Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

Before her, all of my mentors had been men—some of them great, supportive, brilliant men who’d made me into the scientist I’d become. But Florence was different. Something closer to a friend, or a brilliant older sister who could answer my reaction kinetics questions, pat my back when my experiments didn’t work out, and later, once I’d graduated, provide me with the means to do the kind of work I wanted. I didn’t fuck with emotions, not if I could avoid it, but it didn’t take a therapist and months of navelgazing to tease out what I felt for Florence: gratitude, admiration, love, and quite a bit of protectiveness.

Which was why I absolutely loathed the deep lines that halved her forehead when she walked into her office.

“Shit on a tit!” Florence clutched her chest, startled. After a calming breath, she eyed us with an indulgent expression: the way I’d helped myself to her orthopedic chair, and Tisha’s enthusiastic mouth shoveling of the peanut butter pretzels on her desk. “Why, don’t be shy. Make yourselves at home. Break your bread.”

“They’re not even good,” Tisha said, scarfing down two more.

Florence closed the door and smiled wryly. “Thank you for your sacrifice, then.”

“Anything for you, my liege.”

“In that case, could I bother you to key a couple of people’s cars?” She dropped her tablet on the desk and massaged her bloodshot eyes. She was young for the size of her success, barely in her forties, and tended to look even younger. Not today, though. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” It was clear that she was pleased to see us.

“Seemed like you might be having a shit day, so we let ourselves in.” Tisha’s blinding smile displayed no shame.

“I do love a pity visit.”

“What about recon visits?” Tisha laid her chin on her hands. “Also a fan of those?”

Florence sighed. “What do you guys want to know?”

“So much. For instance, who the hell are those Harkness people, and what the hell do they want?”

Florence glanced back to make sure the door was closed. Then exhaled slowly. “Fuck me if I know.”

“Anticlimactic. And a bit less informative than I expected. Wait, I know that look. Fuck you if you know, but . . . ?”

“What I say doesn’t leave this room.”

“Of course.”

“I’m serious. If anyone hears of this, they’ll panic—”

“Florence,” I interrupted, “who would we even tell?”

She seemed to briefly consider our lack of meaningful relationships and then nodded reluctantly. “As you know, they bought our loan. Neither the board nor I had any say in the sale, and Harkness only ever interacted with the lender. We only communicate through lawyers.” She sighed. “According to legal, the most likely case is that Harkness bought the loan because they want full control of the fermentation tech.”

“The tech is yours, though.” I scowled. “They could take the company, but not the patent, right?”

“Unfortunately, Rue, the tech is the company. More accurately, the patent is part of the collateral for the loan.” She grabbed one of the chairs and took a seat. “The problem is, whenever we borrow funds to expand our operations, we have to make certain promises.”

“Of course. The covenants,” Tisha said with the tone of someone who’d appeared on god’s green earth with a genetic knowledge of the myriad facets of bankruptcy law and had not learned the word five minutes earlier, courtesy of a twenty-three-year-old lab technician. Florence gave her an approving nod, and Tisha made a show of dusting herself off.

I shook my head at her.

“Some of these covenants are straightforward—provide financial statements, noncompete, that kind of stuff. But others are . . . harder to interpret.”

I scratched my temple, already suspecting where this was going despite the heights of my managerial ignorance. If both parties approached a contract in good faith, muddy covenants could be resolved with a simple conversation. But if one party had ulterior motives . . .

“Now that Harkness owns the loan, they still don’t own the company, but they have the right to enforce those covenants. Which gives them the right to come in, snoop around, and find something to complain about. If you ask them, they’ll say they’re just making sure we’re using their capital in the best way, like good little borrowers.” Florence sank back in her chair. Her posture was exasperated, but not defeated. “This has been in the making for weeks.”

“Weeks?” Tisha’s jaw dropped. “Florence, you should have told us. We could have—”

“Done nothing, and that’s why I didn’t tell you. Legal has been fighting, but . . .” She shrugged.

“They are trying to take the tech away from you.” I leaned forward, a frisson of some intense emotions I couldn’t immediately name stirring inside me.

I was concerned. Or angry. Or indignant. Or all of the above.

“That seems to be the case, yes.”

“Why? Why your tech and not a million others?”

Florence widened her hands. “I’d love to spin an elaborate tale in which I once abducted Conor Harkness’s dog to traffic him to pelisse makers, and his sudden interest in Kline is just a tassel in his revenge master plan. But I think it simply has to do with the earning potential of the biofuel.”