Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            I’m smiling. He’s . . . not smiling, but close, and it makes me smile even more.

            I think this might have been the most fun I’ve had in years. Okay, false: I know it is.

            “How did it go, by the way?” he asks quietly.

            “What?”

            “Your pitch.”

            “Oh. Good, I think.”

            “Thanks to Faye’s croissant?”

            I grin. “Undoubtedly. And my lavender underwear.”

            He lowers his eyes and clears his throat. “Who’s the client?”

            “A cooperative. They’re building a rec center based in New Jersey and are shopping around for consultants. It’s a second location for them, so they bought an old grocery store to turn into a gym of sorts. They’re looking for someone who’ll help them design it.”

            “You?”

            “And my boss, yes. Though two of her kids have been colicky, so for now mostly me.”

            “What did you tell them?”

            “I talked them through my plans for energy independence, green building standards, smart water management, minimizing off-gas chemicals . . . that stuff. They were going for a green edge, they said.”

            “And what are your plans?”

            I hesitate. I really don’t want to bore Erik, and I’ve gotten feedback from . . . literally everyone that when I start talking about engineering stuff, I go on for way too long. But Erik seems more than a little interested, and even though I blabber about raw materials and federal limits and life-cycle assessment for over ten minutes, his attention never seems to waver. He just nods pensively, like he’s filing away the information, and asks lots of clever questions.

            “So you got the project?”

            I shrug. “They’re meeting with someone else tomorrow, so I don’t know yet. But they said we’re their first choice so far, so I’m optimistic.”

            Erik doesn’t reply. Instead he just studies me, serious, intent, like I’m a particularly intriguing blueprint. Does it make me uncomfortable? I don’t know. It should. I’m out with a guy. For the first time in a million years. And he’s staring. Yikes, right? But . . . I kind of don’t mind.

            Mostly, I’m wondering whether he likes what he sees, which is a bit different. I feel, sometimes, like I’ve lost the habit to wonder whether I’m pretty in favor of agonizing over other qualities. Do I look professional? Smart? Organized? Someone who should be taken seriously, whatever the hell that means? I generally find the idea of men commenting on my attractiveness, favorably or otherwise, repulsive. But tonight, right now . . . the possibility that Erik might find me beautiful uncurls warmly at the base of my stomach.

            And then freezes when I consider that he might be staring for the opposite reason. Could he be staring for the opposite reason? Okay. This is—no. I need to stop with the ruminating. “What are you thinking?” I ask.

            He huffs a laugh. “Just wondering something.”

            “What?”

            He drums his fingers on the table. “Whether you want a job.”

            “Oh, I still have one. Despite my efforts this morning, I didn’t actually get fired.”

            “I know. And this is very inappropriate, I am aware. But I’d love to poach you.”

            “Ah. I . . .” Suddenly, I’m feeling hot and weirdly tingly. “I like my job. It pays okay. And my boss is great.”

            “I’ll pay you more. Name a figure.”

            “I . . . what?”

            “And if there’s anything you don’t enjoy about your current job, I’d be happy to come to an agreement about your duties. I’m very open to negotiating.”

            “Wait—you?”

            “ProBld,” he amends.