The 90-Day Experiment (The Expiry Date Diaries #1)
Chapter 1
Chapter One
Emerson
The 90-Day Relationship Challenge: A Quickie That’ll F*ck You Over by Mackenzie Grant
Hold onto those knickers, folks, because the latest viral insanity has arrived: The 90-Day Relationship Challenge.
It’s like speed dating on steroids—skip all that boring “getting to know you” crap and dive headfirst into a three-month love bender.
By the end, you’re supposed to be so madly in love you’re practically shitting hearts.
M y cousin Mackenzie’s latest opinion piece wasn’t just going viral—it was detonating across the internet like a social media apocalypse, igniting furious debate.
I scrolled through Mack’s verbal throwdown, smirking as she trashed the absurd idea of playing insta-soulmate with a stranger. Leave it to Mack to set the world on fire with her words.
So listen up, all you desperate lovebirds: take Auntie Mack’s advice, and don’t fall for this fast-tracked fuckery just because your bed’s colder than a penguin’s ballsack.
It’s a one-way ticket to Miseryville, and unless you enjoy ugly-crying into your Ben his razor-sharp eye for detail and wild, out-of-left-field thinking breathed new life into our findings, making me wonder if he had some sort of secret science superpower.
Which naturally led to me wondering what other superpowers he might be hiding. Not that I was looking. Much. Okay, fine—I'd developed a slight habit of glancing his way more often than strictly necessary for professional collaboration.
There was something about the way he furrowed his brow in deep concentration that was both maddeningly distracting and inexplicably alluring, his presence having this bizarre dual effect on me—like a calming balm and a shot of adrenaline all at once.
A few minutes later, as Liam leaned over my shoulder to peer at a promising set of results, the sudden proximity sent my breath hitching like I was some lovesick teenager.
He pointed to a specific data point on the screen, his voice a hushed murmur right by my ear. “Check this out. The dopamine levels in this subject are insane. And when you cross-reference it with the oxytocin readings from earlier…”
I struggled to latch onto his words, battling the magnetic pull of his closeness. But all I could think about was the warmth radiating from his body, his scent—something fresh that reminded me of a morning after a storm—invading my senses.
I swallowed hard and turned toward him, forcing my brain to function as he leaned back a bit.
“You’re right. That could be a significant correlation. We should definitely run more tests to see if we can replicate the results.”
His gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, the universe hit pause. The air between us was thick, charged with a tension that ignited a slow burn under my skin.
Suddenly, a loud, unmistakable moan echoed through the lab. Liam and I jumped apart, eyes darting to the closed door of one of the private rooms. Another moan followed, accompanied by rhythmic thumping.
My face flushed as I remembered the more... physical experiment we had going on in there. The private rooms, designed to look more like cozy bedrooms than sterile lab spaces, were where we conducted our more… intimate studies.
Each was equipped with state-of-the-art monitoring systems, allowing us to measure participants’ physiological responses during various romantic and sexual activities.
Liam’s eyes danced. “I, uh, guess the experiment is going well,” he said, trying to stifle a laugh. “Sounds like they’re really... probing the subject matter.”
I groaned, both at the pun and the situation. “We really need to improve the soundproofing in those rooms.”
“Oh, come on, Doc,” Liam teased. “You can’t be mad that your volunteers are really… rising to the occasion.”
“That’s hardly professional,” I said, fighting back a laugh. “Although, I suppose we should be grateful for such passionate volunteers. Their enthusiasm really helps us... penetrate the subject matter.”
Liam’s eyebrows shot up, clearly surprised by my boldness. “Doc, I’m shocked. But you’re right, they’re really... pounding out those results for us.”
I groaned again, but this time with laughter. “Alright, alright. Let’s get back to work before this conversation gets any more... stimulating.”
He chuckled, his eyes meeting mine, a flicker of something more than amusement passing between us. For a second, I allowed myself to imagine...
But reality shot straight back in like a relentless buzzkill.
Liam was my assistant, my much younger assistant. We were professionals, damn it. Anything beyond that would be a one-way ticket to Inappropriateville. The eight-year age gap between us was just another reason to keep things professional, no matter how much those blue eyes made me forget I was in my mid-thirties.
I cleared my throat, leaning away under the guise of grabbing a file. “So, let’s set up those additional tests for tomorrow.”
Liam blinked, looking momentarily dazed before snapping back to reality. “Right. Of course. I’ll get on that.”
An unexpected pang of disappointment hit me as Liam moved away.
Which, of course, was utterly irrational—just an emotional response to the stress and pressure bearing down on me like a ton of bricks. The last thing I needed was a distraction, especially one wrapped in the very attractive, very off-limits package that was my lab assistant.
But as I watched him go, it felt like something shifted. A door had cracked open, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of something dangerous and absolutely thrilling.
Nope. Don’t go there.
Distractions were my enemy, and Liam was the most dangerous distraction of them all. Every glance he threw my way felt like a game of Russian roulette, each flirtatious smile a pull of the trigger.
We had maybe a few weeks before the university pulled the plug. I needed a miracle, and I needed it yesterday. Hail Mary grant applications, private investors, corporate sponsorships… I’d have to pursue every avenue, no matter how unlikely.
With the clock ticking and the pressure mounting, there was zero room for romantic entanglements or emotional messiness. Sure, his smile could probably power a small city, but I needed to focus on saving my research, not daydreaming about the way his forearms looked when he rolled up his sleeves. (Though seriously, those forearms should be classified as a controlled substance.)
So I shoved the traitorous thoughts aside by retraining my focus on the problem at hand—the rejection letter that loomed over me like a dark cloud, growing more ominous by the second.
Because it wasn’t just another hiccup; it was the possible death knell for everything I’d busted my butt for.