Easy Love: A Modern Romance

by Piper Lawson

  A smartphone would’ve been a better camera, but I’m not about to complain about exposure. I didn’t spend a decade pulling all-nighters in the library to be her paparazzi. But she doesn’t notice because she’s busy taking the guy’s money and leading him over to a café table.

  Now that I see his face, he can’t be much older than me. Under forty for sure. Looks comfortable in his tux, and even more comfortable in her company.

  Shouldn’t he be married?

  Unless he’s an aspiring academic.

  In which case he shouldn’t own a tux or be spending $250 to grin at a woman he doesn’t know at a party.

  I crane my neck to try and see if he’s wearing a ring while she proceeds to hang on every word the dope’s saying.

  How long is one of these going to take? I check my watch, realizing it’s only been forty-five seconds.

  She shoots me a pointed look, and I roll my eyes but lift the camera and click, pointedly avoiding looking through the viewfinder.

  Rena shakes her head but turns back to her date.

  I watch them go to the stops she’s laid out in a semi-circle. They’re practically crawling toward New York. I want them to hurry up, and I want them to never get there.

  They get to their last stop. I shift on my feet.

  They’re smiling at each other, and he’s nodding. He steps closer.

  I see his hand reach around her body.

  Her waist.

  Lower.

  Oh, hell no.

  I stride toward them. “Wait.”

  The guy jerks back, startled.

  “The light is terrible.” I gesture to the chandelier overhead. “The photo will turn out better if you’re side by side.”

  The guy turns it over in his mind, clearly weighing the pros and cons of getting a kiss versus having a snapshot of him with the most striking woman in the room.

  He turns to Rena, but she shrugs. “He’s the photographer.”

  Finally, the man does as I suggest, and I take their photo, barely looking to ensure they’re in the viewfinder.

  It’s without a doubt the most careless piece of work I’ve ever done.

  I hand him the photo as he walks away.

  When I turn back to Rena, she’s watching me with curiosity. “Really, Dr. Strange?”

  “You want quality work, you should’ve hired a photographer, not a geneticist.”

  “I happen to like geneticists.” The smile is back in her eyes. I don’t know what it is about her that gets under my skin. That makes me feel something when I haven’t in weeks.

  Months.

  “How many men have you kissed tonight.”

  “Five or six.”

  Jesus. “That’s not hygienic.”

  “On the cheek, unless they’re really cute.”

  I glance at her competition, who’s pulling in strongman contenders left and right.

  If she keeps at this, she’ll be kissing guys all night.

  And I’ll be stopping them.

  For some reason, this bothers me, and it’s not the inherent laziness I have toward solving problems that aren’t intellectually interesting.

  I turn back to her, finding her attention on me. “How much will you need to beat Jamie?”

  She crosses to him and exchanges a few words before returning, breathless. “At least five thousand. I’m at twenty-two fifty.”

  Her expression’s bright with competitiveness, and I quickly do the math.

  Twenty-eight hundred fifty dollars.

  “Tell me you take Amex.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise, the gold light overhead making them shine. “You’re kidding.”

  Rena’s gaze drops between us, finding the card I’m holding between two fingers. “Wes, I’m helping you because you need the money. I won’t take it from you.”

  “I have loans, but I’m not broke. Consider it an investment.”

  She’s already helped me more than that, and she won’t let me pay her. It would be my chance to do her a favor. To save her from kissing a dozen more guys.

  Once it’s done, I round the table and reach past her for the “Back in 10” sign. I flip it over, scrawl “CLOSED” on the back, and slap it on the tabletop.

  “You’re free,” I say under my breath. “And so am I.”

  This evening’s been a revelation in a lot of ways, but if anything, it’s cemented the feeling that started in me after seeing her at the club—that I’m drawn to her.

  And that’s why I’m getting out of here—because I don’t like that feeling, and I’m sure it won’t help the work we’re doing together.

  “Wes.”

  I’m ten feet from the booth when her voice stops me.

  My eyes drift close for a moment before I turn back to her. “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you want a date? You singlehandedly saved Rome, plus you paid for like ten of them.”

  Say no.

  But I’m moving back toward her.

  “Nine,” I say instead, stopping close enough she has to tilt her face up to hold my gaze. “And we had a date.”

  “The night we met?” Rena laughs, glancing past me at the room full of people. I’m distracted by her flushed cheeks. How the pink looks against her red lips. “Come on. You thought it was a really confusing business meeting with lots of tapas.”

  “I got a kiss out of it,” I point out, aware of every inch between us.

  “In private. Tonight I’ve been trying to scandalize the room.” Rena’s gaze drops to the camera in my hand. “But so far, I haven’t had much luck.”

  She shakes her head, sending a piece of hair that’s fallen out of her hairstyle bouncing around her face.

  My hand and I are going to have a conversation later because it’s not obeying.

  I tuck the strand of hair behind her ear. Those earrings blink in the light. They’re part of the same spell being woven by her low voice, her red lips, her scent, like vanilla and honey.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I bend down and press my lips to the corner of hers.

  The breath she draws in trembles as if I startled her, even though she had plenty of warning.

  She’s softer than I remember. Her skin, the curve of her lower lip. Almost vulnerable.

  The clicking noise has her jerking back.

  I lower the camera and take the photo from it, tossing it on the table. “A souvenir.”

  Her eyes shine in surprise. “If you were always this self-assured, you’d sell that program in no time.”

  But I’m only half noticing her words, because that piece of hair’s fallen again. This time, instead of tucking it back, I twist it around my finger.

  The silky feel of it goes straight down my spine, and I can’t resist tugging.

  She inhales, a strangled little sound as her hips sway into mine.

  This might be a prank to her, but my conversation with Ben was one more reminder I need her help. Everything I’m doing here, in this room and this city, relies on her grace.

  But right now, I’m thinking about the sound of her breathing and the fact that she’s pressing her hips distractingly against my thighs and I don’t even know if she’s aware of it.

  That’s when I kiss her for real.

  My lips come down on hers. The scent of her mingles with her taste in a cocktail far more satisfying than anything Jake’s bartenders could conjure.

  Her mouth is warm under mine, a sweet tattoo I’m going to remember long after I walk out of here. The feel of her goes to my head in a way that’s far more dangerous than the whisky.

  I press against her lips and she opens instantly, our tongues tangling as she grips my biceps through the tux.

  My impatient hands find her hair. I’m competing with pins and hairspray, but I don’t care.

  Emboldened by the adrenaline coursing through me, I slide a hand down her back, settling just above the curve of her ass.

  She doesn’t pull away.

  No. She presses closer.

 
Even though she can’t feel me through the fabric, I sure as hell feel her. I memorize the shape of her body, the slope, until I could draw it.

  This is a bad idea.

  The worst I’ve had in a while.

  But fuck it.

  Instead of cutting my losses, I drown myself in it, doing everything I wanted to that first night. Teasing her. Tasting her. Angling her face to mine.

  And she responds as if I set her on fire. As if every word, every taunt, every look up until now was foreplay.

  It’s beautiful and a little dirty. An outlier you weren’t looking for, that you know won’t be erased if you run the experiment again and again because it’s there for a reason. It’s trying to tell you something.

  I don’t know how long we kiss, but the music changes and I pull back, reluctant. My breath rasps in my ears.

  Rena’s flushed, her grip taking a moment to relax on my arms. I follow her gaze to the half dozen people looking our way and whispering.

  Red lips curve as she turns back to me. Her fingers are still digging into my arms through the jacket, and I don’t care if she ever lets go.

  “I messed up your hair.” I tug on one of the strands my careless fingers yanked loose.

  “I messed up your mouth.”

  She reaches behind the table for her bag and passes me a mirror. Sure enough, there’s red lipstick smudged around my mouth.

  Rena holds out a tissue, but I wave her off. My chest swells as her hands find my lapels and straighten them. “This is very Gatsby.”

  “Gatsby was an eccentric wannabe,” I counter.

  “Yeah, but boy, he made it look good.”

  I can’t fight the grin that spreads across my face. I know it’s a prank, but fuck if I don’t like this girl.

  This was not the plan.

  And it’s damned inconvenient.

  I shove my hands in my pockets. “You heading home?”

  Rena shakes her head. “Kendall said she might come by later.”

  I round the table, but before I can leave, she stops me. “Did I match with you?”

  Those four words, the little inflection at the end.

  I’m almost tricked into believing she gives a shit what the answer is.

  “I didn’t check. I’m here to sell this app and get my job back.”

  Her smile slips. “And after that? I mean, if everyone has a code, then someone out there is their opposite, and you want to find out who it is. Isn’t that the point?”

  “In theory,” I agree, my gaze lingering on her face.

  Hell, this woman gets under my skin. But more than that, she’s getting in my head.

  “There you are, Rena!” She looks past me toward the voice. The redhead from Rena’s office appears, her gaze landing on me. “Sorry it took so long. I had to help the babysitter find everything so Rory could make soufflé before I left.” She acknowledges me. “Hi again.”

  “Hi.”

  Rena’s attention comes back to me. “Thank you. For the photography. I’ll let you know how the date goes.”

  I’m glad we’re making plans to talk, but I’m reminded why we are—because this is business.

  I clear my throat. “Good. It’ll give me ideas for next time.”

  “Next time?” Her lips part, her gaze flicking to my mouth and back.

  “Next time I market it to Ben.”

  “Right.” But she’s not thinking about the app.

  That makes two of us.

  “Night, Wes.”

  I feel the way she says my name all the way to my toes.

  10

  Wes

  Rena: So, my date tomorrow. Are there rules? Like we have to smell each other before the appetizer?

  Wes: Yeah. Then you have to cut each other’s palms open and press them together. The DNA blends and writes your name on your napkin if it’s meant to be.

  Rena: Are you joking about your serious science?

  Wes: Don’t tell anyone.

  “Who can tell me about the Hardy-Weinberg principle?”

  I scan the room of twenty students, each dressed in a navy-and-green uniform. Their expressions are a mix of boredom and smirking, which I’d credit to the fact that it’s nearly Friday, except I can’t distinguish these expressions from the Monday ones.

  “Mr. Armitage,” I say to the back of a dark head second row from the back.

  “It states that in absence of intervention, allele and genotype frequencies will remain the same in the population from generation to generation, unless there are outside interventions.”

  He’s reading from his textbook.

  But, hey, at least he can read.

  I turn away. “Can someone tell me what that means?”

  “That my parents were loaded and I’ll be loaded.”

  I shift a hip onto my desk. “Not quite, Mr. Armitage.”

  I’m not good with kids.

  Maybe because I’m a geneticist. I’m more interested in what’s under the surface. Way under the surface. How we walk, talk, interact… it’s all too coarse for me. I’m an engineer at the molecular level because what’s beneath the surface is damn fascinating.

  Plus, at the risk of overstating my importance, I’m trying to cure cancer—literally. Every second I spend babysitting teenagers is time I could’ve spent working toward something legitimately important to millions of people.

  Movement catches my eye, and I look toward the back of the class.

  Two kids are signing to one another.

  “Mr. Byrne,” I interrupt.

  I’m all for sign language, both for accessibility and because it’s just cool. To my knowledge, neither of these kids have a hearing or speech impairment, which means they’re using it to avoid being overheard.

  One turns to me, but not before gesturing to his friend, who snickers.

  I look between them. Then I sign back, You’re rude.

  The grin falls from the first boy’s face.

  I tap one pointer finger on top of the other. Hurry up.

  He clears his throat. “It means if your great-grandfather looked like a dumbass, you and your siblings probably will too.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Byrne.”

  The bell rings to signal lunch and the students throw their belongings in their bags and stream out the door as if my classroom is on fire.

  Of course the smartest kid in my class is also the biggest pain in the ass.

  And he’s Rena’s brother.

  I should be deciding how I’m going to keep my promise to watch out for him, but as I weave through the halls toward the administration office for a review meeting with the principal during my free period, my mind drifts back to the party.

  That kiss.

  I replayed it in my mind dozens of times lying awake.

  A dozen more on my way to drop off the rented tux this morning.

  I swear I can smell her on it.

  None of it matters. She’s going out with a guy tomorrow night.

  I know everything about him. More than I need to, in fact. I figured out where he lives, where he works.

  I should be grateful she’s willing to play this out to the level of actually sitting across from someone for an evening—not just five minutes and a cardboard cutout of a French café—in order to help me sell this app.

  But all I can think about is what they’ll talk about.

  When I reach the office, the admin assistant motions me toward the empty conference room.

  I take a seat in the glass room and open my emails on my phone. For the past month, I’ve been waiting on one from the review committee for a new paper, hitting refresh like my kids with FOMO waiting for a status update on the lake party they missed in Tahoe.

  Now, it comes through. I open it and scan the email.

  Your paper, blah blah blah…

  I hit payload three lines down. It’s an R&R, which means I need to make some changes, then they’ll publish it in the journal.

  The publication is competitive—they take
less than one in ten submissions—but I knew my paper was fucking solid.

  This is good news.

  Until I read the list of changes.

  Shit. Whoever reviewed this had a 1500-year-old redwood up their ass, because my to-do list is going to take hours outside of my day job. But this paper will go a long way to helping get me back into UW, whenever I get my job talk scheduled.

  The public interview is the biggest hurdle to getting it back, and I’ve emailed the head of the hiring committee twice to follow up since my dad died. So far, nothing.

  The sound of the sliding door has me looking up.

  Two men stride in. The principal is fiftyish and stocky, as if he used to play football. The second man is the board chair. His graying hair and receding hairline does nothing to hide that he’s the kind of lean you probably work for at that age. His blue eyes are sharp.

  “Dr. Crawford, I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

  “I like to stay involved in the happenings around here. Especially since I was instrumental in recruiting you.”

  “How are things going?” the principal asks. “I trust you’re finding our students interested in the subject matter.”

  “Biology? Absolutely.”

  Mostly their own.

  The principal pulls out a tablet—because it’s a point of pride of this school to use technology wherever possible—and runs through a list of questions. How each of my classes is going. If I have the support I need.

  “I appreciate it’s less than a month in, but I don’t foresee any issues,” I conclude, partly because I want to wrap this up and get out of here.

  Before we can, Crawford weighs in. “Dr. Robinson, the beating heart of Baden isn’t the academics. It’s the extracurriculars.”

  “I’m sure.” I try to sound as though I care but probably fail. What these kids do on their own time isn’t on my list of things to care about. Not after selling the DNA program to pay my bills, getting my job back, getting this paper submitted…

  “Athletics, music,” the principal goes on.

  World peace, laundry, the new Kendrick Lamar album…

  I realize they’re waiting for me to respond. “Very worthwhile pursuits.”

  “You don’t seem like an athletic or musical person,” Crawford observes.