What could he say? He was down for having some fun. A lot of fun. Why not?
But things got interesting the next morning, because the mood was sheepish, and Max had the distinct impression Alanna was sorry she’d let her hair down. And while he’d very much enjoyed the activity, he was hungover and not thinking clearly.
“This was great,” she’d said as she turned her back to him and put on her bra. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea if we . . . you know. I mean, we’re in the same department.”
“Umm . . .” Max had to pause to have an internal debate of what to say, because as usual, his ability to think fast on his feet where a woman was concerned was severely compromised. He didn’t know if he should agree immediately, or if that would make him look like a dick who was trying to get rid of her. There it was, the big shameful secret about Dr. Sheffington, brain scientist: he didn’t entirely understand women. He was no ladies’ man. He was the sort of guy who meant what he said and assumed everyone around him would likewise say what they meant. In his experience, men did, for the most part, if they spoke up at all. Women did sometimes, but sometimes they did not, and somehow, he was supposed to know the difference.
“I mean, I’m up for tenure this year, and I’ve got a lot of work to do,” she added as she pulled her shirt over her head. “I shouldn’t get distracted from that.”
Did she just say she was up for tenure? Max stared at her, trying to make sense of that. She had noticed him staring and said, “What? You didn’t know?”
“Ah . . . no.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “So am I.”
Alanna gasped. “You?” she said, her voice suddenly quite high.
“Me,” he said. “I thought I was the only one in the running this year.”
“Me, too!”
They’d both been at a loss for words.
But Alanna snapped out of it first. “Well?” she said, her hands finding her hips.
“Well?” he echoed.
“I mean . . . we obviously can never do this again,” she said, gesturing between the two of them. “We’re in competition.”
“Right,” Max said. That much, he definitely understood.
“So?”
“So . . . ?”
She sighed with exasperation. “I don’t think you get it.”
“No, I get it. We can never do this again. We’re . . . we’re scientists.” The moment the words came out of his mouth, he pummeled himself mentally. What a dumb thing to say. It was amazing to him that a man who had studied psychiatry and neuroscience and could communicate complex concepts could be so bad at communicating.
“Yes, we are,” she said, swiping up her purse. “Like . . . you really didn’t know?”
“I really didn’t know, Alanna.” He didn’t add that he’d thought for several weeks now that at long last, it was his year. That he’d been working so hard for tenure, and he’d done all the necessary work to get it, only to find out that someone whose research into addiction was cutting-edge and didn’t involve dogs was in the running, too.
“Well . . . okay,” she said. “Just as long as we’re clear.”
He wasn’t clear about anything. “We’re clear. Can I drive—”
“I’ll call a Lyft.” She looked like the car couldn’t arrive quickly enough.
Needless to say, Max had been terribly flummoxed on a number of levels for a couple of days now, and asking her to dog-sit was just about the dumbest thing he could consider. But he also knew that she was single and lived close by (they’d had a brief discussion about where to go when they left the bar that night) and liked dogs (she’d said it when she’d seen Dog in the corner). Maybe, he thought, he could use this as a way to say he was sorry for . . . well, he wasn’t sure what for, but he’d say it all the same. Maybe they could establish a friendship.
A friendship. Oh, man, he was more desperate than he’d thought.
He stared at her number that she’d typed into his phone at the bar and tried to guess just how desperate he was. But then he thought about Jamie’s stack of clothes waiting to go into a suitcase, and his dog books all lined up, ready to be consulted, and he suddenly didn’t care if he was being a dick or not. He