Easy Love: A Modern Romance

by Piper Lawson

  “Anniversary presents?” he scoffs. “Not my business.”

  “Right. ‘I forgot my anniversary’ presents.”

  “Correct. To what do I owe the pleasure of your multiple voicemails?”

  “Was this your idea of a joke? Because you have two perfectly good brothers to prank. You said you were sending me on a date with a friend you went to Baden with.”

  “I said neither of those things. You heard what you wanted to.” My gaze scans the floor of people working at our small firm. “I understand our Wesley had a wonderful time.”

  That leaves me speechless for a moment. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. Even when I tried to beat it out of him. For what it’s worth, Wesley didn’t go to Baden, but his father was the librarian for twenty years. Right up until he died of cancer last month.”

  My stomach clenches. That’s why Wes was so reserved. He’s grieving.

  And I jumped him.

  Damn it, this keeps getting worse.

  I trace a finger along the edge of the phone booth window as Jake continues. “I thought you could help him. The work you did at Wicked was impressive.”

  “Listen, Jake. He’s obviously smart. And not the typical walking cheese our school produces. But I’m not…” I trail off as someone taps on the window behind me, and I whirl. Blue-gray eyes meet mine through the glass.

  “He’s there, isn’t he?”

  I barely hear Jake’s smug voice.

  The glass is smudgy, I realize. But it only serves to remind me how handsome Wes Robinson is.

  Good restaurants have low lighting for a reason—to make your companions look better. Like the red-light district.

  Here in the bright daylight, he looks like an angel. The tall, mildly uncomfortable kind, with good posture, a too-tight tie, distracting shoulders, and a button-down shirt two shades darker than his eyes tucked into charcoal pants. The expression on his face says he wants to be here as much as I do.

  I go to click off with Jake, but he’s already hung up. I push the door open, and Wes steps back to let me swing it wide. “How much of that did you hear?”

  “Something about cheese. For someone who orders vegan food, you spend a lot of time talking about animal products.”

  At least I remembered the deadpan accurately. The man’s drier than a gin martini.

  “What are you doing here?” Staring into his handsome face is a brutal reminder of my blindness last night.

  “I still want your help.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” I brush past him toward my desk, but I feel him trailing after me.

  “I need marketers. I thought this was a marketing firm. Do I have to go in another door?”

  His stubbornness rubs at me, but he’s not wrong. Despite the fact that it’s almost the end of the day, the office is half-full. I’m sure more than one of my colleagues would be happy to talk to him.

  I turn to look across the partition behind the product list on my screen, feeling Kendall’s gaze on us.

  “Kendall, this is Wes Robinson. He has deluded ideas about making people fall in love.”

  “I’m a researcher,” he corrects, shoving both hands in his pockets. “I have factual, evidence-based ideas about how people fall in love. Which I can show you if you’ll give me one hour.”

  My breath sticks in my chest as we stare each other down. I want to reach over and loosen that tie again.

  At first, all I could think about when I looked at him was last night, and my humiliation at jumping him. But he’s different today. His gaze is sharp. Today, he doesn’t sound like a man in mourning.

  He sounds like a man with a mission. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my attempts to turn him away only made him more insistent.

  “Rena, you could still come to goat yoga instead?” Kendall asks, all innocence.

  “Goat yoga.” Wes rubs a hand over his neck as if one of the creatures’ beards is scratching him right now.

  Kendall nods. “They walk all over your back with their little hooves.”

  “And you pay for that?”

  His incredulous response comes so fast I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Rain check on the goats, Kendall.”

  Wes and I are out the door by the time I realize this was probably her plan all along.

  4

  Wes

  I start down the sidewalk in front of Rena’s building only to pull up three paces away. My hand lifts to block the sun from my eyes as I scan the two signs at street level. “Whoa.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t get a look at your neighbors before. Your office is over…”

  “A medical marijuana dispensary and a rare bookstore,” she supplies as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  Only in this city.

  I go to hail a cab because my Midtown lab is too far to walk from Chelsea’s converted factories turned art galleries. Especially judging by her choice of footwear—shoes the color of coffee with cream that are so subtle you almost miss the fact that the heels are as long as pencils.

  “What’s the address?” Rena asks. I give her the cross streets, and she grabs my arm just as a yellow car pulls up to the curb. “Cab will take too long in rush hour. Let’s take the Q train.”

  She trots past me toward the subway entrance, her tailored black pants turning at least three heads. But it’s her bobbing ponytail that captures my attention, like a buoy bouncing in the harbor.

  This part of New York is full of artists and designers wearing every kind of clothing imaginable. With her hair pulled back, you can barely see the dark bits, and she’s dressed conservatively.

  I can’t take my eyes off her.

  She’s the kind of girl I never would’ve talked to in school. The kind who would’ve had her pick of boyfriends while I was studying in the library. Not by virtue of the fact that she was attractive, but because she knows with equal certainty who she is and that you’d be a fool for missing out on experiencing it firsthand.

  I follow her down the steps, my eyes adjusting to the feeble light.

  “I hope you got your car situation resolved,” I tell her as we wait for the train.

  Her answering groan is directed at the empty tunnel, not me. “My brother took it without permission. He has a learner’s permit, and he’s not allowed to drive, not that that stops him. He thinks he’s invincible.”

  “Why?”

  “Huh?” She blinks up at me because even with her heels, the top of her head barely reaches my eye level.

  I adjust the strap on my leather bag. “Why did he steal it? There must be a reason.”

  Down here, her eyes are more gray than green. Not that the underground has the most reputable lighting. Or that it matters what color her eyes are.

  “I thought you were asking to be polite. It’s something people do.”

  “I’m not polite.”

  Triumph floods her expression, as if I’m some medieval opponent she knocked to the ground and is about to deliver the crushing blow.

  “You’re an INTJ.” It’s my turn to be confused. “Myers–Briggs,” she goes on. “We had to take it in school. I’d put money on you as INTJ. That’s the kind of person who wants to understand everything.”

  “Not everything,” I argue, “just problems worth solving.”

  “Like my brother?” Rena asks as we crowd onto the already-busy train.

  “It seemed to be bothering you. So if it’s keeping you from helping me, then by all means fix it. I’ll wait.”

  She grabs the handrail, bringing us only a few inches apart so her vanilla scent edges into my brain. “It’s not, Dr. Strange.”

  Her hands find my tie, tugging it loose like she did last night.

  I can’t decide which affects me more—the nickname, or the familiarity. Both work their way in, like an airborne pathogen infiltrating my immune system before I can think to even cover my mouth.

  “If we’re choosing al
ter egos, I always wanted to be Marty McFly.” She shoots me a quizzical look. “Back to the Future was made in eighty-five,” I explain. “Before your time.”

  “The eighties are before no one’s time. I’ve seen every John Hughes movie ever made.”

  The train lurches, and my fingers flex on the post. I ignore the fact that she’s piqued my interest twice in two days when nothing else has for a month.

  “Ferris Bueller or Pretty in Pink?” It’s a test, but I play it cool.

  Rena lifts a shoulder, pulling my attention to the curve of her bare skin. “Pretty in Pink is about class and its effects on American teenagers. Bueller pits a larger-than-life narcissist and his insecure, pissed-off best friend against their parents and Chicago. How could you choose?”

  The tiny, juvenile part of me that watched from a recliner as I did my doctorate wakes up from a four-year nap. I drop the pole, straightening to my full height.

  I knew she was attractive and confident. That she’s seen my favorite movies is invigorating and disturbing at once. It’s taking things that independently pique your interest—like shag carpet, aliens, Winona Ryder—and putting them together in a way that shouldn’t work but does.

  “I didn’t realize the way to impress you was through movie trivia,” she says as the train slows, the curve of her lips smug.

  I hold her gaze. “I didn’t realize you were trying to impress me.”

  The smugness is gone in an instant. With a flash of her eyes, she’s off the train, starting up the steps without waiting for me.

  Reaching for the knot of my tie, I slide it back into place. Despite the blood pumping through my veins, I’m not here to rehash my high-school days of staring at pretty girls. Or to argue over the ending of the Breakfast Club. This is business, and today we’re both on the same page.

  Because you’d be totally unaffected if she kissed you again.

  Brain, I did not authorize this futile use of your faculties.

  By the time we get above ground, the sun is beaming down. I lead the way the few blocks to my ten-story building.

  Right outside, Rena pulls up. “Wait a second. This is Jake’s building.”

  “Jake’s on ten. There’s a commercial lab on three.”

  In some ways, Jake Prince has been the most fortuitous encounter since I returned to New York. Not only did he drag me to the gym at the club, he helped me find commercial lab space when I needed somewhere to continue my research program while I was out of an academic job.

  Now, I have access to a fixed number of technician hours to support my research, plus an office for ten hours a week.

  On my floor, I swipe my ID by the first door and make my way down the hall. On either side are labs, most of which have big windows to watch from. A row of offices sits at the back. I stop by one window, peering in at the people in lab coats and glasses manning their stations. It’s nearly five in the afternoon, but they work in shifts. I know there will be technical staff here until late into the evening—not only because I know the schedules, but because that’s typically when I’m here.

  Rena presses her hands against the glass. “It looks so… clinical. What are they doing?”

  She has no idea what a dangerous question that is. I could talk all day about research, scientific methods, genetics and epigenetics.

  I fucking love science. Have since I was a kid.

  My relationship with biology spans space and time in a way that’s literally epic, like that Outlander show my mom’s been binge-watching.

  As an only child of parents who worked a lot to support us, I got used to entertaining myself.

  The day I went searching the library for my fifth-grade book report on Columbus and ended up neck-deep in kids’ science magazines learning how to extract DNA from a strawberry, I was hooked.

  From then on, our small kitchen in Rutherford was transformed each weekend into a lab. My mom often was on call at the vet clinic, and my dad spent the hours he wasn’t in his precious library at school in his office, so neither of them minded.

  Not that they would have objected.

  When I got my first microscope for my twelfth birthday, I was convinced life could not get better.

  Until I looked at samples of the gutter water from outside our house under the lens.

  Because holy shit. Life was everywhere, with colors and patterns and movement my twelve-year-old eyes could never have imagined.

  The older I got, the more I came to appreciate the true beauty of science—that it has the power to explain everything in our world, to make the unknowable known.

  Rena’s still waiting for me to talk. I debate where to start. “How all this began was I was doing research on environmental versus genetic factors for cancer. My sample included a large number of married couples. I found out—rather incidentally—that genes in the married couples tended to be more dissimilar in couples that were married a long time.”

  “What does that have to do with cancer?” she asks.

  “Nothing. But sometimes in research, you find things you weren’t looking for.”

  Creating a DNA dating algorithm was never on my to-do list. Never something I dreamed of or even pictured myself doing. I want to understand the beast that is cancer—what causes it, perpetuates it, enables it. I want to crack it.

  This dating app? This is a cheap commercial distraction.

  Unfortunately, I can’t afford to ignore it at the moment given the bills that need to be paid.

  The finger Rena traces along the glass, following the motion of one of the machines, ends in a black fingernail that should look goth but it doesn’t. With the pale hair, she’s like a dark pixie dipped in dry ice.

  “What’re the genes?” she asks me.

  “That’s proprietary. Basically, it relates to pheromones.”

  “Smell.”

  I wince because if I had a dollar for every person who conflated the two, I wouldn’t be prostrating myself to pay my bills. “They’re not the same thing.”

  “Really?” She turns back to me, and speaking of smell, there’s hers again. It’s subtle, like a warm breeze in the spring, and not so strong you’d notice it from more than a few inches away.

  What’s not subtle is those eyes, big and intent on mine. The curve of her cheek. The red lips I swear I’m not looking at.

  “I decide if I want to fuck you based on your smell.” Rena leans in closer, her face near the collar of my shirt.

  You wanted to last night.

  I’m not sure where that thought came from, but I’m remembering the way she looked at me in that restaurant, and it’s making my abs tighten as if I’m doing reverse crunches.

  “Do you?”

  It’s her turn to look surprised, and the fact that I’ve caught this woman off guard brings me fleeting satisfaction.

  Until she smiles. “What does it matter? You just told me that’s not what you believe in.”

  She’s got me there.

  Somehow I’m keeping score. But her digs aren’t frustrating, like a colleague who needles you just to be a pain in the ass. It’s more like a challenge, a puzzle you want to solve for the simple satisfaction of knowing you can.

  “Listen. This research is marketable. I just don’t know how to market it,” I state.

  “You want to build a brand.”

  Frustration works through me. “I don’t care about a brand. I want to sell it.”

  Her finger taps against her lip, and it takes more energy than it should to ignore both. “So, you match people through their DNA. Like a dating site. But you don’t want to do that yourself.”

  “Run a dating site? Hell no.” The idea gives me hives.

  “Too bad. That’s where the money is. Everyone wants to be happy. Or their idea of it. They think when they have the right address, or the right partner, or the right nipple protection, they’ll be happy.”

  “You don’t believe that.” For some reason, I’m interested in her opinion as much as her market analysis.


  “I’m saying we can sell people what they want.” Her gaze flicks past me to the lab again. “Why’s everyone in gloves and coats?”

  “Cross-contamination is the bane of any lab. The samples need to be clean and processed accurately.”

  “Or else?”

  I use words she’ll immediately understand. “The science is wrong.”

  She goes back to studying it. “It looks so repetitive.”

  “It’s fascinating. Every time you look under the microscope, you can see something that surprises you. I worked in a lab for three summers during my undergrad and master’s,” I explain at her curious look. “Started at the bottom, worked my way all the way up to… the middle.”

  Rena’s smile is wide and startling. “You wore the coat? When’d you trade it in for the tie?”

  “When I grew up.”

  I think she’s going to ask something more, but we’re interrupted when a short young woman with chin-length dark hair and lively eyes emerges from the lab and flashes me a grin. “Hi, Dr. Robinson.”

  “Carly,” I reply. “How’s it going?”

  “Good. It took some overtime, but we’re making up the time on those samples.” She hovers, looking between Rena and me.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Sure.”

  She disappears down the hall, and I hear a throat clearing next to me.

  “That girl does not order the vegan special,” Rena observes. “She’s salivating for a big Dr. Strange steak. Did you match with her?”

  “I haven’t submitted a sample.” Rena scoffs, and I narrow my eyes at her. “My priority is selling this app. Not some personal mission.”

  “Good marketing is personal.”

  “Then you submit a sample,” I hear myself say.

  “My longest-term relationship is with my electric toothbrush.”

  This girl’s certifiable. “Come on.” I tug her across the hall to an empty lab and swipe my card. “I’m going to blow your mind with science.”

  “Will it hurt?”