Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

Tisha turned to me. “Rue, did Eli mention anything about Kline when you two met last night?”

“Hang on—Eli?” Florence’s eyes widened. “You met Eli Killgore last night?”

If I’d been the fidgeting type, this would have been my time to squirm. Luckily, I’d long trained myself out of that kind of stuff. Robotic, I’d once heard another grad student whisper after I was cold-called in bio-nanotech class and neglected to display whatever the appropriate amount of distress was. Stone-cold bitch, my fellow ice skaters had said, because I was the only one not to burst into tears when our team missed the podium by a fraction of a point. “I did.”

“How?” Florence scowled. “Was it a date?”

“Ha. A date.” Tish waved her hand and ignored the narrow look I gave her. “That would imply a degree of emotional availability homegirl could only aspire to after a heart transplant.”

It was true enough. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been on a date—in fact, I was sure I had not. “We matched on an app, made plans to meet last night. Nothing physical happened.” Even if it feels like it did.

My hookups were pleasurable but ultimately insignificant parts of my life, and with the exception of Tisha, who was my built-in safe call—If you ever get abducted, I’m going to cheese grate the guy’s dick and rescue you in no time—I never discussed them. Everything Florence knew of my sex life came from Tisha’s occasional jokes, but it must have still been a pretty thorough overview, because she seemed befuddled by the idea of me going out with some guy and not getting laid. “Why not?”

“Long story. Vince is involved.”

“I see.” Unlike other men, Vince was a frequent topic of conversation among us.

“What a dick,” Tisha muttered. “I’ve let years of him parentifying you and holding you responsible for the utter fuckup your mother was slide, but now he’s cockblocking you? Not on my watch.”

“I guess a line has to be drawn,” I murmured.

“Damn right.”

“Did he say anything about me?” Florence asked, alarmed.

“Who?” I cocked my head. “Vince?”

“No, Eli. Did he say anything about Kline?”

“No. He . . . I don’t think he knew I worked here.” Or did he?

Florence’s eyes narrowed. She parted her lips to add something, but Tisha was faster. “Listen, Rue, when you next see him—”

“I won’t.” I remembered the blossoming heat in my chest this morning, when I found myself wondering if a man would call for what felt like the first time in decades—maybe ever. The way he’d studied me last night, as if amused by his own inability to untangle me. His warm skin when I’d kissed him on the cheek, freshly shaven and yet already stubbly. “Not now that I know what he does.”

“It might be for the best,” Florence said slowly. “But not as easy as you think.”

“Why?”

“Harkness is going to be here for a while. Contractually, they can ask to be briefed by the head of every research and development project. And they did.” Florence picked up her tablet, tapped at it several times, and then held it out to me. On it, there was a list. And on the list, there was my name.

When I looked up, Florence’s mouth was a thin line. I could read nothing in her voice as she said, “Eli Killgore will be doing some of the interviews.”





5





A BIG ACCUSATION





RUE

Iarrived just in time to see Arjun, the man I desperately wished would take Matt’s place as my supervisor, step out of the conference room. He approached me with a smile, and bent his head to my ear to say in low tones, “I was nervous as shit to go in there, but they’re decent.”

“Who’s they?”

“I forgot their names, honestly. Two of the dudes?”

A sixty-six percent chance of Eli, then.

“They’re approachable,” Arjun continued. “I was sure they’d be looking for reasons to say that everyone’s position is redundant, but they seem genuinely interested in the science. Asked lots of questions.”

“About what?”

“The scale-up stuff I’ve been working on. I got to complain about the whole pH saga we had last quarter. The initial hydrolysis step. They got my pain.”

“They understand hydrolysis?” I knew how arrogant the question sounded, but I couldn’t picture a normie having a working knowledge of it. Then again, I barely spoke with non-Tisha humans, so what did I know?

“Oh yeah. I started giving them the crayon version, but they nipped that real fast. They must have some kind of chemistry background, because they know their shit. Maybe—”

“Are you Dr. Siebert?”

I glanced past Arjun’s shoulder, at the person idling stiffly by the conference room. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m Sul Jensen. Come on in.” He was a square, stocky man who looked like he’d last smiled in the early 2000s. Not quite rude, but stone faced and glaringly uninterested in exchanging pleasantries. My first impression of him was probably highly similar to others’ first impressions of me—with the caveat that serious, unsmiling men tended to be considered consummate professionals, while serious, unsmiling women were often written off as haughty shrews.