I turned at Corban’s voice behind me, suppressing a gasp at the fluttery feeling in my stomach. “Hello.”
He wore a navy sweater vest and the front of his button-down shirt hung out over his slacks on one side. His hands were stuffed in his pockets. “It’s busy in here.”
The first response that came to mind was a sarcastic, oh, I hadn’t noticed, thank you for pointing out the obvious. But I stopped myself from saying it. Corban and I had been getting along. We seemed to have reached an unofficial truce, and I didn’t want to be the one to break it.
“Yes, very busy. I should have brought in more grad students to assist, but the turnout is unexpected.”
He sniffed the air and cracked a small grin. “I bet it’s the cookies. You can smell them all the way down the hall. Did you make them?”
“I did. I thought it would be a good way to keep people occupied while they wait.”
“Good thinking. They smell amazing.”
I didn’t want to preen at his comment, but it filled me with warmth. I adjusted my glasses, trying not to smile too much. “Thank you.”
He glanced around the waiting area. “Can I help with anything?”
“Yes, actually. We need to make sure everyone has their forms filled out properly with the necessary signatures. Then they need to be taken into room A in groups of three or four to fill out the initial questionnaire.”
“Got it.” He grinned again. “When we finish, do I get a cookie?”
“Yes, if—” I stopped because the look in his eyes made me wonder if he meant one of the chocolate chip cookies I’d baked, or something else entirely. Was cookie a euphemism? Was he thinking about sex?
I was thinking about sex.
Sex with him.
Flustered, I shoved the stack of paperwork at his chest. “Cookie. Yes. If there are any left.”
He pulled his hands from his pockets and took the forms. “Okay. I’ll get started.”
“Thank you.”
Why was my heart beating so fast? And were my cheeks red? I sincerely hoped not, but I felt the telltale flush of blood into my facial capillaries.
I always felt a high level of emotion when I was with Corban. Which was perplexing. I’d never been an overly emotional person. But he brought out something in me, as if everything was heightened. At first, it had been almost entirely feelings of antagonism. Then attraction. Lust, if I was being truthful; attraction was too mild of a word for the scorching fire he produced in me.
Now I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. It was similarly hot—hence the flushing of my cheeks—but no longer fueled by anger or irritation. At least, not entirely. I still felt a streak of argumentativeness. But there was something else.
Did I actually like Corban Nash? The man I’d deemed my nemesis?
I glanced across the waiting area where he’d gone to begin checking application forms. He didn’t have to be here. He certainly had plenty of his own work to do, and processing study applicants wasn’t one of his responsibilities. Was the scent of chocolate chip cookies enough to lure him from his spreadsheets, tables, and databases?
Maybe I’d been the tiniest bit wrong about him. He clearly had a number of redeeming qualities. When we weren’t picking at each other, he was interesting and funny. Passionate about his work.
Yes, I decided I did like Corban.
I liked what he had in his pants, too.
Blowing out a breath, I adjusted my glasses. This was neither the time nor the place to be thinking about that.
I took a group of subjects into room A and passed out the questionnaire. It wasn’t long, and with Corban making sure the incoming participants were properly registered and documented, the process would go faster.
The subjects finished and I collected their forms, then handed them off to one of the research coordinators. I went back to the waiting area to collect a new group.
I found Corban surrounded by a small knot of students. Female students. His hands were back in his pockets and he had a smile on his face.
A surge of anger burst through me. I’d studied human behavior extensively, particularly as it related to coupling rituals. Every one of the girls standing around him exhibited telltale signs of flirtation. From their posture to their facial expressions, I could read them like words on a page. No, like a giant billboard with flashing lights.
I had an overpowering—and very strange—urge to march over there and attach myself to him like a koala. Tuck myself beneath his arm and kiss his neck. Show them they were wasting their time with their coy smiles and suggestive body language.
He was mine.
Except he wasn’t. We’d surrendered to our primal urges once, and regardless of how good it had been—good was hardly the word, but I didn’t want to dwell on that—we both knew it hadn’t meant anything. We’d explicitly said it hadn’t meant anything.
So why did seeing him surrounded by those girls make me both enraged and slightly sick to my stomach?
I did march up to him, but refrained from physical contact. “If their paperwork is in order, I can take them back.”
“Um, yeah.” He took a small step backward, his hands still in his pockets. “I think they’re all set. I’ll just see who else needs to be checked in.”
“Will you be out here when we’re done?” one of the girls asked.
He shrugged. “If Hazel still needs me.”
His comment did wonders to soothe my heightened emotions. I met his eyes and smiled. “Thank you again.”
“I just hope we don’t run out of cookies.”
“I can always make more.”
We looked at each other for a long moment. Blinking, I realized I was standing in the middle of the waiting area, staring at Corban.
My cheeks warmed again, and I tore my gaze away. “This way.”
The girls followed me into room A, chatting to each other. They lowered their voices, but I could still hear their comments clearly.
“How cute was he?”
“I know, right? I’m a sucker for a hot nerd.”
“Is he a professor? Because if he is, I’m signing up for all his classes.”
The hot spike of jealousy made my spine straighten, but I didn’t comment. Corban hadn’t bent any of them over the worktable in the copy room, now had he? And it was my cookies he was craving.
I passed out their questionnaires, desperately trying to suppress the confusing swirl of emotions that ate at me. I’d experienced more individual feelings in the last ten minutes than I usually did in a week. This rush of jealousy was so unlike me.
I managed to gather up my emotions into a tight ball and focus. Corban helped me move through the rest of the waiting applicants. Each time I went back to the lobby for a new group of students, a bit of that emotional ball broke apart, scattering feelings like a sprinkling of glitter. And each time, I scooped it all up again, taking deep breaths to maintain control over myself.
Finally, the waiting room was clear. Corban sat on one of the couches, typing something on his phone while I dismissed the last group of students, letting them know we’d be in touch for follow up questions.
The cookie plate was empty, and I found myself wondering why he’d stayed.
He stood and put his phone in his pocket. “Finished?”
“Yes. Thank you again for your help.”
“Sure.”
I glanced at the scattering of crumbs on the cookie plate. “I suppose I owe you a cookie.”
“You absolutely owe me a cookie. Maybe even more than one. To make up for the fact that you ran out.”
“Do I? It’s not my fault college students have an insatiable cookie appetite. I thought I’d be bringing leftovers home.”
“You should have known better. And those kids have nothing on my appetite.”
His appetite for what? Were we still talking about cookies?
I couldn’t ignore the growing pressure between my legs, and he had that predatory gleam in his eyes again. The one I’d seen in the copy room.
Like he was about to toss me over his shoulder like a caveman and haul me into one of the interview rooms to—
“How did everything go in here today?”
Someone was speaking to me. Oh god, it was Elliott. My boss. I jumped back from Corban like we’d been caught making out, although we hadn’t even been touching.
“Fine.” I smoothed down my hair and adjusted my glasses. “The turnout was higher than we expected.”
“Excellent. I’ll be here for phase two to oversee the work in the lab.”
“Right. Good. Of course.” I sounded so flustered. I needed to pull myself together.
“Corban, if you have some time in the morning, I’d like to meet to go over your grant proposal.”
“Great, yeah. Morning is fine.”
Grant proposal? Why was Corban writing a grant proposal?
Elliott’s eyes flicked between the two of us. “Okay. Well, I have a class, so I’ll chat with you both later.”
Corban said goodbye and I mumbled something similar. But my eyes were on Corban, a dose of suspicion suddenly added to my emotional cocktail.
“You’re working on a grant proposal?”
He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Yeah. Elliott’s working with me on getting funding for my research.”
That made sense. As I’d pointed out—on numerous occasions—Corban’s so-called theory hadn’t been properly tested. The fact that he was seeking funding shouldn’t have been surprising.
But a spark flared in my belly. I was in the process of securing funding as well. “Which grant are you applying for?”
“The Glasner Foundation Grant.”
I clenched my teeth, my body going stiff, and before I could give any thought to how I should respond, I was already speaking. “You can’t apply for that grant.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m applying for it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why does that mean I can’t apply?”
Logically, I knew it meant no such thing. There was nothing wrong with two people from the same institution submitting proposals. It happened all the time.
But that ball of emotion I was holding so tightly exploded, and logic didn’t stand a chance.
“Because we can’t compete for grant money.” And then I said one of the most childish things I’d ever uttered. “And I started my application first.”
“You started yours first so I can’t submit mine?” He crossed his arms. “I don’t think so.”
I knew I was being irrational. I knew it and I couldn’t stop. He made me absolutely crazy. I mimicked his posture, crossing my arms. “Then prepare for defeat, because I’m getting that grant.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“My proposal is going to kick your proposal’s ass.”
“I beg to differ.”
I wanted to keep going. Tell him his so-called theory was baseless and he’d never get funding for it. But even though I was irrationally lashing out at him, I couldn’t bring myself to lie. Despite my criticisms of his work, I was intrigued by what he’d done. Interested to see if his theory would hold up under proper testing conditions.
But I wasn’t about to admit that to him. Not now.
“You know what? I don’t need your approval.” The heat in his eyes was no longer lustful, and I was hit with an unexpected surge of disappointment. “I don’t care what you think about my theory or my research or how I got my data. I know that I’m onto something. And I’m going to get this grant.”
Pride—stupid, stupid pride—had hold of me and I was too flustered to step away from it and deescalate this rapidly deteriorating conversation. “You’re right, you don’t need my approval. I’ll be sure to make you a batch of cookies to ease the sting of loss when I get the grant and you don’t.”
He let out a frustrated growl. “I have to go. I have work to do.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
His eyes swept over me, his brow furrowing. Then he turned and stormed off.
18
Corban
“We all have relationship issues that we’re going to need to work on. All of us. It’s just part of human nature. The only question is going to be with whom.” ~ Esther Perel
So much for our truce.
Hazel and I were right back where we’d started. Rivals. Enemies. She’d only spoken to me in short sentences. No more smiles. No more soft eyes behind her glasses. She was stick straight and all business.
Basically out to destroy me.
And now I was on an airplane to Florida, staring at the back of her head.
At least we weren’t seated next to each other. It was bad enough we were the only two people from our department going to this conference. If she’d have been stuffed into the seat beside me, I probably would have gone crazy.
Truthfully, I was responsible for a solid fifty percent of the tension between us. Maybe sixty. I’d purposefully egged her on. Turned the nameplate outside her office backward every time I walked by. Hid her lunch in the back of the fridge. Sent her terse memos. Threw the memos she sent me in the garbage without replying, crumbling them up while she watched.
But the worst thing I’d done—the thing that had her glaring daggers at me in the airport this morning while we’d been waiting for our flight—was to ignore the batch of brownies she’d brought into work yesterday.
She’d been in the staff lounge, cutting thick pieces of gooey brownie and handing them out on small napkins. They’d smelled like chocolate heaven.
I’d stopped in the doorway. Our eyes had met, hers narrowing, like she was daring me to resist her brownies. My urge to lash out at her had been so strong, I’d turned around and walked right out.
Nope, I wasn’t eating any of Hazel Kiegen’s brownies.
I still kind of regretted it—they’d smelled so good—but I was sticking with it. Or I was a just a stubborn dumbass.
Probably the latter.
But now I was committed. And the fact that we were going to a conference together didn’t change anything.
I spent the flight working on my grant proposal—suck it, Hazel—and reading for a while when I needed a break.
And told myself, over and over, that I was going to stay away from her.
That lasted until we got off the plane.
She walked ahead of me, pulling her rolling suitcase, her smooth ponytail swinging with each step. My eyes drifted to her ass. I was mesmerized by the way her hips swayed. She moved fast, but I kept pace. I could have slowed down. Stopped for a snack before heading to the hotel. Let her get ahead of me so I wasn’t trailing behind her, thinking dirty thoughts about what I could do to her.
About the fact that we were alone, in a city where no one knew us.
Where getting caught wouldn’t matter.
She stopped just in front of the exit to the passenger pick-up area and whipped around. “We should share an Uber.”
Her tone wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t antagonistic either. I stared at her mouth for half a second, a wild urge to grab her and kiss her almost overtaking me.
Don’t do it, Corban. Make an excuse. Keep your distance.
“Yeah, we can split it.”
She gave a short nod and pulled out her phone.
Powerless. I was powerless against this woman.
The wait for our ride wasn’t long. The driver helped us load our bags and we both slipped into the back seat. The car was small—because of course it was—putting only inches of space between me and Hazel. Between my hand and the tempting skin of her thigh. She’d worn a skirt to fuck with me, I was sure of it. Who wore a skirt like that on a plane?
She crossed her legs and the skirt slid higher up her thigh. Yep. She’d done it to torture me.
It was working.
The confined space of the car heightened my awareness of her. She smelled faintly of vanilla frosting again. It made me want to lick her all over.
Why was everything I felt
around her so strong? She didn’t just make me mad, she made me furious. I wasn’t just attracted to her, I was obsessed with her. There was no in-between. Either she was smiling at me and I wanted to kiss her, or she was glaring at me and I wanted to bury her.
Or fuck the fight out of her.
That last one especially.
None of it made sense. I was the guy who’d forget to tuck in half his shirt in the morning and miss lunch because I wasn’t paying attention to the time. But I could recall in perfect detail what Hazel had worn every day in the last week. How she’d done her hair. As we drove down the road to our hotel, I was keenly aware of how many times the driver’s eyes landed on her in the rear-view mirror. The way she fidgeted with her hands in her lap and kept her face angled toward the window.
I was unnaturally attuned to her and it was driving me fucking crazy.
After a short, but silent, ride to the hotel, we got out and retrieved our bags from the back. The air outside was warm and thick with humidity. The resort was right on the beach—a great location for a conference. I tried to focus on that while we went inside. Not on Hazel and her intoxicating scent.
We walked side-by-side to the check-in desk. There wasn’t a line, so we went to the first open attendant. She was dressed in a turquoise top with a pin shaped like a sea turtle.
“Can I get your name, please?” she asked.
“Corban Nash and Hazel Kiegen,” I said.
Her fingers clicked across her keyboard and her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, we seem to have you in separate rooms.”
Hazel and I looked at each other in alarm.
“No, we’re not—”
“We aren’t together.”
“Separate is correct.”
“We were just on the same flight.”
“We work together.”
“Here for the conference.”
I stopped talking and rubbed the back of my neck.
The attendant’s eyes flicked between us, but she just smiled. “No problem.”
Hazel fidgeted beside me while the attendant took our credit cards and IDs. I hoped our rooms weren’t next to each other. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep if there was nothing but a wall separating us.
Love According to Science Page 14