Page 35 of Not in Love

As college morphed into grad school and grad school bled into internships, meeting new people organically became harder. On top of that, lots of men my age seemed to be looking for something more. Shortly after joining Kline, I had some fairly mediocre sex with another team leader at the company, and was confused when he emailed the following day, asking me out for dinner.

I must have gotten better at hiding the way I am, I thought. I briefly let myself imagine saying yes, and the scenarios rolled through my head like a movie. Me, frantically trying to keep up the pretense of being an appealing, easygoing person and not just dozens of neuroses in a lab coat. The dismay I’d feel when my ability to fake it finally reached the end of its rope. His disappointment after my mask slipped, showing how socially inept and messed up I was. The potential for hurt was bottomless, and I didn’t even like the guy.

Sticking to the apps and avoiding repeats seemed like the better course of action.

“Is this the place?” I asked Florence when the Lyft came to a stop outside of a manor-like building.

“Yeah. We won’t stay long, just an appearance. But he has an ego and would notice if I didn’t show up.”

“There’s nowhere else I need to be. I’ll find a nice corner and wait for you.”

Florence squeezed my hand over the leather seats. “You take such good care of me.”

“You do the same.”

I’d never been to this part of Lake Austin, but I recognized the name of the club from some of the charity drives Mom would take us to as kids, to stock up on hand-me-downs and school supplies. It was the sort of fancy place frequented by people who loved prenups and air-kisses, where folks like me should set foot only on select, philanthropy-themed occasions. I spotted an easel at the entrance, and on top of a picture that could have been the stock photo for an investment banker, the words Happy Retirement, Eric in handwritten calligraphy. Florence signed the guest book, but I gave it as wide a berth as I could.

The crowded reception area was full of suits and evening gowns. A small band was preparing to play, and waiters weaved through the crowd, carrying large trays of drinks and appetizers. My stomach clenched at the idea of eating anything among these people.

“There is Eric,” Florence said, pointing at where the stock photo held court. “I’ll introduce you. He’ll say, ‘You’re too young and beautiful to be in a lab all day,’ or some shit—sorry in advance.”

He didn’t say that. But he did tell me that if he’d “known engineers came in this pretty shape,” maybe he “would have switched majors.” Because I loved Florence, and Kline, I smiled amiably down at him, and didn’t mention that I’d have reported him for sexual harassment without hesitating. In my high heels I brushed six feet and relished his obvious discomfort when he had to crane his neck to utter his crap.

While he and Florence chatted, I glanced around, trying to be discreet in my boredom. Then Sommers’s tone switched to delighted surprise. “Ah—you came! Look at you!”

I turned to find Conor Harkness, and my heart sank.

“No, sir.” His smile was all charm. “Look at you.”

He had a slight accent—Irish, according to Tisha, who’d spent a summer in Dublin for a research fellowship. My first impression of him had been of someone a few years older than Eli, but now that I studied him up close, I could tell that he was just prematurely graying. He had a magnetic presence, something I could tell even without being a victim of its pull. Men and women around us turned to glance at him, eyes lingering, and he seemed accustomed to having that kind of effect.

He and Sommers hugged like father and son, which they could easily have been, given the “white man with money who summers in New England” energy they both exuded. “Ladies, this is Conor Harkness, a dear family friend of mine.” Sommers grinned as he made introductions. “So glad you made it, Conor. Do you know Florence Kline, and . . .” He stared blankly at me, my name forgotten.

I did not come to his aid. Come on, Eric. I thought we had a thing.

“Um, was it Rose . . . ?”

“Rue,” a deep, familiar voice said from beside Harkness. “Dr. Rue Siebert.”

My lungs turned into concrete.

“Ah, perfect.” Sommers rubbed his hands. “I see you all know each other.”

“You might be the odd man out, sir. Have you met Eli Killgore? He’s a partner at Harkness.”

He was here. Standing right here.

“I have not—nice to meet you, son. Do you happen to play golf ?”

“I’m more the hockey type,” Eli said affably, southern accent on broad display. In the soft lights, his eyes seemed as dark as my own. I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

“Well, you look it.” Sommers admiringly took in his shoulders, broad in the three-piece suit. “I grew up in Wisconsin, and used to play, too. Then, of course, I got old.”

“I feel you. Used to get in the most vicious fights on the ice and go back to the rink the next day—then I hit thirty, and now my back hurts before I even get out of bed.”

Sommers’s laugh was genuine. Conor Harkness was smooth and powerful, cutthroat in a sophisticated way that was clearly meant to appeal to Sommers’s rich side. Eli, on the other hand, was a man’s man. An outwardly simple, nice guy who used power tools and rescued kittens from burning houses and knew statistics about the NFL draft. Appealing for a whole other set of reasons.

I suspected they’d been perfecting the routine for years. In fact, I was ready to bet my patent on it.

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