Defective Velcro. Phospholipid bilayer, activate.

“I have to go,” she said suddenly. Washing her hands and then grabbing her backpack and slipping the heavy load onto her back were autonomic functions.

“Ledi.”

She was heading for the door and kept walking, ignoring him. “I’m really tired, and I have to get up early to run some tests at the lab—”

“Ledi.” This time his voice was commanding, a tone that wouldn’t be ignored, and she turned to face him before she realized it. “Here.”

The open cabinet behind him revealed a treasure trove of Tupperware, and the one in his hand held a portion of the meal they’d made together.

“Thank you for preparing dinner for me,” he said as he handed her the warm plastic rectangle.

“No, that’s okay,” she said, taking a step back.

His gaze narrowed.

“What wouldn’t be okay is you leaving here without some portion of the meal you made,” he said, and pushed the dish into her hands. He opened the door wide enough that she could pass through it without having to touch him. “I had fun. Thank you for spending time with me.”

He wasn’t looking at her with Disney eyes anymore, but the smile he gave bathed her in warmth, like the first ray of sunshine to slip over her after hours spent in the lab.

What the hell are you doing, for real this time?!

She rushed out the door, tossing her thanks over her shoulder as she fumbled her key into the lock and let herself into her apartment. He didn’t linger like a weirdo—his door was closed before she got hers open. She doubted he was watching through the peephole either, although she did just that when she closed her door behind her.

Naledi ignored the delicious smell coming from the Tupperware.

Home. Alive(ish), she texted Portia.

She fed the Grams, took a shower, and then oiled her scalp with the fragrant mixture she’d made after watching several YouTube videos, even though her stomach growled. She pulled her hair up into a bun atop her head and tied on the silk sleep scarf with “I <3 SCIENCE” printed all over it that Portia had gifted her.

When she finally picked up the food, it was barely lukewarm. But as she took the first delicious bite, she wondered if Jamal was doing the same just a few feet away.

She regretted denying herself the sight of him biting into the tender chicken, of the grease and sauce making his already-perfect lips shine enticingly.

She silently cursed Mrs. Garcia and whatever fluke of statistics had brought Jamal much too close to the nucleus of her small world. It didn’t matter in the end—she was going to be so busy with work at the Institute and studying that she doubted she’d see him again. And that was exactly how she wanted it.

Chapter 9

Ledi had already groggily pulled on her black trousers and was halfway through rebuttoning her tuxedo shirt when the phone rang. She was annoyed for a moment—people who called instead of texting were a plague on humanity—but then felt a brief flash of fear. Portia had never responded to her text the previous night. Maybe she’d had too much to drink again. Maybe . . .

But when she grabbed her phone, the name YVES lit up the screen.

“Hello?”

Yves’s angry voice hissed through her phone.

“Don’t come in today. We’re closed for a few days at least,” he growled.

“What happened?” Ledi asked.

“Several people got sick after lunch yesterday and they’re saying they can trace it back to this kitchen! MY KITCHEN.”

“Oh no.” Ledi’s hand went to her stomach as she imagined all the possible bacterial agents she might have been exposed to while working. She didn’t have time for food poisoning. But she’d likely already be sick if she’d eaten anything contaminated.

“See, I told them not to order that prepackaged salad shit and to keep buying from the farmer’s market, but they complained about costs. Now we’re paying for it!” Ledi held the phone away from her ear. “You should see the emails flying back and forth on the Institute’s listserv! Diarrhea this, and projectile vomit that. Everyone is acting like I wiped my ass with the Bibb lettuce before serving them. J?vla fan! The only way I could keep this kitchen cleaner is if I took a blowtorch to it!”

That didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility to Ledi. He might take a blowtorch to the Institute itself if they kept allowing people to besmirch his kitchen.

“I’m sorry, Yves. I know cleanliness is a priority for you.” That earned her a hum of approval. “So I shouldn’t come in at all?”

“No, I’m sorry, but your shifts today and tomorrow are canceled. I’ll give you a call when things settle down but I know you’re leaving for your internship soon. We’ll play it by ear, yes?”

She felt a new surge of panic as he said his goodbyes and hung up, this time thinking about her bank account. She reminded herself that she was fine—she scrimped and saved so that she wouldn’t have to freak out in case of emergency. Or at least not freak out A LOT.

As frustrating as it was, not having to work was one of the nicer things to happen to Ledi in a long time.

Besides the hot dude across the hall, that is.

She thought about Jamal, and the meal they’d cooked the night before. She’d been annoyed at having to take over the preparation, but working side by side had actually been kind of cool. She was used to impersonal dates. Movie theaters and coffee shops and possibly a few hours in the guy’s bed—if that long. She never brought men to her place, let alone cooked with them. She’d certainly never shared so much about her past.