His right eyebrow flicks up.
Is heteasingme?
His mouth twitches, like he can barely hold back a laugh. As the measured, professional woman that I am, I clamp down the urge to wipe the grin off his face, and school my features. “I want him and Vivienne and everybody else, really, to not think less of me for lying and putting my career and any prospects for my future at risk.”
“Right, I see,” he says hesitantly, and lets me wait for what feels like an eternity. Then, finally: “So you want us to fake date?”
“Youknow what fake dating is?”
“I do.”
“You do?”
He shrugs. “I have an older sister who was a teenager right around the peak of the early 2000s rom-coms.”
I didn’t expect him to be so relaxed about this, as if it’s normal to be asked into a fake relationship by your colleague. Could this turn out to be easier than I thought it would?
“Good, so I don’t have to explain.”
“Not the concept, no.” He shakes his head, a muscle in his jaw ticking and eyes sparkling with what I now understand is silent laughter. Laughter at me because he thinks I’m joking. How could I not be, with this ridiculous proposition?
“I’m serious.” I drag my fingers through my hair, tugging on my scalp to ease the slosh of anxiety in my veins. If this doesn’t work out, I’m out of ideas. I’ll have to consider a careerchange for real. Apply to some company, hoping academic gossip doesn’t travel into their world and bide my time as a data analyst while dreaming of the days when I tried to uncover the mysteries of human memory.
Lewis scans my face from narrowed eyes. “What even makes you think we could pull this off? All we do is argue.”
“It didn’t used to be this way,” I remind him, expecting him to brush it, and me, off like he did all those years ago when he published that paper. The one that made his career, and could’ve made mine, if not for his actions—or lack thereof.
But to my surprise, he winces, “I know.” His voice sounds tight. Together with the lowered eyebrows, I’d almost say it’s apologetic, if I didn’t know him any better.
“It doesn’t really matter, though,” I go on, pushing his puzzling reaction to the back of my mind and focusing on the matter at hand. “We might not even have to stop arguing, since whatever fight Vivienne saw yesterday, she took it for chemistry.” I skip over the fact that we might’ve held on to each other’s hands just a little too long, but the thought sticks, and a flush creeps into my cheeks.
Thankfully, Lewis doesn’t point it out, either. He just shakes his head as he bites his lip. “Who on earth could mistakethis,” he points at himself, then at me, “for chemistry?”
“But that’s what makes this easy. We wouldn’t even have to do that much. We’re at a summer school where nobody expects us to be all touchy-feely with each other. We can sit next to each other in lectures, do a few cute things like pick up coffee for each other, and you’ll put on a smile when you see me.”
He snorts, as if this is the singularly difficult aspect of the plan.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes and force my voice to stay level. He needs to understand that I’m serious about this. “I know you hate me, but it can’t be that hard.”
“What?”
“To smile at me. Here, I can show you.” I lift my hands, threatening to pull up the corners of his mouth manually, but he takes a step back, catching my wrists midair and ducking his head away.
“You really have no idea,” he mutters, close enough that his breath ghosts over my cheek. A prickle slinks up my arms, all the way from the hot grip of his fingers.
I shake him off, but the feeling on my arms lingers. “We don’t negate when people imply that we’re dating. That’s it. It involves zero effort, but it would help me a great deal.”
As he pushes his hand into the pocket of his jeans, he frowns at me, the way he did on the plane when I told him to cut a part of his abstract he seemed particularly attached to. The way I’m discovering he does when he knows that I have a point but tries to come up with a counterargument, just because.
“And here I thought you think so little of me that you can’t even stand to be in the same room as me,” he observes pointedly.
“As I’m sure you’d understand, I can do almost anything when it comes to science,” I retort. “Including pretending to like you. Besides, it’s not for long. Two weeks, and then we can go back to verbally destroying each other’s papers and hating each other.”
“That’s what you think I was doing?”
“Uhm, yeah.” I swipe out my phone, about to open my inbox and pull up his scathing review. “I’m not sure how short-lived your memory is but I canshowyou—”
“Aren’t you worried, though?” he cuts me off. “About the optics of dating a colleague?”
