Love According to Science Read online

  Love According to Science

  Claire Kingsley

  Contents

  Keep in touch with CK

  About this book

  1. Hazel

  2. Corban

  3. Corban

  4. Hazel

  5. Corban

  6. Hazel

  7. Hazel

  8. Corban

  9. Corban

  10. Hazel

  11. Corban

  12. Corban

  13. Hazel

  14. Corban

  15. Hazel

  16. Corban

  17. Hazel

  18. Corban

  19. Corban

  20. Hazel

  21. Corban

  22. Hazel

  23. Hazel

  24. Corban

  25. Hazel

  26. Corban

  27. Hazel

  28. Corban

  29. Hazel

  30. Corban

  31. Corban

  32. Hazel

  33. Hazel

  34. Corban

  35. Corban

  36. Hazel

  37. Corban

  38. Hazel

  39. Corban

  40. Hazel

  Epilogue

  Book Boyfriend: Chapter 1

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Claire Kingsley

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Claire Kingsley

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental or fictionalized.

  Published by Always Have, LLC

  Edited by Elayne Morgan of Serenity Editing Services

  Cover by Kari March Designs

  www.clairekingsleybooks.com

  Created with Vellum

  To nerdy girls and geeky boys. Love what you love, and love it hard, especially if it sets your soul on fire.

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  About this book

  For psychology researcher Hazel Kiegen, science is everything. Her decision to swear off dating? Totally backed by her own calculations. Just don’t ask about her missing orgasms. She hasn’t been able to science her way out of that little conundrum.

  But her biggest problem? Corban Nash. He’s frustrating. Infuriating. And deliciously adorable, but that’s neither here nor there. He claims to have cracked the code to falling in love, and Hazel is determined to prove him wrong.

  Corban Nash created the theory of accelerated intimacy after numerous successful tests on his friends and family. Every couple who used his questionnaire fell in love, until Corban found himself the last single guy in his social circle, and a groomsman in dozens of weddings.

  The only problem is, it’s never worked on him. And science hasn’t explained why.

  Despite being the lone aberrant data point, Corban believes in his research, and with his new job, he’ll have the resources to prove it. Verifying his theory right under the nose of his nemesis, Hazel Kiegen? Even better.

  There isn’t a theory in existence that will make Hazel fall in love with Corban. Not even with his sexy half-smile and temptingly muscular body. But from the moment these two rivals meet, sparks fly. And when they put his questionnaire to the test, the results aren’t what either of them expect.

  1

  Hazel

  “The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances. If there is any reaction, both are transformed.” ~ C.G. Jung

  There were three things I knew with absolute certainty: The scientific method was humanity’s greatest invention, a vodka martini was best served dirty, and Corban Nash was an impostor posing as a scientist.

  Which was why, at the end of my second week at my new job at Woodward College, I was staring at the bulletin board outside my office in the psychology building. The notice pinned there had to be a mistake. There was no other logical explanation.

  I put my hands on my hips, tilted my head, and narrowed my eyes, as if squinting would somehow change the announcement’s content. The hallway behind me bustled with activity, mostly graduate students and lab assistants making their way to their classrooms, offices, or the interview rooms in the lab. And there I stood in a crisp white blouse and herringbone skirt, tapping the toe of my practical black pump, like an irritated librarian on the verge of hushing a noisy study group.

  But a librarian I was not, and this wasn’t a library. And no amount of hushing would change what it said.

  “Good morning.”

  I startled, blinking at the interruption to my thoughts. Dr. Sheffield, head of psychology research here at Woodward—and my new boss—stood next to me with an it’s in the syllabus coffee mug in his hand and the hint of a smile crinkling the lines around his eyes.

  “Good morning, Dr. Sheffield.”

  “Please, Hazel, call me Elliott. Being on a first-name basis with my staff creates a friendlier environment.”

  A respected researcher in the field of social psychology, Dr. Elliott Sheffield looked every bit the academic. He wore a gray sweater vest over his button-down shirt, a pair of slacks, and brown shoes that didn’t match the rest of his attire. Wire-rimmed glasses and a sprinkling of silver in his brown hair and beard gave him a scholarly, distinguished air. The dullness of his gold wedding band suggested he’d worn it for many years.

  He’d recently recruited me away from my former position at the University of Washington. Leaving the large university hadn’t been in my long-term life plan. But Woodward College had a strong psychology research program with a focus on my areas of interest—nonverbal communication and human relationships.

  It suited me so far. Or it had suited me. Looking at the notice on the bulletin board made me wonder if I’d made a grave error in judgment.

  Corban Nash was giving a talk—here, at my college—today. It was absurd. Unconscionable, even. I couldn’t fathom why an institution such as this, with a stellar reputation to uphold, would let that man on campus, let alone provide him with a forum to promote his unsubstantiated and outlandish claims.

  Elliott took a sip of his coffee, then nodded toward the bulletin board. “Are you familiar with Corban Nash’s work?”

  My eyes flicked to the notice. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Not a fan?”

  I tapped a finger against my skirt. Not only was I not a fan, I’d been embroiled in an online debate with the charlatan for months. I didn’t doubt his intelligence. He’d invented the algorithm that powered the world’s most popular dating application. But he had no business calling himself a scientist.

  “His background is unorthodox, but primarily I question the accuracy of his work.”

  “Do you? Why?”

  Where did I begin? “He claims to have cracked the code to falling in love. But he has yet to provide any real, scientific evidence that his questionnaire works.”

  “You’re
right; his research is anecdotal at this point. But I find his data fascinating. And he approaches the subject of intimacy formation from a fresh angle.”

  My cheeks warmed as a surge of irritation rushed through me. Corban Nash’s research wasn’t fascinating. It was unsubstantiated pop science. He had the audacity to claim that two people who answered his questionnaire together would inevitably fall in love. It was unscientific, not to mention ridiculous.

  But getting into a debate with my still-new boss at nine o’clock in the morning over a guest speaker was probably ill-advised. I schooled my expression to stillness and let my hands drop to my sides so I no longer appeared confrontational.

  “I suppose one of the hallmarks of any free society is the open exchange of ideas.”

  “Exactly,” Elliott said, gesturing toward me with his half-full coffee mug. “Have you ever heard him speak?”

  “No.” I’d read every single one of his articles, despite their tendency to increase my stress level. And he and I had engaged in some rather rigorous back-and-forth debates online. But I’d never seen him in person.

  “You should come. He has a unique way of captivating an audience.”

  I had to admit, I was tempted. But I didn’t want to legitimize his talk by attending.

  Plus, Corban Nash made me irrationally angry. Under normal circumstances, I was a calm and reasonable person. But he made my blood run hot, even when our only connection was via the internet. What would I do if I was in the same room with him?

  It was probably best if I didn’t find out.

  “I’m afraid I’m quite busy. Still settling in.”

  He nodded. “Of course. I should let you get to it.”

  I glanced around, realizing the hallway had emptied. “Yes, well, have a nice day.”

  “You too,” he said with a smile.

  I gave the bulletin board one last scathing look before going into my office. The space they’d given me was small, but more than adequate. I had a wall of shelves for my extensive selection of books, a tidy desk, and a window that overlooked a pleasant courtyard.

  Things were good here at Woodward College. I had a great deal of autonomy, access to resources, and opportunities to research topics and questions that interested me. Professionally, my life had never been better.

  Personally? I lived alone with my cat, Erwin. I wasn’t close to my parents, but I had a tight-knit group of girlfriends who were like family. I was focused on my career and had determined that engaging in romantic relationships with men was an unnecessary distraction.

  I’d also apparently lost my ability to orgasm, but that was neither here nor there.

  It did, however, make things uncomfortable when my body decided to remind me of the rising level of unrelieved tension building in my lady parts. Which it did just as I took my seat at my desk.

  I crossed my legs, attempting to ignore the sensation of pressure. There was nothing I could do about it. I’d tried almost everything—except for a few rather extreme techniques I’d read about online. Or having actual sex with a human. But considering I lacked anyone to have sex with, and I was interested in neither anonymous sex with a stranger nor dating, my options were limited.

  And the disappearance of my orgasms had nothing to do with my job, or with Corban Nash. So I firmly put it out of my mind.

  Attend his talk? I couldn’t imagine a good reason to do so. I didn’t want to lend credence to his position in the scientific community. My absence would be my silent protest.

  * * *

  The fullness of the auditorium grated on my nerves. Most of the seats were taken. Morbid curiosity had won out over my resolve to stay away. I slipped in with just moments before Corban’s talk was set to commence and took an open seat in the back.

  I adjusted my glasses, then crossed my arms as I scanned the front of the room. A grad student and someone from campus IT tested the projector, and Elliott stood to the side speaking with another professor. But no sign of my nemesis.

  The fact that I was internally referring to him as my nemesis was probably not a good sign. The logical part of my brain knew this.

  But I’d never been very good at applying my hard-earned cache of knowledge and logic to my own circumstances.

  So I remained in my seat, arms and legs crossed. The very picture of defensiveness. I’d listen to what he had to say in order to better frame a rebuttal.

  Elliott stepped up to the microphone and a hush settled over the room.

  “Thank you for joining us today. It’s my pleasure to introduce Corban Nash, here to discuss his popular accelerated intimacy theory. Please join me in giving him a warm welcome.”

  I was mentally framing the opening paragraph of my counterargument when a man in the front row stood and replaced Elliott behind the microphone.

  He had careless brown hair that stuck out at odd angles and wore black Converse with his slacks. His short-sleeved button-down shirt was partially untucked, as if he’d gotten partway through dressing himself and forgotten what he was doing.

  He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “Good afternoon.”

  I stared at him, pressing my lips together, willing myself to ignore the wide set of his shoulders. His trim waist. The way the muscles in his arms filled out his shirtsleeves. Were those veins in his forearms? He wasn’t bulky, but he was certainly toned and fit. Not exactly typical for someone with a background in data analytics and social psychology.

  Crossing my arms tighter over my chest, I mentally reprimanded myself for noticing his physical qualities. And pointedly ignored the way my traitorous lady parts reacted to them.

  Elliott had said he had a unique way of captivating an audience, and as Corban began speaking, I could see what he’d meant. Although he occasionally stumbled over his words, there was a sense of excitement in his deep voice that seemed to resonate with the crowd. He clicked through slides and I noticed many people—women in particular—leaning forward in their seats. He held their attention, their body language suggesting rapt interest.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if they were interested in his talk, or in him.

  Re-crossing my legs, I huffed out a breath. Yes, he had a certain charisma, and his passion for his work was clear. But that didn’t change the fact that his so-called theory was poorly researched at best, dangerous at worst.

  Although my friends had mentioned, on more than one occasion, that I seemed preoccupied with Corban Nash—truthfully, they’d called me obsessed—it wasn’t due to a personal vendetta. I’d seen this sort of thing before. Someone in another field would burst onto the scene with an easy-to-digest and compelling theory, claiming their data had led them to a groundbreaking new insight. Their articles and videos would go viral, spreading unproven information as if it were scientific fact.

  Corban’s theory of accelerated intimacy was not scientific fact. He hadn’t cracked the code to falling in love, and it was reckless of him to spread his ideas before they’d been properly tested.

  I glowered at the screen as he continued his presentation, shifting from the data behind his theory to his supposed evidence. He clicked through slides of happy couples, mostly wedding photos, naming the people pictured. Relatives. Friends. Colleagues. Corban had tested his questionnaire on people he knew. No control groups. No means of controlling for variables.

  The fact that he admitted his theory required more data didn’t make up for his lack of respect for the scientific method, as far as I was concerned.

  The crowd oohed and ahhed at the romantic photos. Corban stuffed his free hand in his pocket, clicking the remote with the other, looking a little sheepish at the enthusiastic reaction of his audience.

  And there was nothing at all endearing about his half-smile or the way he shrugged his shoulders. Not a thing.

  He concluded with statements about how more research was needed but he was excited for the potential applications. I rolled my eyes again.

  “Does anyone have any questions?” he asked in
to the mic.

  Hands shot into the air, mine included.

  Corban called on a few people near the front and answered their—easy, in my opinion; was no one going to challenge him?—questions. Then he got to a young woman in the middle of the room.

  “Are you single?” she asked, eliciting a murmur of half-suppressed giggles.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and gave her a crooked smile. “Well, I…”

  “I mean I’m wondering if you’ve used your questionnaire with anyone,” she said. “Of course, if you haven’t, and you aren’t in a relationship, that would also be interesting to know.”

  I wished I had another set of eyes so I could roll them all simultaneously.

  “Um, no,” Corban said. “I’m not currently in a relationship.”

  “Well, if you need a test subject, I can give you my number,” she said. “For science.”

  More giggles rippled through the audience.