Love According to Science

by Kingsley, Claire

I cleared my throat. Loudly.

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes finding me. His expression indicated relief as he pointed. “There in the back.”

  “Mr. Nash, how can you claim to have developed a theory when none of your research could possibly withstand any outside scientific scrutiny?”

  The relief in his expression melted away and our eyes locked. Did he know who I was? There was recognition in his face. He only knew me by my internet handle—Kiegen314—but he was quite familiar with my criticisms.

  “I’m well aware that my data has limits.”

  “But still you speak and write as if your claims are already substantiated. You’ve even given your theory a name. This lends undue authority to your assertions, framing them as scientifically valid when they are, in fact, not.”

  The murmur that went through the crowd this time was no longer of the giggly variety. I ignored the rest of the audience, my gaze locked on Corban.

  His eyes narrowed. “My results are so conclusive, I’m confident in what the data is telling me.”

  “But what about the biases inherent in the way you’ve collected—”

  “I’m afraid we’re out of time,” Elliott said into the mic. He’d appeared out of nowhere. “Professor Cole’s class is beginning soon, so we need to clear the room. But thank you all for coming, and thank you, Corban, for your informative presentation.”

  The audience clapped, some with a great deal of enthusiasm. Not me. I sat on the edge of my seat—when had I scooted forward like that?—my eyes locked on the man at the front of the room. He stared right back, apparently oblivious to the praise from the crowd.

  A renewed rush of heat burst through me, warming me from the inside. Corban Nash was indeed my nemesis. The way he fixed me in a hard glare, I could tell the feeling was mutual.

  I wasn’t afraid of a rivalry. It was time someone challenged his supposed theory.

  Bring it on, Corban. Bring it on.

  2

  Corban

  “Science is like a love affair with nature; an elusive, tantalizing mistress. It has all the turbulence, twists and turns of romantic love, but that’s part of the game.” ~ Vilayanur S. Ramachandran

  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 aggr
essive.”

  “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.

  “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.

  Oh well.

  “Hey Molly,” I answered.

  “Did you forget something?”

  I crouched down to pick up the mail. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “You were supposed to text me when you found out about the job. What happened? Did you get it?”

  “I texted you. Didn’t I?” I set the mail on the kitchen table and put the comic book down next to it, then looked at my phone and navigated to my text messages. I had one all typed up, but apparently I hadn’t hit send. “Oh shit, sorry. I didn’t send it.”

  “So?”

  “I got the job.”

  “Hell yes, twinkie. I’m so happy for you.”

  I had no idea why she insisted on calling me twinkie. She had since we were kids. It was kind of embarrassing. “Thanks. I start Monday.”

  “This is so awesome. Martin wants to know if this means you’re going to move again.”

  I glanced around at the boxes I still hadn’t unpacked. I’d moved back to Seattle from San Jose recently after deciding to pursue research psychology full time. It had been a gamble, and I’d known I might not be able to stay. It depended on where I landed job wise. But it looked like I’d be unpacking the rest of my stuff and settling in.