Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

“Have I? Or did our acquaintance come to its natural and predetermined end?”

“Maybe it did.” His jaw tensed and his eyes cooled, like he was no longer in the mood to feign nonchalance. “And maybe you don’t have any obligation to value my peace of mind. I’d still love to know if when you and I were together I did anything to upset you. Or hurt you.”

“No.” Had he been carrying this around for the past two weeks? I studied him, and the vaguely inebriated thought hit me that he was absolutely the type to do that. There was something white knight-y about him. Observant. He cares, he really does care about doing the right thing. Why is he with Harkness, then? “Everything was fine.”

He scanned my face for lies. His lips twisted into a slow smile. “Fine, huh?”

“Good. It was very good.” Though not as good as I remembered, I was certain of it. I must have inflated the night in my head. Glorified it past reality.

Nothing was that good.

“Yeah.” His eyes darkened. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher. “I thought the same. Too bad for no repeats.”

Tragic, really, I thought. With the beer sloshing through my veins, that rule seemed flimsier than ever. And maybe Eli could read my mind, because he said, “Go out on a date with me.” The words seemed to explode out of him, unpremeditated. He appeared just as surprised by them as I was, but didn’t backtrack. “Dinner,” he continued, decisive, as if happy that he’d managed to ask. “Let me take you to dinner.”

It was all I could do not to laugh in his face. “Why?”

“Because. I haven’t seen you in two weeks and—I actually do like this. Being with you.” That self-effacing, teasing smile of his—I wanted to touch it. “You can tell me more stories. The awful, secret ones. I’ll listen and tell you mine.”

It occurred to me that if there was a person in the world who could come to dinner with me and not be disappointed by how awkward, boring, inadequate I was, it was probably this man. We’d been nothing but brutally honest with each other, after all. No pretenses between us. But if having sex with him felt like a betrayal of Florence, talking with him would be pure treason. “Stories? Like of how you ended up trying to steal my friend’s work?”

His expression hardened. “Yes, actually. I could tell you about—” Abruptly, he stopped. His strong neck tensed as he turned over his shoulder, and a moment later he was pushing me through the closest doorway and into a lab. He pressed me into a workstation that couldn’t be seen through the glass walls.

My sluggish brain couldn’t keep up. “What are you doing?” I asked, and then fell silent. A handful of voices were getting closer.

“You know who that is?”

I shook my head.

“Kline’s CEO and its general counsel.” His eyes held mine in what felt like a challenge. “I have no problem with your friend seeing us together, but I figured you might?”

I did. So I fell silent, letting the bite of the workbench dig into my lower back, listening as Florence’s voice grew fainter. Eli remained close, his hands caging me to the table, and it soaked the air between us, the shame of what I’d done. What I still wanted to do.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

I blurted out the truth. “You said ‘negotiated.’”

A confused look. “What?”

“On the app. The checklist part of it, it asks about kinks. You wrote ‘if negotiated’ but didn’t elaborate.”

His gaze sharpened to something so intense, I couldn’t conceive it. It was heady. A little unhinged.

“You want to know what I’m into?”

I nodded.

“Why?” His head tilted. “Are you hoping I’ll take control? That if I’m the one calling the shots, it’ll make you feel less guilty about being with me?”

Uncomfortable, how spot-on he was. “I just think we should fuck again,” I heard myself say. The alcohol dulled the bluntness of my words, but Eli’s pupils still widened.

“As far as I can recall, we never did that.”

“Semantics.”

“How much have you had to drink, Rue?”

“I don’t know.” I did. “A few beers.” Three. A few sips of a fourth.

“Yeah. Okay.” He took a step back. Turned away to stare at an embossed Kline logo on the wall, tendons tense on the side of his neck, as if under great strain. Then he looked back at me, once again tightly leashed. “We can revisit the matter when you’ve metabolized the alcohol out of your system.”

“Just like I metabolized you?” I said under my breath. His nostrils flared. “We could leave together. Tonight.”

“Rue.”

“Unless you’re busy.”

“Rue.”

“You can say no, if you—”

“Rue.” His interest was a palpable presence, as concrete as the floor between us. He’s going to say yes, I thought, elated. But: “Tomorrow.” His knuckles whitened around the edge of the bench. “We revisit this tomorrow, if you still want to. Call me, and I’ll tell you what I like.” He had the final look of someone who hadn’t budged in years.

“Sure. In the meantime, feel free to touch me. Or kiss me.”