it was hard to get them to stop. “You remind me of a swan.”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“A swan. People consider them beautiful and assume their outward appearance means they’re friendly. But if you approach a swan, especially during nesting season, it can become aggressive if it thinks it needs to defend its territory.”
“I don’t think I need to defend my territory. And I’m hardly aggressive.”
“Your feathers are ruffled.”
She crossed her arms. “I don’t have feathers, and if I did, they wouldn’t be ruffled.”
“It’s a figure of speech. It means—”
“I know what it means.”
“I just mean people probably think you’re harmless.” I adjusted my glasses and took a bite of the pastry I’d forgotten I’d ordered.
She was even prettier up close. Usually I found myself analyzing a woman’s facial symmetry and thinking about objective versus subjective measures of attractiveness. But not with her. She was simply beautiful without any distracting qualifiers. Big blue eyes behind her glasses. Cute upturned nose. She pursed her lips and the first thing that came to mind was how kissable they looked.
My eyes rested on her mouth and I pictured sucking on that plump lower lip.
“Be that as it may,” she said, jarring my attention again, and I tore my eyes away from her mouth. “I’m concerned about the message you’re sending with your poorly researched theory.”
“Why?”
She opened her mouth, paused, then closed it, her arms still folded over her chest. It made one side of her shirt collar fall open, exposing half an inch of additional skin. Which shouldn’t have been enough to matter, but somehow it did. One little peek of neck and collarbone and I almost needed to adjust my pants. This was getting uncomfortable.
Also irritating. Why was my dick rebelling against my brain?
Stand down, big guy. We don’t like her.
“What kind of question is that?” she asked.
“A valid and straightforward one,” I said around another bite of pastry.