Stuck with You (The STEMinist Novellas #2) by Ali Hazelwood

            I sigh. “This is . . . just really exhausting, Erik. Gianna told me everything. I know that ProBld tried to buy GreenFrame. I don’t know if you went out with me planning to hurt the company, or you took the opportunity once you were presented with it, but I do know that you used what I told you at dinner to give a pitch very similar to mine, because the client—your client—admitted it to us.”

            “I didn’t.”

            “Right. Sure.”

            “I really didn’t.”

            “Of course.” I roll my eyes.

            “No, I’m serious. Are you telling me that the reason you stopped talking to me is that we coincidentally ended up getting one of your clients?”

            “Two pitches that similar are not a coincidence—”

            “They must be. I didn’t even know we had that client until right now.”

            “How could you not know what projects are going in the firm you own?”

            “Because I am not a junior employee.” I can tell from his tone that he’s starting to get frustrated with me. Which is fine because I’ve been frustrated with him for weeks. “I have a leadership position and manage people who manage people who manage more people. We’re not GreenFrame, Sadie. I oversee different teams and spend my days in pretty fucking boring meetings with patent attorneys and surveyors and quality assurance managers. Unless it’s a high-priority deal or an extremely lucrative project, I might not even be debriefed until it’s well on its way. My job is making big-picture decisions and giving guidelines so that—”

            He stops and physically recoils. One second he’s leaning toward me, the next his back is straight and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He stays like that for long seconds, eyes closed, and then explodes in a low, heartfelt:

            “Fuck.”

            It’s my turn to be confused. “What?”

            “Fuck.”

            “What . . . Why are you doing that?”

            He looks at me, not one ounce of his previous exasperation in his expression. “You’re right.”

            “About?”

            “It was me. It was my fault you didn’t get the client. But not for the reason you think.”

            “What?”

            “The day after we . . .” He runs a tired hand down his face. “That morning I had a meeting with one of the engineering managers I supervise. He told me that he was refining a pitch for a project that had specifically asked for sustainability features. He didn’t go into detail and I didn’t ask, but since it’s not our forte he wanted to know if I had any resources. I sent him an academic article.” His throat bobs. “It was the one you wrote.”

            I’m dizzy. I’m sitting down, but I think I might fall over. “My article? My peer-reviewed article on frameworks for sustainable engineering?”

            He nods slowly. Helplessly. “I also sent your thesis out in a company-wide email and highly encouraged all team leaders to read it. Though that was a few days later, after I’d read it myself.”

            “My thesis?” I must have misheard him. Surely I’m in the thick of a cerebrovascular event. “My doctoral dissertation?”

            He nods, looking apologetic. I . . . I don’t think I’m even mad anymore. Or maybe I am, but it’s diluted in the total, utter shock of hearing that . . . “How did you get my thesis? And my paper?”

            “The paper was on Google Scholar. For the thesis . . .” He presses his lips together. “I had a librarian from Caltech send me a download link.”

            “You had a librarian send you a download link,” I repeat slowly. I’m inhabiting a parallel dimension. Where atoms are made of chaos. “When?”

            “The morning after. When I got to my office.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I wanted to read it.”