Below Zero (The STEMinist Novellas #3) by Ali Hazelwood

            He mulls it over. “I’m not sure. For my team, I would usually hire internally. But I’m almost certain I still have my application materials on my old laptop. I could send them to you.”

            Okay. Perfect. Great.

            The opening I was waiting for.

            My heart rate picks up. Warmth twists in my lower stomach. I lean forward with a smile, feeling like I’m finally in my element. This, this, is what I know best. Depending on how busy I am with school, or work, or binge-watching K-dramas, I do this about once a week. Which amounts to quite a bit of practice. “Maybe I could come to your place?” I say, finding the sweet spot between comically suggestive and Let’s get together to play Cards Against Humanity. “And you could show me?”

            “I meant—in Houston. My laptop’s in Houston.”

            “So you didn’t bring your 2010 laptop to Pasadena?”

            He smiles. “Knew I’d forgotten something.”

            “Sure did.” I meet his eyes squarely. Lean half an inch closer. “Then maybe I can still come to your place, and we could do something else?”

            He gives me a half-puzzled look. “Do what?”

            I press my lips together. Okay. Maybe I overestimated my flirting skills. Have I, though? I don’t think so. “Really?” I ask, amused. “Am I that bad?”

            “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” Ian’s expression is all arrested confusion, like I just suddenly started talking in an Australian accent. “Bad at what?”

            “At hitting on you, Ian.”

            I can pinpoint the precise, exact moment the meaning of my words sinks into the language part of his brain. He blinks a few times. Then his big body goes still in a tight, impossible, vibrating way, like his internal software is buffering through an unpredictable set of updates.

            He looks absolutely, almost charmingly mystified, and something occurs to me: I’ve struck up flirtatious conversations with dozens of guys and girls at parties, bars, laundromats, gyms, bookstores, seminars, muddy obstacle races, greenhouses—even, on one memorable occasion, in the waiting room of a Planned Parenthood, and . . . no one has ever been this clueless. No one. So maybe he was just pretending not to get it. Maybe he was hoping I’d back off.

            Shit.

            “I’m sorry.” I straighten and roll my chair back, giving him a few inches of space. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

            “No. No, I—” He’s finally rebooting. Shaking his head. “No, you aren’t, I’m just—”

            “A bit freaked out?” I smile reassuringly, trying to signal that it’s okay. I can take a no. I’m a big girl. “It’s fine. Let’s forget I said anything. But do email me your application package once you’re back home, please. I promise I won’t reply with unsolicited nudes.”

            “No, it’s not that . . .” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. His cheekbones look rosier than before. His lips move, trying to form words for a few seconds, until he settles on: “It’s just . . . unexpected.”

            Oh. I tilt my head. “Why?” I thought I’d been laying it on pretty thick.

            “Because.” His large hand gestures in my direction. He swallows, and I watch his throat work. “Just . . . look at you.”

            I actually do it. I look down at myself, taking in my crossed legs, my khaki shorts, my plain black tee. My body is in its usual condition: tall. Wiry. A bit scrawny. Olive-skinned. I even shaved this morning. Maybe. I can’t remember. Point is, I look okay.

            So I say it—“I look okay”—which should sound confident but comes out a bit petulant. It’s not that I think I’m hot shit, but I refuse to be insecure about my appearance. I like myself. Historically, the people I’ve wanted to sleep with have liked me, too. My body does its job as a means to an end. It manages to let me kayak around California lakes without muscle aches the following day, and it digests lactose like it’s an Olympic discipline. That’s all that matters.

            But his reply is: “You don’t look okay,” and . . . no.

            “Really.” My tone is icy. Is Ian Floyd trying to imply that he’s out of my reach? Because if so, I will slap him. “How do I look, then?”