Page 13 of Stripe Theory

“Stripes helps me think.” The cat in question chose that moment to knock over a stack of papers, sending them cascading to the floor. “Usually.”

Rehan moved to help her gather the scattered documents, and dear lord, even his paper-collecting looked graceful. It should be awkward, watching a man in a thousand-dollar suit crouch to pick up papers, but he made it look like some kind of predatory ballet.

Their fingers brushed as they reached for the same page. The contact sent a jolt through her that had nothing to do with static electricity and everything to do with the way his breath caught, his pupils dilating slightly. His tiger eyes focused on her with an intensity that made her forget basic functions like breathing and remembering her own name.

“I...” Words failed her, which hadn’t happened since her first doctoral defense. She’d faced rooms full of distinguished professors with less nervousness than she felt under that molten gold gaze.

A low growl rumbled in his chest—not quite human, not quite tiger. The sound bypassed all her higher brain functions and went straight to her primitive hindbrain, which helpfully supplied that yes, this was definitely the most attractive thing she’d ever heard.

Maya cleared her throat. “I’ll just... go check on those cultures. In the other room. Far away. Where I can’t sense the pheromones you two are broadcasting.”

Alora’s cheeks burned. “We’re not—I mean, it’s not?—”

“Professional,” Rehan supplied, straightening with that innate grace that made her want to climb him like a tree. “We’re maintaining professional boundaries.”

“Right.” Maya smirked. “Professional. That’s definitely what this is. I’ll leave you to your very professional paper collecting.”

Alora watched Maya saunter away, mentally plotting revenge involving her friend’s favorite salsa shoes and possibly some super glue. When she turned back, Rehan stood studying her whiteboard with such intensity, she couldn’t help but admire his profile. The man had cheekbones that belonged in a museum.

“Your molecular modeling is... innovative,” he said, and she definitely didn’t shiver at the way his voice caressed the word.

“The virus doesn’t follow conventional patterns.” She moved beside him, pointing to her diagrams. “See how the protein structure shifts? It’s like it’s dancing.”

NINE

Alora demonstrated with her hands, and oh—bad idea. His attention snapped to her movements with predatory focus, tracking every gesture. Heat radiated from him in waves, his scent—sandalwood and something wild, untamed—wrapping around her like an embrace.

Focus on science, she commanded herself.Science is safe. Science doesn’t have biceps that could probably bench press a car.

“Dancing?” His eyebrow arched, and that really shouldn’t be attractive, but apparently her hormones hadn’t received the memo.

“Yes, dancing. The molecules move in specific patterns like partners in a complicated routine.” She sketched another diagram, very deliberately not thinking about other kinds of complicated routines they could explore. “Which reminds me—my parents want you to come to dinner.”

The words tumbled out before her brain could stop them. Rehan stiffened, his expression flickering between surprise and something that might have been panic.

“Dinner?”

“My mother’s idea,” she rushed to explain. “She’s excited about the research partnership. And probably plotting to interrogate you about shifter biology. She gets very enthusiastic about new scientific frontiers.”

“Ah.” He tugged at his tie, and she definitely didn’t track the movement of his fingers. “When?”

“Tonight? Unless you’d rather get a root canal. Or fight a bear. Both of which might be less uncomfortable than my mother’s questioning.”

A low chuckle escaped him—the first real laugh she’d heard—and oh no, that sound did dangerous things to her insides. Like rearranging her organs into butterfly formations.

“I’ve faced hostile takeovers and pride politics. I think I can handle dinner.”

“You say that now,” she muttered. “Wait until my dad starts asking about your intentions toward his daughter’s research.”

His eyes darkened, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of gold remained. “My intentions are entirely professional.”

The way he said “professional” made it sound like the exact opposite, and her body apparently decided that was fascinating information worth exploring. In detail. Preferably without all these pesky clothes in the way.

Stop it, she ordered her wayward thoughts. He’s your research partner. Your very attractive, supernaturally graceful research partner who moves like sin in a suit.

“Speaking of professional,” she said quickly, “we should run these new samples before the centrifuge decides to redecorate my lab in more colors.”

“Perhaps with proper safety protocols this time?” His lips quirked, and she found herself staring at them. For scientific purposes. Obviously.

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