Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

The idea of being in any part of Eric Sommers’s life repelled me on a visceral level. Eli, too, apparently. “You don’t want our picture,” he said amicably. “We both met Mr. Sommers ten minutes ago. It’d be a waste of space.”

“Oh.” The photographer frowned, then picked herself back up. “You’re just such a beautiful couple.” She left for more receptive pastures, and Eli gathered me close once again.

“She’s right,” he murmured softly.

“About what?”

“You do look beautiful.” He didn’t sound happy about it.

“It’s the dress. And the makeup.”

“No. It’s not.” His eyes lingered on me, then shifted away. I couldn’t bear the silence.

“Maybe we have displeased the jester god of hookups, and he won’t stop throwing us together until we sacrifice a quail at his altar.”

“I don’t think that’s what he wants from us,” Eli muttered under his breath. “And why is the jester god of hookups a dude?”

“I’m not sure, actually.”

We exchanged an amused look. A beat too long, and it was my turn to glance away and change the topic. “You’re trying to turn the board against Florence, then?”

“Nope.”

“You already admitted to that.”

When he shrugged, the ropes of his deltoids shifted under my fingers. Backache, my ass. “What do you think the purpose of a board is?”

I’d asked Nyota the very same question that very morning, and received an only mildly disdainful response. Or maybe Nyota just came across as nicer via email. “They oversee. Make strategic decisions.”

“You’ve been reading. Nice.”

“Quite patronizing of you.”

“No, I . . .” He gave me a surprised look. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention. But I did have the impression that you don’t concern yourself with anything admin related.” I didn’t like how correctly he had me pegged. I was in the industry for the science, and the games of thrones were beyond my pay grade. “Regardless of what you think of Harkness,” he continued softly, palm flexing on my back, “there’s no denying that CEOs need accountability and oversight from people with relevant experience.”

“Kline is Florence’s company. She knows what’s best for it. People like Eric Sommers know nothing about science.”

“No. But it’s not just about Florence and her petri dishes anymore, is it? Kline has a staff of three hundred and sixty-four.”

“And?”

“One bad decision can take away the paychecks of three hundred and sixty-four families.”

I couldn’t disagree with that. But I also knew Florence, whose actions were rational and well thought out. I wished she could be here to list them for Eli.

As if she’d been summoned, my phone buzzed with a text. “Excuse me,” I told him, slipping it out of my pocket.

Florence: You okay? I’m stuck with Sommers and his wife. Pls tell me Eli Killgore is not harassing you.

Rue: I’m fine. Eli and I are just making stilted conversation.

Florence: Just excuse yourself and walk away from him. He CANNOT be trusted.

I know, I thought, and suddenly the hall was suffocatingly hot. “I need some air,” I said.

Eli pointed somewhere I couldn’t quite see, and when I hesitated, his hand found my lower back and pressed forward, guiding me firmly through the throng, out to a stone balcony. It gave onto a small courtyard, and a pool, and what looked like—

“Fuckin’ golf courses,” Eli muttered. A laugh bubbled out of me, clearing my head. For once, the temperature was bearable, the night balmy and cool on my skin. Muffled through the glass doors, even the music seemed almost palatable. I leaned against the wall, tilting my head to take in the starry sky. Eli did the same with the high railing, facing me. He looked idle, but I knew he was not, and the app’s checklist flashed in my mind.

Kinks? a box asked, and he’d answered, If negotiated.

I was dying to know more about all of that. But Florence was right—he couldn’t be trusted.

“Has your brother been leaving you alone?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Do you have a contingency plan in case he shows up at your apartment, or at Kline, or at your gym?” His voice was gruff. Like he wished he hadn’t been asking, but couldn’t help himself.

“Can’t believe I fooled you into thinking that I’m the gym type.” It was a half-baked attempt at teasing, the kind he’d responded well to during our first meeting, but his expression was serious. A strict lab supervisor, demanding to know why my bacteria culture was suddenly giant-blobbing all over the city. “I’ve asked a friend—who’s a lawyer—what my options are. I don’t have a plan, though.”

“Make one,” he ordered. And then shook his head, massaged his eyes, and repeated more gently, “Maybe you should make one.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“You need someone to call if—”

“What about I call you?” I joked.

“Yes, please. Please, fucking do that. Do you want my number now, or . . . ?” He stared, waiting for an answer. And then his eyes softened. The breeze picked up between us, and he kept looking, looking, looking.