Though I barely scrape by on a question about relativity physics, the science questions are a no-brainer for both of us, and the challenge is really about blurting out the correct fact before the other does. My specialty is world geography (all that moving has to be good for something) and sports (I religiously watch the Olympics whenever they’re on). Lewis, annoyingly, aces all the boring questions: names of obscure presidents throughout history and details about the US tax system. When he correctly names all fourteen golf clubs in a set, I can’t help myself any longer.
“Wow, you trulyarea treasure trove of useless information.” I pretend to yawn as I dramatically fall back into the pillow.
“You,” he says, glaring at me out of the corner of his eyes, “are just jealous I got one of your sports questions right.”
“You,” I counter, mimicking his clipped tone, “are losing all popularity points that you’ve just gained.Golf—really?!”
Lewis laughs, and nudges my shin with his bare foot, setting off a prickle up my leg. “Shush. Look at what a great team we’d make. I think we know where to go if we ever need funding for a lab.”
I swallow thickly. For me,everis more like right now. The familiar anxiety bubbles back into my chest, prickling and sickening like a fizzy drink that has been shaken too much. It’s always there, simmering somewhere below the surface, but it spikes when I remember that soon I’ll be out of a job.
Lewis must remember what I told him on the flight, because he amends, “I’m sorry about that. I’m guessing you haven’t heard about the grant yet?”
“Nope.” I take a breath to dislodge the ball of nerves in my throat. “It’s driving me crazy. Everyone always complains about how they dislike writing the grants. Like, yeah, putting in all this work for something that most likely won’t get funded sucks. But I find the waiting worse. When you’re writing, at least you’re doing something.”
Lewis sighs. “I know.”
“How do you deal with it?”
He shrugs. “To be honest, I don’t think about it much. Once a grant’s submitted, the work’s done for me. I don’t like the writing, so I’m usually happy to get back to whatever data I was analyzing before.”
“Lucky you.”
“I could introduce you to some people, if that helps,” Lewis suggests.
I shake my head. Getting propelled forward in my career by the man at my side, fake or not, makes me feel cheap and incapable. It’s the trigger that blazed off my relationship with Jacob.
“No, thanks,” I brush him off. “I don’t need your help.”
He bites his lip and then, as though he’s sensed his offer might’ve come across wrong, clarifies, “I know you don’t. But if you think it would be useful, just say the word.”
“Thank you.” Now I actually mean it. “But I need to figure this out on my own.”
We lapse into silence as an upbeat jingle of a commercial chimes from the TV.
“Hey, do you want to know how I know all these boring facts?” Lewis asks after a beat, his secretive tone luring mecloser. “In a previous life,” he murmurs, “I studied economics and was a member of a kids’ golf club.”
“Yeah, right,” I drawl, “and then you decided to turn your back on multinational corporations and become an honest man, so you went into academia.”
Rolling my eyes, I lob a cashew at him. Lewis tries to catch it with his mouth, but it bounces off of his chin and falls into the collar of his shirt, where it nestles up against the smooth skin of his neck.
He peers at his chest. “Here,” I say and point at my own throat, but he only stares at me quizzically. I lean into him, fishing the nut out of its hiding place. My nails brush against his throat, and as his exhalation prickles over my jaw, heat flickers low in my belly.
I only realize how close I’ve gotten to him when I feel the warmth of his body radiating against my skin.
“I—uh.”
I should lean back.
Do I want to lean back?
My brain abolishes the motor plan when I catch his eyes. His pupils are blown large, his lips parted ever so slightly. He doesn’t look like he wants me to lean back, either.
“Found it,” I say lamely and hold up the cashew. My voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to me.
Before I can force myself to pull back, Lewis curls his hand around my wrist and draws forward. Eyes pinning me, he lowers his mouth, slowly and carefully, until he closes his lips around the cashew.
A tendril of want licks up the base of my spine. It’s the heat of his mouth and the scrape of his teeth against the pads of my fingers; the pine scent of his skin and the smolder in his eyes. It’s the press of his thumb at the inside of my wrist, sensingeach and every thudding pulse, even when he sits back and leaves my fingers feeling cold.
