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

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Hazel

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances. If there is any reaction, both are transformed.” ~ C.G. Jung

There were three things I knew with absolute certainty: The scientific method was humanity’s greatest invention, a vodka martini was best served dirty, and Corban Nash was an impostor posing as a scientist.

Which was why, at the end of my second week at my new job at Woodward College, I was staring at the bulletin board outside my office in the psychology building. The notice pinned there had to be a mistake. There was no other logical explanation.

I put my hands on my hips, tilted my head, and narrowed my eyes, as if squinting would somehow change the announcement’s content. The hallway behind me bustled with activity, mostly graduate students and lab assistants making their way to their classrooms, offices, or the interview rooms in the lab. And there I stood in a crisp white blouse and herringbone skirt, tapping the toe of my practical black pump, like an irritated librarian on the verge of hushing a noisy study group.

But a librarian I was not, and this wasn’t a library. And no amount of hushing would change what it said.

“Good morning.”

I startled, blinking at the interruption to my thoughts. Dr. Sheffield, head of psychology research here at Woodward—and my new boss—stood next to me with an it’s in the syllabus coffee mug in his hand and the hint of a smile crinkling the lines around his eyes.

“Good morning, Dr. Sheffield.”

“Please, Hazel, call me Elliott. Being on a first-name basis with my staff creates a friendlier environment.”

A respected researcher in the field of social psychology, Dr. Elliott Sheffield looked every bit the academic. He wore a gray sweater vest over his button-down shirt, a pair of slacks, and brown shoes that didn’t match the rest of his attire. Wire-rimmed glasses and a sprinkling of silver in his brown hair and beard gave him a scholarly, distinguished air. The dullness of his gold wedding band suggested he’d worn it for many years.

He’d recently recruited me away from my former position at the University of Washington. Leaving the large university hadn’t been in my long-term life plan. But Woodward College had a strong psychology research program with a focus on my areas of interest—nonverbal communication and human relationships.

It suited me so far. Or it had suited me. Looking at the notice on the bulletin board made me wonder if I’d made a grave error in judgment.

Corban Nash was giving a talk—here, at my college—today. It was absurd. Unconscionable, even. I couldn’t fathom why an institution such as this, with a stellar reputation to uphold, would let that man on campus, let alone provide him with a forum to promote his unsubstantiated and outlandish claims.

Elliott took a sip of his coffee, then nodded toward the bulletin board. “Are you familiar with Corban Nash’s work?”

My eyes flicked to the notice. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Not a fan?”

I tapped a finger against my skirt. Not only was I not a fan, I’d been embroiled in an online debate with the charlatan for months. I didn’t doubt his intelligence. He’d invented the algorithm that powered the world’s most popular dating application. But he had no business calling himself a scientist.

“His background is unorthodox, but primarily I question the accuracy of his work.”

“Do you? Why?”

Where did I begin? “He claims to have cracked the code to falling in love. But he has yet to provide any real, scientific evidence that his questionnaire works.”

“You’re right; his research is anecdotal at this point. But I find his data fascinating. And he approaches the subject of intimacy formation from a fresh angle.”

My cheeks warmed as a surge of irritation rushed through me. Corban Nash’s research wasn’t fascinating. It was unsubstantiated pop science. He had the audacity to claim that two people who answered his questionnaire together would inevitably fall in love. It was unscientific, not to mention ridiculous.

But getting into a debate with my still-new boss at nine o’clock in the morning over a guest speaker was probably ill-advised. I schooled my expression to stillness and let my hands drop to my sides so I no longer appeared confrontational.

“I suppose one of the hallmarks of any free society is the open exchange of ideas.”

“Exactly,” Elliott said, gesturing toward me with his half-full coffee mug. “Have you ever heard him speak?”

“No.” I’d read every single one of his articles, despite their tendency to increase my stress level. And he and I had engaged