“Please, email me.” His tone, patient and firm, screams I’m an adult dealing with a difficult child, so I don’t insist further.

“Okay. Will do.” I nod, half-heartedly wave my goodbye, and turn to walk away.

I can’t wait to work with this guy for three months. I love being treated like I’m a piece of belly button lint instead of a valuable asset to a team.

That’s why I got a Ph.D. in neuroscience: to achieve nuisance status and be patronized by the Wardasses of the world. Lucky me for—

“There’s one more thing,” he says. I turn back and tilt my head. His expression is as closed off as usual, and—why the hell is the feel of his thigh in my brain again? Not now,

intrusive thoughts.

“The Discovery Building has a dress code.”

His words don’t land immediately. Then they do, and I look down to my clothes. He can’t possibly mean me, can he? I’m wearing jeans and a blouse.

He is wearing jeans and a Houston Marathon T-shirt. (God, he’s probably

one of those obnoxious people who post their workout stats on social media.)

“Yes?” I prompt him, hoping he’ll explain himself.

“Piercings, certain hair colors, certain . . . types of makeup are unacceptable.” I see his eyes fall on one of the braids draped over my shoulder and then drift upward to a spot above my head. As though he can’t bear to look at me longer than a split second. As though my sight, my existence, offends him. “I’ll make sure Kaylee sends you the handbook.”

“. . . Unacceptable?”

“Correct.”

“And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”

“Please, make sure you follow the dress code.”

I want to kick him in the shins. Or maybe punch him. No —what I really want is to grab his chin and force him to stare at what he clearly considers my ugly, offensive face some more. Instead I put my hands on my hips and smile. “That’s interesting.” I keep my tone pleasant enough. Because I am a pleasant person, dammit. “Because half of your team are wearing sweats or shorts, have visible tattoos, and Aaron, I believe is his name, has a gauge in his ear. It makes me wonder if maybe there’s a gendered double standard at play here.”

He closes his eyes, as though trying to collect himself. As though staving off a wave of anger. Anger at what? My piercings? My hair? My corporeal form? “Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

I cannot believe this chucklefuck. “Are you serious?”

He nods. All of a sudden I am too mad to be in his presence. “Very well.

I’ll make an effort to look acceptable from now on.”

I whirl around and walk back to the conference room. If my shoulder brushes his torso on my way there, I am too busy not kneeing him in the nuts to apologize.

4

PARAHIPPOCAMPAL GYRUS: SUSPICION

MY SECOND DAY on BLINK is almost as good as my first. “What do you mean, we can’t get inside our office?”

“I told you. Someone dug a moat around it and filled it with alligators.

And bears. And carnivorous moths.” I stare silently at Rocío and she sighs, swiping her ID through the reader by the door. It blinks red and makes a flat noise. “Our badges don’t work.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll go find Kaylee. She can probably fix this.”

“No!”

She sounds so uncharacteristically panicked, I lift an eyebrow. “No?”

“Don’t call Kaylee. Let’s just . . . knock the door down.

Count of three? One, two—”

“Why shouldn’t I call Kaylee?”

“Because.” Her throat bobs. “I don’t like her. She’s a witch. She might curse our families. All our firstborns shall have ingrown toenails, for centuries to come.”

“I thought you didn’t want kids?”

“I don’t. I’m worried about you, boss.”

I tilt my head. “Ro, is this heat stroke? Should I buy you a hat? Houston’s much warmer than Baltimore—”

“Maybe we should just go home. It’s not like our equipment is here.

What are we even going to do?”

She’s being so weird. Though, to be fair, she’s always weird. “Well, I brought my laptop, so we can— Oh, Guy!”

“Hey. Do you have time to answer a couple of questions for me?”

“Of course. Could you let us into our office? Our badges aren’t working.”

He opens the door and immediately asks me about brain stimulation and spatial cognition, and over an hour goes by. “It might be tricky to get to deep structures, but we can find a work-around,” I tell him toward the end.

There’s a piece of paper full of diagrams and stylized brains between us. “As soon as the equipment arrives, I can show you.” I bite the inside of my cheek, hesitant. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“A date?”

“No, I—”

“Good, because I prefer figs.”

I smile. Guy reminds me a bit of my British cousin—total charmer, adorable smile. “Same. I . . . Is there a reason the neuro equipment isn’t here yet?”

I know Levi is supposed to be my point of contact, but he’s currently sitting on three unanswered emails. I’m not sure how to get him to reply.