by Lexi Scott
“This conversation is adorable but, speaking of work, how about we get to it?” I tap my pen on her backpack and ignore the fact that, despite what I said to Cody earlier, I’ve definitely noticed how short and tight and totally hot her outfit is.
I need to change my thought process and fast.
She’s just a friend. A very attractive friend, but a friend nonetheless. I’ve met the guys she dates, and Genevieve definitely has a type. And even if the vacuum metastability event pans out and eradicates life on Earth as we know it, but, by some miracle, I’m the only guy left in the charred rubble of our universe, I’m pretty sure Gen would still see me as her friend and her friend only. Which is no big deal. I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m just not the kind of guy she’s into.
Sometimes I tell myself bullshit just to see if my brain will believe it. It almost never works, and this time is no exception.
“Aye, aye, cap’n. Back to work it is,” she quips with a little salute then looks back at the box she dropped. “But I think we need some sustenance to get us through the next hour.” She runs over to the box with these wobbly, mincing steps, nearly falling a second time because those idiotic heels are defying all basic laws of gravity. She should be falling on her ass…hard.
I would never want to see her hurt, but a little wipeout might remind her that there’s way more to life than fancy shoes, and get her to focus on making the most of her education.
She turns around, holding the open box out to me.
“Uh…what are these?” I finally ask, looking at a box filled with crumbs and thick smears of icing.
“Cupcakes!” she cries, staring down into the box like she’s confused that I don’t see what she does. She shrugs. “Or, they were cupcakes. But the awesome thing about desserts is, even when they’re completely smushed, they always taste delicious.” She sticks one finger into the sugary mess and holds a glob of icing-coated cake out to me. “I baked!”
I’m suddenly facing a huge problem.
I’ve never had to think about what I would do if I were staring down the prospect of licking icing off Genevieve’s fingers. But that dilemma morphs into a second, more pressing issue: now that the idea of licking icing off Genevieve’s finger has popped into my brain, it’s suddenly being crushed out by images of licking icing off…
Genevieve.
All of her.
Those mile-long legs, the tits pressed high in that corset of a top and jiggling with every step, her long, graceful neck, the dip of belly button that shows whenever she stretches over to grab a pencil from my side of the table or get a notebook out of her bag. I try to ignore how turned-on she makes me, because I care about her as a friend. I don’t want to be another caveman checking out her ass as she walks by.
I swallow hard and shake my head. “Not sanitary, Genevieve.”
“I swear I washed my hands,” she teases, her grin a challenge.
Making me squirm is one of her favorite pastimes, and it’s ridiculously easy for her to do. That’s one area of our friendship where she can hold something over my head. She’s sexy, and I’m turned on by her. She’s not stupid, so she knows how to yank my chain just a little bit.
“What would Jeremy think?” I ask, and her look of mild confusion lets me know he’s already out of the picture. That’s gotta be a record.
“We broke up two weeks ago. You brought me a pot of shakshuka before synagogue that Saturday morning, when I was hung over after binge drinking my breakup pain away. Remember? That was so delicious, by the way. I tried to make it, but I don’t think I used enough paprika. You need to cook it with me there, so I can watch exactly what you do,” she rambles.
“You broke up with Jeremy that night?” I ask, shocked because I remember bringing the shakshuka after she sent me a bunch of slightly alarming, drunken texts Friday night. I knew she’d need a vat of it to combat her hangover the next morning. But she never mentioned they’d broken up. “Why did you even date him?”
“Why are you being so weird?” she demands. “You hated Jeremy.”
“What was there to like? He was an egomaniac with a bloated trust fund and no sense of humor.”
“Did you try to tell him the joke about Schrodinger’s cat?”
“I wouldn’t have wasted the breath on someone who clearly didn’t have the brain cells to get it.” I pause and look her right in the eye. “Did you even like Jeremy?”
“Yes!” she says too fast. “Why?” she asks defensively.
“Because I know you had plans a few months back to finally tell Deo how you felt—”
“Deo is married. Which means he’s 100 percent off-limits in every way, no matter how much I had a crush on him when I was a kid,” she says, her voice stony. “My decision to date Jeremy—and break up with him—has nothing to do with Deo.” She pops the finger full of icing into her own mouth and scowls. “Why do you have to do that?”
“Do what?” I demand, staring right back at her.
“Make things complicated when they aren’t.” She crosses her arms.
“You held a candle for the guy for years. Then just when you finally work up the courage to ask him out, you find out he’s dating someone else. I remember you telling me you weren’t even worried, you’d just have to wait a few weeks because Deo’s relationships never lasted anyway. So you had big plans to finally tell him you’d been crushing on him since you were a little kid, and now he’s married. C’mon, that would make any reasonable person lose their shit a little.”
“Look, I know you’re trying to lead me in the right direction or whatever, Adam, but you need to stop treating me like I’m this huge screw-up and you’ve got everything figured out. I refuse to believe you don’t have any problems. Just because we spend all our time talking about mine… So my love life is a mess and I’m maybe flunking out of school. Who cares? I’ll pick myself up, dust myself off, and maybe find myself some nice, rich guy to marry before I even need a degree.” She laughs at my look of shock, then scoops another bit of frosting onto her finger and holds it out again. “Adam, I’m joking. I know it wasn’t Schrodinger’s cat, but you could laugh. Here. Eat some sugar and stop worrying so much.”
I’m staring at the tip of her finger coated in sugary goodness, and something in me fractures.
I’m so damn sick of feeling like everything’s falling apart, like everything I worked for is dissolving in front of my eyes. And Genevieve, this gorgeous, frustrating girl who has so much potential, just sells herself short over and over again and attracts the wrong kind of guys, the ones who are in it for the cheap thrill of the chase.
And, dammit, she always manages to catch every one of them because she has those legs that any guy would want wrapped around his waist, and those eyes that are the clearest, hottest gray I’ve ever seen.
Right now she’s in front of me, smiling ear to ear, her finger still held out, dragging this whole torment out longer. So I do exactly what she’s asking for but not expecting, not for a single second. I lean over and watch her eyes go wide. She starts to pull her hand back, but I grab her wrist, pull her hand toward mine, and suck her finger into my mouth.
There’s enough tension against my hand that I know she would have run like mad if I hadn’t held her. I appreciate the irony of this entire situation. Genevieve had been so sure it would be me running away, shocked and appalled.
I know Gen sees me as a straight-laced scientist. She’s even joked that she thinks I might be a robot. I’m pretty sure she won’t be making that joke anymore.
I’d smile about it, but my mouth is otherwise occupied with her finger.
Her hand is smaller than I’d realized—we’re not very touchy friends, with good reason. If I want things to stay platonic, touching Gen is a definite “no.” Her finger feels delicate in my mouth, and I lick at it gently. Until she sucks her bottom lip in.
My brain feels fried, and her face blurs a little in front of me. I pull her closer and suck a little harder, just for a second, j
ust to watch her pant a tiny bit. Then I let her finger slide out of my mouth and glance down at the notes in front of me—like my heart isn’t about to kick out of my chest, and I’m not most of the way to a raging hard-on.
She stands, the box shaking in her hands, her mouth opening and closing uncertainly.
I glance up at her. “Good cupcake. Baking is all math and science. If you can make a cupcake that good, you can definitely make a killer pot of shakshuka. And handling differentials? A piece of…cupcake. C’mon, Gen. We’re going to shred this lesson apart and make it our little bitch. Today.”
She plops down on the stool across from me and takes out her paperwork so meekly I keep waiting for her to jump up and shout, “Gotcha!”
But she doesn’t.
She stares at the blank page until I slide a series of problems her way and say, “Solve, and if you get stuck, I’m going to teach you two different tactics for getting out of that situation, okay?”
She just nods, and my amusement over the whole finger-licking prank is waning. I shake my head, get off the stool, and rummage in the drawers, finding two paper plates and two plastic forks. While she works, I scoop some of the crushed dessert onto each plate, sliding one her way. She looks at me, her eyebrows low and questioning.
“You’re weirdly quiet. I figure you need a sugar rush,” I say, shrugging.
She looks down at her plate, and the smile that unfolds on her face is real and bright. “Thanks. So, how did I do?” She pushes the paper over and takes a delicate bite of cupcake.
I make sure not to watch her mouth as she eats and instead focus on the problem, worked out perfectly. I narrow my eyes at her.
“You used the methods I emailed you. This is…so well done. Why did you tell me you didn’t get the email?”
She bats lashes that, for no logical reason, make my mouth water, and then turns the fork over, scooping up another small bite. “I wanted to say thank you. For the notes. I know they must have taken you forever, and I know you’re crushed for time with your yeasts being so uncooperative. Then I came in, and you had to ruin my totally sweet gesture by yelling at me like some bully.”
I laugh, just a little. “Really? You don’t think the fact that you almost broke your leg had anything to do with my yelling at you? And I’m not a very good bully if I spend all my time catching you before you fall, tutoring you, and feeding you cupcakes,” I point out.
She blinks slowly. “Yeah. You kind of suck as a bully.” She puts her fingers to her lips, and I remember how it felt to have one in my mouth. “You really do…suck, Adam.”
Her attempt to flirt is so ridiculous, it pops the bubble of tension around us, and I can’t help laughing at her. “Back to work, Rodriguez. You’ve got a quiz this week, then another two weeks after, and if you don’t pass—”
“Don’t,” she pleads, her flirty face gone, replaced by a serious pout. “Just don’t. I have parents to tell me nonstop what a loser I am. I don’t need my friends doing it, too.”
“Hey.” I wait until she looks up from the cupcake she’s stabbing. “Are you kidding me? You’re not a loser.”
“Please don’t.” She shakes her head and takes angry swipes at her eyes. “Trust me. I know damn well I don’t live up to anyone’s expectations.”
Tears. Damn it.
I’m not well equipped for tears in general, and especially not when they’re pouring down Genevieve’s cheeks. I wish she’d say something flippant or roll her eyes. Her sadness is tearing my calm to shreds.
“Hey.” I come around the counter and carefully, robotically—okay, maybe she has a point—put one arm around her shoulders. “C’mon. That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
She holds her body stiff for a few seconds, but then she leans into my chest, burying her head in my shirt and mumbling something I can’t make out. Then she pulls her face up and sits straight, out of my arms. I’m shocked at how empty they feel without her in them.
“You have no idea, Adam. You’re, like, this genius. You run the whole lab, and all the professors are always talking about how smart you are and how you’re going on to bigger and better things.” Something that might be admiration shines in her eyes when she looks at me, and I feel a ridiculous burst of pride. “I bet your parents, like, have a shrine in your old bedroom with all your awards and ribbons and stuff.”
I force myself to smile through the bitter taste in my mouth. I guess Genevieve would be shocked to know that my childhood bedroom is now an exercise room for my father. I sleep on a cot when I go home. The truth is, as good a friend as Gen is, I don’t discuss my family or my life in Israel with her. That’s my past. I love my present in the U.S.…and I’m full of hope I’ll spend my future here, too.
I just have to manage to not get deported. My gut lurches at the thought of having to give in to my father and go back—
“I think you’re just getting starry-eyed over how brilliant I am.” I hold my breath and let it out slowly, relieved when she cracks a tiny smile. “In all seriousness, you drive me nuts. You know that, Gen. You always have. But I feel a little guilty when you thank me for tutoring you. I mean, even your horrible cupcake mess is too much because the truth is, you’re by far the smartest student I’ve ever worked with. I feel like I barely do anything, and you get it. And I know for a fact you’re going to ace this test today. And the next one. And the one after that. So get back to work.”
That tiny smile gets bigger and, when she looks down at her notebook, it stretches even wider—so wide it moves her ears back a little.
She’s gorgeous.
I scoop up another bite of smashed cupcake and enjoy that smile, the one I helped bring to her face. So my life is over. So I fucked up and will be brought down a whole bunch of pegs when I have to grovel back in Israel. Life isn’t all bad.
Genevieve flips her pencil and chews on the little pink eraser, and I remember her tiny, sugarcoated finger in my mouth.
Not all bad. Not by a long shot.
A few minutes of silent work later and I feel her pencil tapping against my knuckles.
“What’s going on, Adam?” she asks.
“No stalling,” I mutter.
“I’m not stalling. You’re biting your nails. Tell me what’s up.”
“Damn it.” I quit gnawing on my thumbnail and shove my hands in my pants pockets. “Don’t worry about it. You have work to do.”
“My work is done.” She pushes the notebook my way. “You haven’t bitten your nails in months. Is it the yeast? I know this is the dumbest question ever, but can I help somehow?”
I glance over her neatly penciled work. Flawless. What does she even come here for? I could just text her help with any questions she has. The practical part of me doesn’t get it. The irrational part of me decides not to think about it too hard.
There are some things—like biting my nails when shit gets really bad—that I can’t logically explain, but I do them anyway. Maybe coming to be tutored by me is just a habit for Gen. I’m hoping she doesn’t decide to break it any time soon.
“It’s not the yeast,” I admit. “The thing is, I’m in pretty deep shit, and nobody can help at this point.”
“What’s wrong?” She lays her pencil down and leans forward, her mouth pulled tight with worry. It feels so good to have someone give a shit about what’s going on in my life.
Especially Genevieve.
“You know how I’m always giving you crap about turning your paperwork in on time and keeping an eye on deadlines?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Is this seriously turning into a lecture about how irresponsible I am?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s me admitting I’ve been a hypocrite. I thought my yeast project would go better, and I’d get my degree. That would mean a full time job, and a job would mean I could get a work visa. But I was too optimistic. The yeasts are fucking up my life, and I didn’t reapply for my student visa in time. Now I’m not sure I’ll be able to get an exte
nsion.”
“So…what’s going to happen?” she asks, her hand going to her throat like she’s having a hard time swallowing.
“My father wants me to come home, back to Israel. He has a friend who has a job all lined up for me. I could finish my research remotely and come back to defend my thesis. My advisor knows I’ve been struggling, and she’s been very understanding.”
Her nod is jerky, and she opens her eyes wide. “Wow. Okay. Right. So, back to Israel. Soon? But you have a job lined up there, so that’s good, right? And I’m sure your family would be so happy to see you. So…congratulations?” she says, and it’s almost a whisper.
“Thanks?” I say, in the same uncertain tone.
She looks up at me, and her eyes are bleary with tears.
More tears?
Over me?
My mouth goes dry.
“I know it makes me a truly shitty friend that I’m not happier. And, don’t get me wrong—I’m truly happy for you. If this is what you want, then I’m so damn happy. But I’m a selfish brat, too. I’ll miss you so much.” She puts a hand out and lays it on top of mine.
“It’s not…it’s not what I want,” I stutter.
“No?” She perks up a little, her eyes shining. “You don’t want to go back to Israel?”
“I don’t,” I tell her. “But I’m running out of options. I could try to get a full-time job outside the university, but that would take too much time from my research. I thought about getting my cougar advisor to marry me for a green card, but she’s actually already married.”
“Dr. Gibson?” Genevieve asks with a laugh. “She’s definitely hot. And I hear she’s in an open relationship…”
“Right. But polygamy isn’t a legal option. I guess I should have taken it more seriously when you tried to set me up. But, how can someone as cool as you wind up with so many weirdo friends?”
She nods at me. “You’re right. I definitely seem to be a weirdo magnet.”
An alarm on the counter goes off, letting me know I have to take some trays out of the freezer. Gen slides out her phone. “I have to run. Listen, Adam, don’t panic, okay? We’ll get together later and brainstorm. There has to be a solution that doesn’t involve you moving all the way to Israel and leaving me to flunk out of college.”