“I just assumed you’d say something else.”
“Like what?”
She uncrossed her arms and placed her hands on her hips. That position annoyingly emphasized her curves. How could one woman be so simultaneously irritating and attractive? My brain and my dick were sending two completely different messages and it was messing with my head.
“I thought you’d offer a defense of your methodology or an explanation of your reasoning. But instead you’re asking me why I’m concerned about it?”
“Yeah.”
“Because your conclusions are unsubstantiated at best, wrong at worst. There’s no formula that will make people fall in love.”
“Yes, there is.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because I’ve seen it happen, over and over. It works.”
“It works on an extremely biased, non-representative sample, consisting primarily of your family and friends.”
I took a drink of my ice water and wiped my hands on my napkin. “That’s correct.”
“But that’s… you can’t…”
Now her cheeks were flushing. This was bad. She was absolutely adorable with pink cheeks. Not only was her attractiveness skyrocketing to dangerously high levels, flushed cheeks were a sign of sexual arousal. In her case that’s not what the pinkness meant—obviously—but the association was too primal to ignore. This woman was hitting pleasure buttons in my brain like an overzealous kid playing his last quarter on the final boss of an arcade game.
I cleared my throat, but she started talking again.
“Admitting the inherent problems in your research won’t make them disappear. It makes you reckless for overlooking them and charging forward with claims you can’t substantiate. People forget or ignore disclaimers. They hear and remember your primary message, especially one as provocative as I’ve cracked the code to falling in love.”
“But I have cracked the code to falling in love.”
“That’s my point,” she said, gesturing with her hands. “You haven’t cracked anything.”
She put her hands back on her hips and did that thing with her lips—pursing them in a way that made me think about kissing her. Except the brain signals were starting to win out over the dick signals. Physical beauty aside, she was pissing me off.
“Yes I have, and I will prove it,” I said, pointing at her with my pastry. “In the meantime, I’m sure you have better things to do than tell me what I already know. I know my theory needs further research. That’s why I’m here.”
Her eyes widened and her entire body stiffened. “What do you mean, that’s why you’re here?”
“Hazel.” Dr. Elliott Sheffield stood on the other side of my table. I hadn’t noticed him come in. “I see you and Corban have officially met.”
Angry Hot Librarian—who was apparently named Hazel and it was weird how much it suited her—clicked her mouth closed.
“Not exactly,” I answered for her. I dropped what was left of my pastry on a napkin and wiped my hands on my pants, then held out my hand. “Corban Nash.”
Eying my hand like it might bite her, she slowly slipped hers into mine. Her skin was soft, her handshake firm. Also, sticky.
No, that was my hand. Damn it.
“Hazel Kiegen.”
Our eyes locked and I held her hand a few seconds too long. A smoldering mix of attraction and annoyance flared hot in my chest.
I didn’t like her.
But part of me wanted her.
It was fucking confusing, but for the moment, my brain and dick were in sync. Flushed cheeks? Good. Fiery gaze? Good. Touching? Very good.
The need to adjust my pants was nearing critical mass.
Elliott unknowingly spared me the awkwardness of figuring out how to stand up without anyone—especially Hazel—noticing my growing hard-on. He set his coffee down and took the seat across from me.
I dropped Hazel’s hand.
Hazel stared at me.
Elliott looked amused.
I adjusted my glasses and noted the coffee sitting in front of me. I’d ordered that, hadn’t I? Now it gave me something to do that wasn’t staring at Hazel, internally wrestling with the potent and mildly intoxicating fusion of temptation and agitation. I shifted in my seat, picking up my coffee to take a sip.
“Dr. Sheff—I mean, Elliott,” Hazel said, smoothing her skirt. “I apologize if I’m interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Elliott said. “This is just a formality. I already have approval from the hiring committee.”
“Hiring committee?” she asked.
He smiled. “I’m hoping Corban will join our team.”
The look of shock that stole over Hazel’s features was surprisingly satisfying. Take that, Angry Hot Librarian.
Her eyes shifted between me and Elliott a few times, her lips working like she was trying to speak. I raised an eyebrow and took a sip of my coffee.
Was the half-grin I gave her a little smug? Yeah, it was. But who could blame me? She was the one who’d come in here and picked an argument.
“Wait, did you say you want to hire me?” I sat up in my chair, Elliott’s words finally sinking in.
He grinned. “Absolutely. We need someone with your expertise, not to mention the fresh outlook you’ll bring to our team. I want that big brain of yours working for me.”
Hell. Yes.
“That’s great.” I tried to reach across to shake his hand but knocked my napkin and the last bite of my pastry onto the floor. “Sorry, that’s just good news. I’m definitely interested. I mean, I accept. Yes.”
Hazel slowly crouched and picked up the pastry and napkin. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking—probably nothing good—but I didn’t care. Angry Hot Librarian wasn’t going to ruin my moment.
“Excellent,” Elliott said. “If it works with your schedule, you can start Monday.”
“Yeah, that works.”
“Great.” He beamed, his smile wide, his eyes moving between me and Hazel. “I think you two are going to love working together.”
I grinned at Hazel. We were not going to love working together, I could already tell. But conducting my research right under her nose? This was perfect. I was going to scientifically prove my theory, and I was going to do it right in front of Hazel Kiegen’s pretty face.
3
Corban
“Let the beauty of what you love be what you do.” ~ Rumi
The toe of my shoe hit something solid and I stopped. Damn it, I’d almost walked into a wall. I lowered the comic book I’d been reading. A classic issue of The Uncanny X-Men that I’d probably read a hundred times, but the storyline never got old. Luckily, I hadn’t dropped the stack of mail tucked beneath my other arm.
I probably needed to stop reading while I was walking, even if it was just from the mailbox back to my apartment.
My phone rang, the sound muffled by my back pocket. At least I knew it was my phone this time. I moved the comic book to my other hand while also trying to open my apartment door and retrieve my phone. Somehow I got the door open and pulled out my phone without dropping my comic. But the mail I’d been carrying slipped out from under my arm and scattered around my feet.