Love According to Science_ A Hot Enemies-t-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Dirty Martini Running Club #2) - Claire Kingsley Page 0,1

in some rather rigorous back-and-forth debates online. But I’d never seen him in person.

“You should come. He has a unique way of captivating an audience.”

I had to admit, I was tempted. But I didn’t want to legitimize his talk by attending.

Plus, Corban Nash made me irrationally angry. Under normal circumstances, I was a calm and reasonable person. But he made my blood run hot, even when our only connection was via the internet. What would I do if I was in the same room with him?

It was probably best if I didn’t find out.

“I’m afraid I’m quite busy. Still settling in.”

He nodded. “Of course. I should let you get to it.”

I glanced around, realizing the hallway had emptied. “Yes, well, have a nice day.”

“You too,” he said with a smile.

I gave the bulletin board one last scathing look before going into my office. The space they’d given me was small, but more than adequate. I had a wall of shelves for my extensive selection of books, a tidy desk, and a window that overlooked a pleasant courtyard.

Things were good here at Woodward College. I had a great deal of autonomy, access to resources, and opportunities to research topics and questions that interested me. Professionally, my life had never been better.

Personally? I lived alone with my cat, Erwin. I wasn’t close to my parents, but I had a tight-knit group of girlfriends who were like family. I was focused on my career and had determined that engaging in romantic relationships with men was an unnecessary distraction.

I’d also apparently lost my ability to orgasm, but that was neither here nor there.

It did, however, make things uncomfortable when my body decided to remind me of the rising level of unrelieved tension building in my lady parts. Which it did just as I took my seat at my desk.

I crossed my legs, attempting to ignore the sensation of pressure. There was nothing I could do about it. I’d tried almost everything—except for a few rather extreme techniques I’d read about online. Or having actual sex with a human. But considering I lacked anyone to have sex with, and I was interested in neither anonymous sex with a stranger nor dating, my options were limited.

And the disappearance of my orgasms had nothing to do with my job, or with Corban Nash. So I firmly put it out of my mind.

Attend his talk? I couldn’t imagine a good reason to do so. I didn’t want to lend credence to his position in the scientific community. My absence would be my silent protest.

The fullness of the auditorium grated on my nerves. Most of the seats were taken. Morbid curiosity had won out over my resolve to stay away. I slipped in with just moments before Corban’s talk was set to commence and took an open seat in the back.

I adjusted my glasses, then crossed my arms as I scanned the front of the room. A grad student and someone from campus IT tested the projector, and Elliott stood to the side speaking with another professor. But no sign of my nemesis.

The fact that I was internally referring to him as my nemesis was probably not a good sign. The logical part of my brain knew this.

But I’d never been very good at applying my hard-earned cache of knowledge and logic to my own circumstances.

So I remained in my seat, arms and legs crossed. The very picture of defensiveness. I’d listen to what he had to say in order to better frame a rebuttal.

Elliott stepped up to the microphone and a hush settled over the room.

“Thank you for joining us today. It’s my pleasure to introduce Corban Nash, here to discuss his popular accelerated intimacy theory. Please join me in giving him a warm welcome.”

I was mentally framing the opening paragraph of my counterargument when a man in the front row stood and replaced Elliott behind the microphone.

He had careless brown hair that stuck out at odd angles and wore black Converse with his slacks. His short-sleeved button-down shirt was partially untucked, as if he’d gotten partway through dressing himself and forgotten what he was doing.

He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “Good afternoon.”

I stared at him, pressing my lips together, willing myself to ignore the wide set of his shoulders. His trim waist. The way the muscles in his arms filled out his shirtsleeves. Were those veins in his forearms? He wasn’t bulky, but he was certainly toned and fit. Not exactly typical for someone with