Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Jonathan, I emailed you Dr. Hannaway’s CV and several of her publications,” Monica says sweetly. “Did you not receive them?”

            “Perhaps they got flagged as spam.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “My apologies, Dr. Hannaway.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back, preparing to study me at his leisure. He’s wearing a dark-green henley in this fancy-ass restaurant. Underdressed, again, like his entire brand is Instagram lumbersexual and he can’t risk being spotted wearing business casual. “Do you have any siblings?”

            Where the hell is he going with this? “Two.”

            “Sisters?”

            “No.”

            “Odd. You look uncannily similar to someone my brother used to date. I believe her name was . . .” He taps his finger on the table. “Pity I can’t recall.”

            I flush, looking around shiftily. Most people are too busy deciding what to order with department funds to pay attention. I bury my face in the menu and take a deep breath. Ignore Jack Smith. Jack Turner. Jack Smith-Turner. Do not go on a rampage and stab him with your salad fork.

            Actually, what I need is to explain to him the situation. That I’m not a con artist. Get him off my case. Yes, I need to—

            “Jack, how’s the ferroelectric nematic experiment going?” someone asks from the other end of the table.

            “Great. So great, I’ve been considering a leave of absence.” He makes a show of tapping his chin. “A couple of years backpacking, maybe.”

            Volkov laughs. “No luck, then?”

            “Nope.” His brow furrows. “We’re doing something wrong. Can’t figure out what, though. How’s Russia this time of year, Sasha?”

            More people chuckle. “If you feel you must leave us, who are we to stop you?” Monica mutters. I scowl into the salads page: Jack has no business going from total asshole to charmingly self-deprecating.

            “Things will turn around, Jack. You know that experimental physics is . . . experi-meant to be hard.” Volkov snickers at his own joke. “Theoretical physics, too. Doesn’t it sometimes make you . . . theory-eyed, Dr. Hannaway?”

            Laugh, I order myself. Be charming. Be convivial. Top of your game. “It sure does.”

            “Good one,” Jack says. “Sasha, have you heard the one about Schrödinger’s girlfriend?”

            Volkov rubs his hands. “No, do tell!”

            “It’s my favorite. Schrödinger’s girlfriend is simultaneously a librarian and a theoretical—”

            I snap my menu shut, embarrassment and anger pounding up my spine. Am I having a rage stroke? Is my nose bleeding? “Excuse me for a moment.” I stand, forcing myself to smile at Monica and Volkov. I need air. I need to regroup. I need a second to think about this mess of a situation without Jack jabbing at me. “I, um, petted a dog earlier. I’ll wash my hands and be right back.”

            Volkov seems pleased at my sudden concern with hygiene. “Yes, yes, good idea. Lather safe than sorry.” He guffaws like he’s on nitrous oxide. I love a good pun; I really do. But not when my one chance at financial freedom is being sabotaged by my fake boyfriend’s evil brother.

            I’m several feet away when Jack’s voice makes my stomach twist. “You know, I petted a cat. I think I’ll join Dr. Hannaway.”

            The restrooms are across the restaurant, at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway decorated with ficus and monochrome pictures of Paris. I left the table first and should have a considerable advantage, but Jack catches up with me in a handful of steps, without even the grace to look winded.

            I brace for him to say something devious and offensive. It’ll be my excuse to trip him—who needs sex when you can watch Jack Smith face-plant on the floor? But he remains silent. Strolls by my side, grossly unconcerned, like he doesn’t have a worry on his mind. One of his power plays, Monica said earlier, and I grit my teeth, wishing I had some power to bring to the playground. If I get this job, I’m going to make his life impossible: put his science equipment in Jell-O, cut my nails on his desk, lick the rim of his cup when I have a cold, sprinkle tacks on his—