expected.”
“Excellent. I’ll be here for phase two to oversee the work in the lab.”
“Right. Good. Of course.” I sounded so flustered. I needed to pull myself together.
“Corban, if you have some time in the morning, I’d like to meet to go over your grant proposal.”
“Great, yeah. Morning is fine.”
Grant proposal? Why was Corban writing a grant proposal?
Elliott’s eyes flicked between the two of us. “Okay. Well, I have a class, so I’ll chat with you both later.”
Corban said goodbye and I mumbled something similar. But my eyes were on Corban, a dose of suspicion suddenly added to my emotional cocktail.
“You’re working on a grant proposal?”
He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Yeah. Elliott’s working with me on getting funding for my research.”
That made sense. As I’d pointed out—on numerous occasions—Corban’s so-called theory hadn’t been properly tested. The fact that he was seeking funding shouldn’t have been surprising.
But a spark flared in my belly. I was in the process of securing funding as well. “Which grant are you applying for?”
“The Glasner Foundation Grant.”
I clenched my teeth, my body going stiff, and before I could give any thought to how I should respond, I was already speaking. “You can’t apply for that grant.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m applying for it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why does that mean I can’t apply?”
Logically, I knew it meant no such thing. There was nothing wrong with two people from the same institution submitting proposals. It happened all the time.
But that ball of emotion I was holding so tightly exploded, and logic didn’t stand a chance.
“Because we can’t compete for grant money.” And then I said one of the most childish things I’d ever uttered. “And I started my application first.”
“You started yours first so I can’t submit mine?” He crossed his arms. “I don’t think so.”
I knew I was being irrational. I knew it and I couldn’t stop. He made me absolutely crazy. I mimicked his posture, crossing my arms. “Then prepare for defeat, because I’m getting that grant.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“My proposal is going to kick your proposal’s ass.”
“I beg to differ.”
I wanted to keep going. Tell him his so-called theory was baseless and he’d never get funding for it. But even though I was irrationally lashing out at him, I couldn’t bring myself to lie. Despite my criticisms of his work, I was intrigued by what he’d done. Interested to see if his theory would hold up under proper testing conditions.
But I wasn’t about to admit that to him. Not now.
“You know what? I don’t need your approval.” The heat in his eyes was no longer lustful, and I was hit with an unexpected surge of disappointment. “I don’t care what you think about my theory or my research or how I got my data. I know that I’m onto something. And I’m going to get this grant.”
Pride—stupid, stupid pride—had hold of me and I was too flustered to step away from it and deescalate this rapidly deteriorating conversation. “You’re right, you don’t need my approval. I’ll be sure to make you a batch of cookies to ease the sting of loss when I get the grant and you don’t.”
He let out a frustrated growl. “I have to go. I have work to do.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
His eyes swept over me, his brow furrowing. Then he turned and stormed off.
18
Corban
“We all have relationship issues that we’re going to need to work on. All of us. It’s just part of human nature. The only question is going to be with whom.” ~ Esther Perel
So much for our truce.
Hazel and I were right back where we’d started. Rivals. Enemies. She’d only spoken to me in short sentences. No more smiles. No more soft eyes behind her glasses. She was stick straight and all business.
Basically out to destroy me.
And now I was on an airplane to Florida, staring at the back of her head.
At least we weren’t seated next to each other. It was bad enough we were the only two people from our department going to this conference. If she’d have been stuffed into the seat beside me, I probably would have gone crazy.
Truthfully, I was responsible for a solid fifty percent of the tension between us. Maybe sixty. I’d purposefully egged her on. Turned the nameplate outside her office backward every time I walked by. Hid her lunch in the back of the fridge. Sent her terse memos. Threw the memos she sent me in the garbage without replying, crumbling them up while she watched.
But the worst thing I’d done—the