Worse, when Jamal had opened Mrs. Garcia’s door, some part of her had been glad to see him. It must have been her soft, stupid nucleus; the reason she needed a social cell membrane for protection to begin with.

Now she was closing the door behind herself and getting ready to share a meal with him.

You’d probably share more than some quinoa if he asked nicely.

Her gaze slid over the flex of Jamal’s muscular back beneath his shirt as he placed the box onto Mrs. Garcia’s dining table. She imagined feeling those muscles bunch beneath her palms as he pressed into her, and then clutched her hands into fists at the explicit image that flashed in her mind. Her body warmed as she watched his lithe movements and understood that though she had only agreed to dinner, she was hungry for Jamal, too.

No. He’s an asshole. Focus on the free food.

“So how did you rent this apartment of all places in New York?” she asked as she examined Mrs. Garcia’s family photos lining the walls. She looked away, hating that her first reaction to the photos was envy.

“A friend made the introduction and the situation worked in both my and Mrs. Garcia’s best interests,” Jamal said as he scanned through the printout that he’d found inside the box. As he pulled each ingredient out, he cross-referenced it with the list, then brought it into the small kitchen. It wasn’t the most efficient method of transport, but she got to watch him walk so she couldn’t complain. He moved with a grace she wasn’t used to; many of the guys in her neighborhood had swagger, but Jamal walked as if he expected everything to fall away before him, and like he was justified in thinking it.

He had the bearings of a rich boy—she knew that well enough from years of dealing with Portia and clients at the various catering gigs she took on in addition to serving at the Institute—but he’d seemed unsure of himself as he stood before her in the hallway. Chagrined. She’d told him what an ass he’d been, and he hadn’t even tried to turn it around and explain to her how she had made him behave like an ass. And now he was trying to make it up to her.

She wondered if this was some new species of fuckboy, an evolved version that was more effective at luring women into its trap before showing its true nature. If that was the case, it was working.

She was still wary, but some part of her was already lowering the drawbridge and inviting him in. He’d make quite the efficient virus if he weren’t approximately a gazillion times too large.

As she watched him try to figure out how to light the gas stove without letting her know he had no idea what he was doing, the figurative drawbridge shuddered to a stop and reversed course.

“Seriously?” She trudged over to the stove and nudged him out of the way. “Have you never used a gas stove before?”

“I’ve seen one used,” he said stubbornly.

“Let me rephrase that—have you ever used any kind of stove before?”

“The ones back home are electric. Honestly, it can’t be that difficult,” he said, holding the match to the wrong burner again.

Ledi rolled her eyes. Of course a hot man offering to make her dinner would turn into more drudge work for her.

“I’ll do it.”

“You said you couldn’t cook,” his deep voice rumbled next to her as she grabbed the box of matches, struck one, and held it near the burner. The correct burner.

“I meant ‘I can’t cook for you.’ Once someone knows you can do something for them, they’ll want you to do it all the time.” She turned the knob on the stove and pulled her hand back just as the gas ignited with a whoosh of blue and orange. She’d learned to cook early; not because she’d been a mistreated Cinderella, but because it had made her useful to her foster parents. People didn’t get rid of things they found useful. In theory, that is.

“You know, that is true,” he said gravely, pausing to strike a contemplative pose as she used her fingertips to push him out of her way. He didn’t resist, simply stepped back. “My parents constantly say that I have to lead by example, but once I do one thing and it succeeds, people expect me to do more and more.”

“Such is the tragedy of being marginally talented,” she said. “I’m great at doing grant applications it seems, so my lab’s postdoc has decided I should do all of his.”

“You mentioned this man yesterday. He makes you do his work for him?”

“It’s fine. It’s how things are. It just seems that he thinks I’m his personal assistant instead of a fellow researcher.”

“Why don’t you say no?” His tone was serious, as if he was presenting her with an option she’d never considered.

“Because men make life harder for women who say no, especially women who look like me,” she said. “STEM is already hard to navigate—being marked as someone who doesn’t work well in teams or contribute enough could tank my career.”

He didn’t respond and Ledi sighed. This was why she was single. She needed a bearded hottie who wouldn’t be flummoxed by the simplest conversation about what she experienced every day. Clarence had told her to stop complaining and work harder when she’d brought up Brian; he’d thought his own success meant that anyone who failed just wasn’t trying hard enough.

“Ah. This is like the research indicating that a woman who speaks once or twice in a professional or academic setting is seen as monopolizing the conversation. Tell a co-worker no once or twice and that is all he remembers of you, I suppose.”