Loathe to Love You (The STEMinist Novellas #1-3)(73)

He gives me a half-puzzled look. “Do what?”

I press my lips together. Okay. Maybe I overestimated my flirting skills. Have I, though? I don’t think so. “Really?” I ask, amused. “Am I that bad at it?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” Ian’s expression is all arrested confusion, like I just suddenly started talking in an Australian accent. “Bad at what?”

“At hitting on you, Ian.”

I can pinpoint the precise, exact moment the meaning of my words sinks into the language part of his brain. He blinks a few times. Then his big body goes still in a tight, impossible, vibrating way, like his internal software is buffering through an unpredictable set of updates.

He looks absolutely, almost charmingly mystified, and something occurs to me: I’ve struck up flirtatious conversations with dozens of guys and girls at parties, bars, laundromats, gyms, bookstores, seminars, muddy obstacle courses, greenhouses—even, on one memorable occasion, in the waiting room of a Planned Parenthood—and . . . no one has ever been this clueless. No one. So maybe he was just pretending not to get it. Maybe he was hoping I’d back off.

Shit.

“I’m sorry.” I straighten and roll my chair back, giving him a few inches of space. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“No. No, I—” He’s finally rebooting. Shaking his head. “No, you aren’t, I’m just—”

“A bit freaked out?” I smile reassuringly, trying to signal that it’s okay. I can take a no. I’m a big girl. “It’s fine. Let’s forget I said anything. But do email me your application package once you’re back home, please. I promise I won’t reply with unsolicited nudes.”

“No, it’s not that . . .” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. His cheekbones look rosier than before. His lips move, trying to form words for a few seconds, until he settles on: “It’s just . . . unexpected.”

Oh. I tilt my head. “Why?” I thought I’d been laying it on pretty thick.

“Because.” His large hand gestures in my direction. He swallows, and I watch his throat work. “Just . . . look at you.”

I actually do it. I look down at myself, taking in my crossed legs, my khaki shorts, my plain black tee. My body is in its usual condition: Tall. Wiry. A bit scrawny. Olive-skinned. I even shaved this morning. Maybe. I can’t remember. Point is, I look okay.

So I say it—“I look okay”—which should sound confident but comes out a bit petulant. It’s not that I think I’m hot shit, but I refuse to be insecure about my appearance. I like myself. Historically, the people I’ve wanted to sleep with have liked me, too. My body does its job as a means to an end. It manages to let me kayak around California lakes without muscle aches the following day, and it digests lactose like it’s an Olympic discipline. That’s all that matters.

But his reply is: “You don’t look okay,” and . . . no.

“Really.” My tone is icy. Is Ian Floyd trying to imply that he’s out of my reach? Because if so, I will slap him. “How do I look, then?”

“Just . . .” He swallows again. “I . . . Women like you don’t usually . . .”

“Women like me.” Wow. Sounds like I’ll actually have to slap him. “What’s that? Because—”

“Beautiful. You are very, very beautiful. Probably the most . . . And you’re obviously smart and funny, so . . .” He gives me a helpless look, suddenly looking less like a genius NASA team leader built like a cedar tree and more . . . boyish. Young. “Is this some kind of joke?”

I study him through squinting eyes, revising my earlier assessment. Perhaps my conclusions were premature, and it’s not quite correct that no one can be this clueless. Perhaps someone can.

Ian, for instance. Ian, who could probably make good money as a stock-photo model, tags: Hot Guy, Ginger, Massive. I saw about four people check him out on our way here, but he apparently has no idea that he could be fancast to play the hot Weasley brother. Absolutely zero awareness of how glorious he is.

I grin, suddenly charmed. “Can I ask you a question?” I roll myself closer, and I’m not sure when that happened, but he angled his chair so that my knees end up slotted between his. Nice. “It’s a bit forward.”

He looks down at our touching legs and nods. As usual, only once.

“Can I kiss you? Like, right now?”

“I . . .” He stares. Then blinks. Then mouths something that’s not a word.

My grin widens. “That’s not no, is it?”

“No.” He shakes his head. His eyes are fixed on my lips, the black of his pupils swallowing the blue. “It’s not.”

“Okay, then.”

It’s pretty simple, standing from my chair and leaning forward on his. My palms find the armrests and press against them, and for a long moment I stay right there, caging this bear-size man who could flick me away with his little finger but doesn’t. Instead he looks up at me like I’m wondrous and beautiful and awe-inspiring, like I’m a gift, like he’s a bit dumbstruck.

Like he really wants me to kiss him. So I close that last inch and I do. And it’s . . .

Kind of awkward, to be honest. Not bad. Just a little hesitant. His lips part in a gasp when they touch mine, and for a split second, a terrifying thought occurs to me.