The Love Experiment (Stubborn Hearts 1)

Her face got hot when she thought about how dismissive Jack was, right down to when he talked about his own messed up family life. But he was angry too, and if she had to guess why, it wasn’t about old wounds, it was about having opened himself up to her, because he’d shut down just as quickly.

The Defender of the City could dish it out, but wasn’t any good at taking it. He hadn’t been able to take her scrutiny or get past his own ego to answer a few simple questions. How would telling her the last song he’d sung damage his credibility? And yet he’d remembered the things she’d told him and he’d drawn her out despite her attempt to guard her own responses.

She hit return on Shona’s email and typed: We’ve done part one, two more to go, plus the staring contest. The thought of that made her squirm. But Jack is very uncooperat—delete—busy. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to pin him down for the rest. He was the one doing the pinning so far. Making progress. I’ll keep you informed.

She’d no sooner hit send than Shona appeared behind her. “Phil really wants this story, so if you’re having trouble getting Jack to play ball, let me know.”

It would probably be smart to throw herself at Shona’s mercy and admit Jack was being impossible and there was little chance she’d ever get the kind of heartwarming human interest story they were after.

The first twelve questions were a warm-up. In the next set, he’d have to open up and tell her about his hopes, dreams, memories and achievements. There was a question about his relationship with his mother. This was so not happening.

But there was another email in her inbox about the voluntary layoffs, so now was not the time to admit defeat, especially if Shona was going to bring it to Phil’s attention. Shona was very keen on getting Phil’s attention, and whose fault was that? Derelie should never have mentioned the whole “saw Phil with another woman in a too-small shirt” thing because she’d lit a fire under Shona’s red-soled stilettos that Shona wanted to quench by poking out Phil’s eyes.

Office politics Chicago-style was like rolling in barbed wire. Office politics back home was more of the “it’s your turn to unjam the copier, make the coffee, cover the funeral” variety. There was no eye poking, no brooding sabotage of other people’s objectives. And yes, she was Pollyanna, and it was time to grow up and realize the rest of the world didn’t work like Orderly, home of the white squirrel, not red or gray like everywhere else. It was time to toughen up, embrace the ambiguity, sharpen her elbows and keep going after what she wanted.

And right now, that was Jackson Haley. On a plate. In a purely professional way.

If everyone knew he was being difficult, and she managed to rise above that challenge without having to resort to using the chain of command to pull off the story, that had to mean her job was safe, it had to. Because once Jack knew she’d complained, she would well and truly cook her goose with him. Cliché or not. He’d have no respect for her if she tattled.

“No trouble. He’s actually more bark than bite.”

Shona picked up the picture of Ernest from her desktop. “This dog is more bark than bite. But if you think you can get Jack Haley to play dead and the story is good, I’ll do what I can to see about getting you promoted.”

Derelie’d get Haley to sit up and beg if it meant more job security and more money. Heel, Dinkus.

She left Jack alone for the rest of the day, worked on two other stories, “Five Weight Loss Tips You Can Break” and “Ten Everyday Indulgences That Are Good for You,” and made it to yoga on time to claim her place near Yogaboy.

He sat on his mat in full lotus pose with his legs crossed, feet turned up on the opposite thighs, elegant wrists resting on his knees, with his eyes closed, and a serene expression, his body a perfect example of both physical and mental health.

Didn’t matter how many classes she took, how much extra practice she did, Derelie would never be that flexible. Her hips and abductors were too tight. Her bound angle pose looked more like a poised frog with her knees sticking up too close to her shoulders instead of lying parallel to the floor. She aspired to a half lotus, but today was not the day to try it out. It might be the day to get Yogaboy to notice her. But he’d have to open his eyes to do that.

An hour later, her shavanasa was a true corpse pose. She was exhausted and wondered if anyone would stop her lying on the floor for the rest of the night. She turned her head to see if she was alone, and her eyes collided with Yogaboy’s.

“Namaste,” he said, bringing his hands together prayer-style as he came to his feet.

“Namaste,” she replied, too shocked to move. She lay there as he rolled his mat and walked off, a sweaty mess on the first occasion of being noticed.

Once he’d moved past her, she sat. She had to get out of the way of the people taking the next class. Yogaboy had a lovely deep voice, a tan and wicked, knowing green eyes. He was the opposite of every man she’d ever lusted after and everyone she’d slept with. She’d never touched a tattoo on a man’s skin, she’d never dated one who had longer hair than she did, or who looked like serenity was a life goal.

Her two long-term partners had been boys she’d gone to school with who’d known her since her tomboy days of climbing trees, skipping stones, and stealing fruit from McDowell’s orchard. In both cases they’d gone from swimming in the river to kissing in the shallows to rolling in the hay.

No wonder she had a problem with clichés—she was one.

Her one serious hookup had been with a much older man, a harvester salesman who’d thought she was amusing, called her beautiful, bought her dinner, treated her to a hotel out of town and allowed her to be mysterious for once. He didn’t know how she got the scar on her hip, so she told him she’d been thrown by a horse. It made her sound more glamorous. Everyone else

in town knew she’d been drunk and careless and caught it on a barbed wire fence she’d thought it was a good idea to climb. If you needed stiches in Orderly, it was the kind of thing that got around.

She knew a lot more about sex after her salesman had passed through, but not what it would be like to have sex with a man who could put his ankles behind his head, and it seemed like an important part of her education to find out.

This was what she’d moved to the city for, to expand her horizons, to live a bigger life. She’d expected to feel like a fish out of water, but it was about time she got comfortable with being wet.

Maybe Yogaboy could give her a private lesson. Maybe if she could master yoga and meditation, she could find that calm centered place where she heard birds chirp, not sirens wail. Maybe he kissed like he’d discovered treasure and wanted it all to himself.

She rolled her mat up and went to collect her bag. That treasure thing was all Jackson Haley. Bastard. What was he doing interfering in her fixation with Yogaboy? He’d made it perfectly clear kissing her was a tactical one-off, which was worse than calling it a mistake. If he’d called it a mistake, she could imagine he’d been overcome and that given the right conditions—night, a stakeout, a love experiment—he might be overcome again.

But that would mean he was a go with the flow kind of guy, and nothing about Jack said relaxed. He was deliberate and rigid and controlling, from the suits to the way he wore his hair, and the contained way he comported himself. Which was absolutely the best thing to know about him. It meant she could focus on using him to advance her career while she concentrated on trying to get a name from Yogaboy before she tried for an orgasm.

Next morning, her ego got a considerable boost when she learned her story on celebrity pets and their famous parents was the most read. Seeing it displayed online under the heading Most Read Articles: Today’s Top Five was a thrill that had her smiling inanely at her screen. She looked for Jackson Haley’s story of the day and fist pumped when his story didn’t appear on the list.