Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “I hope you’re not mad. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

            “I’m not mad.”

            I stare up at his face. He doesn’t seem mad. Then again, he also doesn’t seem not mad. He just seems like the old Levi: quietly intense, unreadable, not at all fond of me.

            “Good. Great.” My eyes fall to his large bicep, and then to his fist. He is clenching it again. Guess Dr. Wardass still dislikes me. Whatever. His problem. Maybe I have a bad aura. It doesn’t matter—I’m here to get a job done, and I will. I square my shoulders. “Guy gave me a tour earlier. I noticed that none of our equipment’s here yet. What’s the ETA for that?”

            His lips press together. “We are working on it. I’ll keep you posted.”

            “Okay. My RA and I can’t get anything done until our computers arrive, so the earlier the better.”

            “I’ll keep you posted,” he repeats tersely.

            “Cool. When can we meet to discuss BLINK?”

            “Email me with times that work for you.”

            “They all do. I don’t have a schedule until my equipment arrives, so—”

            “Please, email me.” His tone, patient and firm, screams I’m an adult dealing with a difficult child, so I don’t insist further.

            “Okay. Will do.” I nod, half-heartedly wave my goodbye, and turn to walk away.

            I can’t wait to work with this guy for three months. I love being treated like I’m a piece of belly button lint instead of a valuable asset to a team. That’s why I got a Ph.D. in neuroscience: to achieve nuisance status and be patronized by the Wardasses of the world. Lucky me for—

            “There’s one more thing,” he says. I turn back and tilt my head. His expression is as closed off as usual, and—why the hell is the feel of his thigh in my brain again? Not now, intrusive thoughts.

            “The Discovery Building has a dress code.”

            His words don’t land immediately. Then they do, and I look down to my clothes. He can’t possibly mean me, can he? I’m wearing jeans and a blouse. He is wearing jeans and a Houston Marathon T-shirt. (God, he’s probably one of those obnoxious people who post their workout stats on social media.)

            “Yes?” I prompt him, hoping he’ll explain himself.

            “Piercings, certain hair colors, certain . . . types of makeup are unacceptable.” I see his eyes fall on one of the braids draped over my shoulder and then drift upward to a spot above my head. As though he can’t bear to look at me longer than a split second. As though my sight, my existence, offends him. “I’ll make sure Kaylee sends you the handbook.”

            “. . . Unacceptable?”

            “Correct.”

            “And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”

            “Please, make sure you follow the dress code.”

            I want to kick him in the shins. Or maybe punch him. No—what I really want is to grab his chin and force him to stare at what he clearly considers my ugly, offensive face some more. Instead I put my hands on my hips and smile. “That’s interesting.” I keep my tone pleasant enough. Because I am a pleasant person, dammit. “Because half of your team are wearing sweats or shorts, have visible tattoos, and Aaron, I believe is his name, has a gauge in his ear. It makes me wonder if maybe there’s a gendered double standard at play here.”

            He closes his eyes, as though trying to collect himself. As though staving off a wave of anger. Anger at what? My piercings? My hair? My corporeal form? “Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

            I cannot believe this chucklefuck. “Are you serious?”

            He nods. All of a sudden I am too mad to be in his presence. “Very well. I’ll make an effort to look acceptable from now on.”

            I whirl around and walk back to the conference room. If my shoulder brushes his torso on my way there, I am too busy not kneeing him in the nuts to apologize.





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