Love on the Brain
: Chapter 11

“LEVI? COULD YOU send me the newest—”

“Blueprints are on the server,” he mumbles around the miniature screwdriver he’s holding between his teeth. He doesn’t look up from the mound of wires and plates he’s working on.

It’s past nine on a Friday. Everyone else has left. We’re alone in the engineering lab, like most nights this week, in what I’ve come to think of as our Hostile Companionable Silence™. It’s very similar to other types of silence, except that I know that Levi doesn’t like me, and Levi knows that I know he doesn’t like me and that I don’t like him in return. But he doesn’t bring it up, and I don’t really think about it. Because we have no reason to.

So, yeah. Our Hostile Companionable Silence™ is basically a regular companionable silence. We sit facing each other at different workbenches. We dim the lights to see the shapes of the outside trees. We focus on our respective tasks. Every once in a while, we exchange comments, thoughts, doubts regarding BLINK. We could do the same from our respective offices, but looking up from my laptop and verbally asking a question beats writing it out in an email. Typing out, Hey, Levi and Best, Bee is such a pain.

Plus, Levi packs snacks. He brings them to work for himself, but he’s lousy at gauging portions and always makes too much. So far I’ve had homemade trail mix, guac and saltines, rice cakes, popcorn, pita chips and bean dip, and about four kinds of energy balls.

Yes, he’s a better cook than I’ll ever be.

No, I’m not too proud to accept his food. I’m not too proud to accept anyone’s food.

Plus, I’ve been in Houston for a month, and we’re already close to a working version of the prototype. I deserve some celebratory face-stuffing.

“The old blueprint is on the server, not the new one.”

He takes the screwdriver out of his mouth. “It is. I put it there.”

“That’s not the correct file.”

He looks up. “Could you check again, please?”

I roll my eyes and sigh heavily, but I comply. Because today he made dark chocolate and peanut butter energy balls, and they were life-shatteringly good. “Done. Still not here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“It has to be there.” He gives me an impatient look, like I’m pulling him away from the crucial task of securing the country’s nuclear codes.

“It’s not. Do you want to bet something on it?”

“What would you like to bet?”

“Let’s see.” His face when he replaces that I’m right is going to be better than sex. Better than sex with Tim, for sure. “A million dollars.”

“I don’t have a million dollars. Do you?”

“Of course I do, I’m a junior scientist.” He chuckles. Something flutters inside me, and I ignore it. “Let’s bet Schrödinger.”

“I’m not betting my cat.”

“Because you know you’re going to lose.”

“No, because my cat is seventeen and needs regular manual expression of his anal glands. But if you still want him . . .”

I make a face. “No, I’m good.” I drum my fingers on my biceps, wondering what else Levi has that I want. I could make him cook for me every day for a month, but he’s sort of already doing that without realizing. Why change something that works? “If I win, you get a tattoo.”

“Of what?”

“A goat. Alive,” I add magnanimously.

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Already have one.”

I laugh. “Oh, I’ve got it! Your mug? The one that says Yoda Best Engineer?”

“Yeah?”

“I want one. But it needs to say ‘neuroscientist,’ of course.”

He lifts one eyebrow. “This is the equivalent to someone buying their own World’s Best Boss mug. Congratulations, you’re officially NASA’s Michael Scott.”

“And proud of it. Okay,” I say, turning my computer around for him to see. “Deal. Come marvel at the lack of blueprints on the server.”

“Wait. What about me?”

“What about you?”

“What will you do if I win?”

“Oh.” I shrug. “Whatever you want. I’m right anyway. Would you like my hard-earned million dollars?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head, pensive.

“Should I come over and express poor Schrödinger’s anal glands for the duration of my stay in Houston?”

“Tempting, but Schrödinger’s intensely private about his anus.” He taps his masculine, chiseled chin. Huh? Why am I even noticing? “If I win, you’re going to sign up for a 5K here in Houston.”

I shrug. “Sure. I’ll sign up for a—”

“And you’re going to run it.”

I burst into laughter. “There is no way.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m currently on step four of my program, and still unable to run more than half a mile without collapsing. Running a 5K sounds about as pleasant as bloodletting. By leeches.”

“I’ll run with you.”

“You mean, you’ll walk next to me with your seventy-mile-long legs?”

“I’ll train you.”

“Oh, Levi. Levi. You sweet summer child.” I point at myself. Tonight I’m wearing a nose stud, galaxy leggings, and a white tank top. My purple hair is loose on my shoulders. I’m pretty sure one of my back tattoos is visible. Everything about me screams Levi’s kryptonite. “You see this scrawny, stunted, unmuscled body? It’s built to live in parasitic symbiosis with a couch. It resists training with the force of many million ohms.”

Levi does stare at my body for a considerable amount of time, but then he looks away, flushed. Poor guy. Must be a tough sight for him. “It doesn’t matter, does it? Since you’re sure that you’ll win?”

“True.” I shrug. “Deal. Come taste the bitterness of defeat.”

He does come, stalking to my bench in a few strides with those ridiculous seventy-mile-long legs. However, he doesn’t stop in front of the laptop I conveniently turned for him. Instead he circles around the bench, comes to stand behind me, and then slides the computer in our direction. For me to better witness his impending massacre, I assume. “I can’t wait to sip your tears out of my new mug,” I murmur.

“We’ll see.” He leans his left hand against the bench and grabs the mouse with the other. Even on my high stool, he’s still many inches taller than me, effectively caging me at my seat. It should feel uneasy, suffocating, but he leaves me enough room that I don’t mind. Plus, I know it doesn’t mean anything. Because he’s Levi. And I’m Bee. It’s actually almost pleasant, the heat he radiates in the blasting AC. He could have a successful second career as a weighted blanket.

“This is weird.” I hear the frown in his voice. “The file’s missing.”

“Can the mug be twenty ounces?”

“It should be here.” He leans forward, and his chin brushes the crown of my hair. It’s not terrible. Sort of the opposite. “I saved it.”

“Maybe you dreamt it? Sometimes in the mornings I think that I got up and brushed my teeth even though I’m still in bed. Though with my new mug I’ll be extra motivated to wake up early and have my coffee.”

“Weird.” Pity he’s not paying attention to my gloating. I’m doing a pretty good bit, if I say so myself. “Look.” He types quickly, the inside of his elbows brushing against my upper arms, pulling up a log interface. “See? Someone—me—saved the file at 1:16 p.m. Then at 4:23 someone else removed it . . .”

I know immediately where he’s going with this. I tilt my neck back to look up at him, and he’s already staring down from two inches above. God, his eyes. He invented a new color green. “It wasn’t me!” I blurt out.

“How much do you want my cat?”

“Considerably less now that I know about his colorectal issues.”

“And my mug?”

“A lot, but I swear it wasn’t me!”

He hums skeptically. I can feel his breath against my face. Mint, with a hint of peanut butter. “I’m inclined to believe you, but only because this is not the first time.”

“What do you mean?”

“The frequencies list for the parietal electrodes you sent me yesterday? The one you emailed and put on the server? It wasn’t there.”

I scowl. “But I put it there.”

“I know. The engineers complained about missing and misplaced files, too, corrupted stuff. Lots of little things.”

“Probably a server error.”

“Or people screwing up.”

“Can you tell who moved the file?”

He types a few more strokes. “Not from the logs. The system isn’t coded that way. You know what it can do?” I shake my head, bumping against some spot on his chest. “It can tell me where the file was moved, and if it’s still on the server but in a different folder. Which in the case of the blueprints is”—he presses the space bar and pulls up an image—“right here.”

“Oh, perfect. That’s exactly what I was—” My teeth click as I shut my mouth. “Wait a minute.”

“What 5K should we sign up for?” He’s roaming the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “There’s usually a space-themed one in June—”

“No way.” I twist around. “The file was not where it was supposed to be.”

“The terms of the bet were that the file should be on the server.” He gives me a satisfied smile. “Bet you’re glad I didn’t agree to the anal expression.”

“You know I meant in a specific folder.”

“How unfortunate that you didn’t specify, then.” He puts a hand on my shoulder in mock reassurance—I seriously consider biting it off—and it’s ridiculous, how much every part of him dwarfs every part of me. Also ridiculous? The way those stupid intrusive thoughts of his body pressed against mine can’t seem to let up. And that having him so close reminds me of his thigh pushing up between my legs, solid and insistent against the seam of my—

“What are you two doing?”

Boris is standing in the entrance of the lab, and my first instinct is to push away from Levi and scream that nothing happened, nothing happened, we were just working. But the distance between us is perfectly appropriate. It just feels like it isn’t, because Levi is so large. And warm. Because he’s Levi.

“We were just about to sign up for a 5K,” he says. “How are you, Boris?”

“A 5K, huh?” He stays under the doorframe, studying us with his customary tired expression. “Actually, I come bearing news.”

“Bad news?”

“Not good.”

“Bad, then.”

Boris comes closer, holding a printout. “You guys planning to go to Human Brain Imaging?”

HBI is one of many academic conferences in neuroscience. It’s not particularly prestigious, but over the years it has cultivated a “party” reputation: it takes place in fun cities, with lots of satellite events and industry sponsorships. It’s where young, hip neuroscientists network and get drunk together.

But I’m not hip. And Levi is not a neuroscientist. “No,” I tell Boris. “Where is it this year?”

“New Orleans. This coming weekend.”

“Fun. You planning on going?”

He shakes his head and holds out the printout. “No. But someone is.”

“MagTech?” Levi says, reading from above my shoulder.

“We’ve been keeping tabs on them. The company will present a version of their helmets at HBI.”

“Have they filed for a patent?”

“Not yet.”

“Then going public seems like . . .”

“A less-than-intelligent move? I think they’re trying to get visibility to pull in new investors. Which is a great opportunity for us to replace out where they’re at.”

“You’re suggesting we send someone to New Orleans, have them attend HBI, and report back on what MagTech’s progress is compared to ours?”

“No.” Boris smiles for the first time since stepping inside the room. “I’m ordering the two of you to do that.”

• • •

“I JUST DON’T think that driving to New Orleans to play Inspector Gadget is the best use of our time,” I tell Levi as he walks me home like he insisted on (“Houston is dangerous at night,” “You never know who’s lurking around,” “Either you let me walk you home, or I follow ten feet behind you. Your choice”). He’s pushing his bike, which he apparently rides to work most days. Hmph. Overachiever. His helmet, strapped to his belt, bounces against his thigh every few steps. The soothing rhythm provides a solid backdrop to my bitching.

“We’re at least Inspector Columbo.”

“Gadget outranks Columbo,” I point out. “Don’t get me wrong, I see the value of keeping tabs on the competition, but wouldn’t it be better to send someone else?”

“No one else is as familiar with BLINK as we are, and you’re the only person who knows the neuroscience.”

“Fred did take that class in undergrad.”

Levi smiles. “At least it’s over the weekend. We won’t miss workdays.”

I lift one eyebrow. We’ve both worked every single weekend. “Why are you taking this so well?”

He shrugs. “I pick my battles with Boris carefully.”

“Isn’t this worth fighting for? We’re talking about two days in close quarters with the person you most despise in history.”

“Elon Musk is coming, too?”

“No—me.”

He sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead. “We’ve been over this, Bee. Besides, the team keeps screwing up basic stuff like file backup,” he adds wryly. “I wouldn’t trust them with . . . espionage.” He smiles when he says the last word, and my heart jumps. I’m inexplicably getting Cute Guy™ vibes from him—maybe because when he’s amused he looks damn cute.

“I still think it’s not human error,” I say, trying not to think about things like cuteness.

“Either way, I’ll call a meeting with the engineers and scare them into being more careful.”

“Wait.” I stop under my building. “You can’t do that if you’re not sure that it’s someone on the team.”

“I’m sure.”

“But you have no proof.” He looks at me with a puzzled expression. “You don’t want to accuse them of something they might not have even done, do you?”

“They did.”

I huff, frustrated. “What if it’s a weird fluke?”

“It’s not.”

“But you—” I press my lips together. “Listen, we’re co-leaders. We should make disciplinary decisions together, which means that you can’t accuse anyone of anything until I’m on board, too. And that’s not going to happen until I see actual proof that someone on the team is doing this.” He’s looking down at me with a soft, amused expression, as if he replaces my irritation particularly endearing. What a sadist. “Okay?” I prompt him.

He nods. “Okay.” He unlocks his helmet and ties it under his chin. I most definitely do not notice the flex of his biceps. “And, Bee?”

“Yeah?”

He mounts the bike and starts riding away. “I’ll let you know which 5K I settle on.”

He’s giving me his back, but I flip him off anyway.