“You smell so good,” he growls into my skin, and all of a sudden I’m glowing with heat and embarrassment and something else, something new and pulsating and unfamiliar. I squirm around the feeling. Oh God. Is this—am I turned on? He’s barely awake, and I bet he thinks I’m his pillow girlfriend or whoever he slept with last, and I’m here, all hot and—

“Elsie,” he nearly grunts. His arm tightens around my waist, then abruptly relaxes.

He’s still fast asleep. And this time, when I wiggle away, he lets me go. I’m running upstairs, flushing cherry red, and he’s once again breathing evenly.

It’s okay. It’s fine. Kind of creepy that I’m even thinking about this, since he’s asleep. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth (yup, with my finger), wash my face, and reassure Cece that I haven’t been sex trafficked.

My inbox is bloated with emails. The highlight:

From: [email protected]

Subject: Melanie

Melanie is a good person and did not mean to copy that essay from the internet, she told me so, and I believe her because I raised her and in my household we do not condone lies. She was framed (her roommate has a vendetta against her, ever since the menstrual cup incident). Please let my daughter resubmit her assignment.

Melanie’s mom

I sigh, twice, then stress-snoop in Jack’s cabinets. Finding some Rogaine or antifungal meds or prescription-strength deodorant would humanize him, but there’s only toothpaste (wintergreen—disgusting) and soap. So I sit back on the edge of the tub and spend an unspecified length of time thinking of a way to let Dr. L. know that I failed.

I failed him.

By the time I crawl downstairs, Jack’s moving around the kitchen, phone lodged between shoulder and ear, laughing softly and saying, “. . . since you’re staying three days, we—”

He turns around. When he notices me standing at the bottom of the staircase, his smile fades. Yes, I’m still wearing the Northeastern shirt I slept in, and yes, my hands are swallowed by my cardigan, and yes, I can’t help stacking my feet on top of each other.

Clearly, I’m bringing sexy back.

“Need to go—see you next week.” Jack puts down his phone, then slides a mug of coffee across the kitchen island. For me, I assume. Which means that I have no choice but to make my way there and take a seat on a stool.

He looks a bit disheveled, the back of his hair sticking up, stubble longer than last night, shoulders and arms filling the worn T-shirt, but he still has that air about him. Amused. Confident. Unbothered. I wait for him to mention that we slept together—We. Slept. Together. But he doesn’t seem to be inclined to be a dick about it.

“Hey,” he says.

The peerection (trademark pending) is gone. I think. I can’t really see. He probably used the bathroom downstairs and—

Not the point, Elsie. Focus.

“Hey.” I take a sip of my coffee—disgusting, as coffee always is. I set down my mug, open my mouth to apologize again about last night, about the state of the world, about the cluster of atoms that shapes my very existence, when he says, “Can I make you breakfast?”

“Oh.” I shake my head even as my stomach growls. “I’m fine, I—”

“May I please watch you eat something?” Bam, dimple. “It’ll be good for my mental health.”

I’ll just take this day for what it is: me marinating in a puddle of embarrassment. “If you have a piece of toast, that’d be great. Thank you.”

He nods, slips a slice of whole grain in the toaster, and then asks a really odd question. “Why aren’t you a full-time researcher?”

I blink. “What?”

“You got your Ph.D., then went straight to adjuncting. Most people try to squeeze in a full-time research position like a postdoc, especially if they’re not passionate about teaching.”

After years of hearing Dr. L. talk about Jack, it’s surreal having Jack bring up Dr. L., however obliquely. “I did think of it, but there weren’t any in the area. Theorists don’t exactly swim in funding . . .”

“What about other places? You want to stay in the Boston area?”

“Yes. Well, I don’t want to, but I should. For my family.”

“Are you close? Do they have health issues?”

“No. And no. Just, my mom and my brothers are . . .” Shit shows. Complete, utter shit shows. Like me. “I can’t leave.”

He nods. Like he doesn’t fully understand, like he understands too much. “You realize that your skill set would be of interest to more than theorists, right? Your work is highly translational. Experimental physicists would fight to have you on their teams.”

They didn’t, though. Dr. L. asked around widely, and no one was fighting. No one was even politely arguing. “Like who?”

He holds my eyes for a beat too long, and—

“No.” I shake my head. “No.”

His mouth twitches. “I do have the funding.”

“No.”

“And the need.”

“Nope.”

He’s fully smiling. Like I’m his personal entertainment center, amusing him in 4K and Dolby Surround. “We could negotiate salary.”

“No. Nope. No. I’m not going to work for you.”

“Why?”

“I’m not going to grade your tests and bring you coffee—”

“I have three TAs.” He looks pointedly at my full mug. “And I’m happy to take care of your coffee . . . You don’t even like coffee, do you?”

I squirm in the stool. “I . . .”

“Oh, Elsie.” He shakes his head in mock disappointment and takes away the mug. “I thought you were above sparing my feelings.”

“You were really nice to me last night, and . . .” I clear my throat. “Anyway, I can’t work for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you are Jonathan Smith-Turner and almost destroyed my entire field.” And Dr. L. would kill me, I don’t add, but I still feel a stab of guilt for being about to literally break bread with my mentor’s archenemy.

“Okay.” He shrugs, setting a glass of water and toast in front of me. “Disappointing. But it does give me free rein to ask something else.”

“Ask what?”

“Can I take you out?”

The words don’t immediately compute. For several seconds they float in my brain like driftwood, aimless, unparsable, and then their meaning dawns on me. “You mean you want to . . . murder me.”

He winces. “Once again, what happened to you?”

“You asked to take me out—”

“For a date.”

“Oh.” I blush. “Oh.” I scratch the side of my nose. “Um . . .”

Jack’s eyebrow lifts. “You seem more alarmed by dinner than murder.”

“No. Yeah. I mean, it’s just . . . Why?”

“You know, I’m growing concerned about your language comprehension skills.” The corner of his mouth is quirking up, and I cannot take this anymore.

“Stop it,” I order.

“Stop what?”

“Being amused by me! I don’t understand why you’d want to . . . We’ve done nothing but butt heads since the day we met.” I cover my eyes with both hands. “Why are you suddenly being so nice? Giving me shelter, offering me a job? I just . . . Is this some fetish of yours? Some people get off on armpit sex, you enjoy messing with me and—”

“Look at me, Elsie.” His voice snaps me to attention. Jack has moved around the island and is leaning against it, next to me. The back of his finger taps gently against my hand, grounding me. A silent Shut up, will you. “You done spiraling?”

“I’m not spiraling,” I lie. “Jack, believe me. You don’t want to spend time with me.”

He nods, thoughtful. “What else don’t I want?”

“I’m serious. For one, I’m technically still fake-girlfriending your brother.”

“Didn’t know it worked as a verb. Cute.”

“And you hate the personality-switching thing.”

“That won’t be a problem.” His eyes gleam. “Since I also enjoy calling you on your bullshit.”

My cheeks heat. “We have nothing in common. What would we even talk about?”

“We could spend two weeks just on liquid crystals. Or you could tell me about Twilight. Your erotic Bill Nye fan fiction phase. Stream of consciousness would be fine, too. I’d love to know what you’re thinking.”