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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 havingJackbring 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’twantto, but I should. For my family.”
“Are you close? Do they have health issues?”
“No. And no. Just, my mom and mybrothersare...” Shit shows. Complete, utter shit shows. Like me. “Ican’tleave.”
He nods. Like he doesn’t fully understand, like he understands too much. “You realize that your skill set would be of interest tomore 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’mnotgoing to work for you.”
