The Hookup Equation (Loveless Brothers 4)

“The second date,” he says, one eyebrow lifting. “All right. What are you doing tomorrow night?”

I’ll probably have lots of homework, there’s a meeting for my work-study project at six, and I think I’m supposed to meet someone for a group project at the library after that, but right now I couldn’t care less about any of that.

“I’m free,” I whisper.

“A friend of mine who works in the film department is putting on a free outdoor showing of The Philadelphia Story in Lafayette Park,” he says. “I’ll bring the picnic. You bring yourself.”

“Deal,” I say, and he leans in again, kisses me one more time.

It’s slow. It’s long. His body moves against mine with a grace and restrained force that I can feel vibrating through his muscles, desire radiating from every inch of his skin.

There’s no question what he wants. What I want, I think, even though it’s terrifying and insane to want it of someone I met hours ago.

Finally, we separate. He laces his fingers through mine, takes a deep breath, leans our foreheads together.

“Come on,” Caleb says. “Let’s go look at some art.”Chapter SevenCalebCaleb Loveless

Assistant Professor

MathematicsIt doesn’t look right.

I read it again, slowly this time. I double-check the spelling, the kerning between the letters, the capitalization. All fine.

But it still doesn’t look right. The problem must be with me, still not completely convinced that I’ve somehow landed here, in an assistant professor position.

It still feels strange. There were points in the past six years when I seriously contemplated dropping out of graduate school. I thought I’d become a rock climbing instructor, or a whitewater rafting guide or something, anything, that let me be outdoors and never deal with academia again.

Once, after a particularly intense round of backstabbing and drama, I’d even filled out the paperwork but my mom and brother Levi talked me out of quitting.

And now, I’ve got this brand-new sign on my brand-new office in the brand-new Mathematics Department building. Last week I moved out of my grad student apartment that I shared with two other students and into my own place, a renovated carriage house that I’m renting.

Last night, I met a girl. That part’s not unusual. I go on a perfectly average number of dates, but I’ve never been on a date like that. I’ve never been on a date with someone like Thalia.

Long after I got home and went to bed I laid there, staring at the ceiling. Thinking of Thalia’s voice saying I believe in magical, not magic, of her scraped knee outside in the alleyway, of how kissing her made my bones shake.

Of how I wanted her there, then, wanted so desperately to push her skirt up and slide my hand between her legs, make her come just like I told her I would.

But instead I stopped. Not because I thought we’d be caught or because I gave a damn about that, but because I want more from her.

In short, I want to know her before we fuck. It’s probably old-fashioned, and as I laid in bed, watching the ceiling with what felt like the world’s hardest cock, I wasn’t thrilled with myself for my own decision.

My phone dings softly in my pocket, and I pull it out.

Thalia: 7 sounds perfect.

Thalia: What do I bring?

Me: Just yourself.But there she was, standing in the stall, all bright red lips and winged eyeliner, wearing high heels and a short skirt, black hair tumbling around her shoulders, and I’ve been laser-focused ever since.

Thalia’s not my type. My type tends to wear a lot of flannel and torn jeans, not neat skirts and heeled boots. My type doesn’t wear red lipstick or winged eyeliner. They usually come with a nose ring, at least one tattoo, and tend to look like they could participate in a drum circle at any moment.

Thalia doesn’t look like she attends many drum circles. Instead, she looks like she has a favorite pen and strong opinions about day planners, and somehow, I find that irresistible.

The door to the stairs at the end of the hall opens, and a middle-aged Asian man in jeans and a cowboy shirt steps through.

“Good thing they finally finished the new building,” Oliver calls to me, down the tiled hallway. “You were all set to get the haunted office in the old department.”

“You say that like only one of those offices was haunted,” I call back.

The closer he gets, the more interesting Oliver’s fashion choices become. I don’t have my contacts in or my glasses on right now, so what looked like a gray shirt with embellishments from far away is actually a paisley pattern in various shades of pink, embroidered swirls and stars over the pockets.

“Well, I’m sure that entire building was haunted by the forgotten souls and crushed dreams of those who walked its halls and yet were denied tenure,” he says dryly, coming up and standing next to me. “But we were going to put you in the office where a visiting professor swore up and down that a ghostly little girl used to show up and ask if she could help her find her dolly.”