The 90-Day Experiment (The Expiry Date Diaries #1)

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Emerson

T he cursor blinked at me with all the sympathy of a DMV employee on a Monday morning. Blink. Blink. Blink. Each flash a mocking reminder of words I couldn't seem to form.

My desk looked like a war zone, data sheets scattered across its surface like casualties of my latest academic battle. Every graph and number screamed of impossibility, of failure lurking just around the corner.

Eight weeks. Eight weeks to pull groundbreaking research out of my sleep-deprived brain like some discount academic magician.

Jasper's deadline loomed over me like academic execution, threatening to destroy everything I'd built since I was that weird fifteen-year-old who preferred reading research papers to teen magazines, who found more comfort in probability theories than people.

"Think you can manage that timeline?" The memory of his voice from yesterday's call made my jaw clench.

That tone of his—God, I knew it so well. The subtle challenge wrapped in professional courtesy, practically daring me to admit I couldn't handle it.

"Of course." The words had slipped out automatically, like a lab procedure I'd performed thousands of times.

Because that's what I did, wasn't it? Always proving, always performing, always pushing back against the whispers that followed every young female researcher in this field. He might as well have patted me on the head and asked if this was too much for my delicate lady brain to handle.

What I'd wanted to scream was: This is impossible. You're deliberately setting me up to fail. But instead, I'd gripped the phone until my knuckles went white, forcing my voice into that professional pitch I'd perfected over the years.

Now, sitting in my office with nothing but blinding fluorescent lights and harsh thoughts for company, the weight of what I'd agreed to pressed down on me like a centrifuge at maximum speed.

The walls of degrees and certificates stared back at me—PhD, research awards, published papers—suddenly looking as flimsy as paper boats against a tsunami of self-doubt.

My phone buzzed against my desk, Jasper's name lighting up the screen with another email about control group parameters.

The headache I'd been fighting all morning finally won, spreading behind my eyes.

It felt like my doctoral years all over again—endless nights in the lab, surviving on coffee and determination, that constant whisper of not good enough , not smart enough , just simply not enough driving me forward.

God, the irony of it all hit me like a badly designed experiment. Here I was, trying to quantify something as chaotic as human attraction, attempting to reduce love to variables and data points, when I couldn't even control the spiral of my own thoughts.

Mom would have appreciated that particular irony—she'd always said my need to understand and control everything would be what finally broke me.

"Not everything fits in a neat little box, Emerson," she used to say. "Sometimes you have to let go and let things be messy."

I had to get out, just for a few minutes.

I gathered a few research materials and headed for my favorite thinking spot. The park near the lab had become my personal crisis management center—where complex equations occasionally shut up long enough for my brain to hear itself think. And boy, did it need to think right now.

Spring sunlight filtered through the trees as I found my usual bench, the wood worn smooth by generations of other overthinkers probably wrestling with their own existential crises.

I adjusted the heart monitor around my wrist, my fingers betraying my nerves as they fumbled with the strap. It felt tighter than usual, constricting—though that might've just been the crushing weight of "oh God, what am I doing with my life" settling in for a cozy chat.

What was I really hoping to find here? Part of me was terrified I'd prove myself wrong, that I'd discover romance really was more than just neurons firing and chemicals flooding our systems.

Another part—the scientist, the skeptic—almost hoped for it, yearned to feel that mythical spark that people wrote songs about, even while knowing it was just dopamine and norepinephrine playing their age-old dance.

I had to admit, though—those moments with Liam, when our eyes met across the lab and my pulse quickened in ways no equation could predict—felt good.

Dangerous, but good.

My phone buzzed again, this time with the familiar chime of the group chat.

Relief flooded through me at the distraction, even as anxiety curled in my stomach. With equal parts dread and gratitude, I opened the app, knowing my family’s particular brand of chaos might be exactly what I needed.

Mackenzie: Hey, hey! Heard we found our first victim…

Quinn: Ahem, Em, care to tell us anything?

Emerson: ...

Harlow: OMG. It’s your hot assistant, isn’t it?

Emerson: I hate you all.

Avery: WHAT? Em! Cradle-robbing for science, are we?

Kennedy: I knew it! Pay up, Taylor. You owe me 20 bucks.

Taylor: Dammit, Emerson! Couldn’t you have waited another week to jump him?

Emerson: We haven’t jumped anything.

Quinn: Well, you better. I’ve seen Liam. Jesus, he is smokin’ hot.

Mackenzie: This is gold. The scientist and her sexy young assistant... I smell a bestseller!

Emerson: I’m going to kill you, Mack. Slowly. With some kind of evil science, and no one will ever know.

Harlow: Ooh, kinky. I bet Liam would love that.

Avery: “Love in the Lab: A 90-Day Experiment.”

Emerson: I’m disowning all of you.

Quinn: Get it, girl—show that young stud what a real scientist can do.

Mackenzie: This is why I love you all. Em, you’re going to make this book amazing.

Emerson: I hate this family. So much.

Harlow: Love you too, cuz! Now go do some “lab work” with your assistant.

I rolled my eyes and pocketed my phone, but I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. My family was insufferable, but their teasing had at least momentarily distracted me from my nerves.

Sometimes I came to the park on my lunch break to clear my head, but that day I was there for focus. Because there sure as hell wasn’t any of that back in the lab with Liam stealing every ounce of it.

A week had passed since The Kiss (yes, it deserved capital letters, like a major historical event—which in my sad dating timeline, it kind of was). I needed to analyze if there were any lasting effects, you know, for science. Totally professional. Just a routine check-up on my hormones' attempt to stage a coup against my rational brain.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and let myself remember the moment we shared at the amusement park. His lips on mine, the way his hands pulled me closer—it all sent a rush of adrenaline through me.

Man, that kiss. It was like a scene ripped straight from a movie—all heat and hunger. Liam’s lips were scorching, commanding responses from me that I never knew existed. The faint taste of cotton candy lingered on his breath.

Just the memory of it made my body crave the sensation all over again.

I let my mind wander, painting a picture far more explicit than just the kiss. In my imagination, Liam’s hands explored every curve and contour of my body, his touch igniting a wildfire. I let out a soft sigh, my heart pounding like a drum as the fantasy unfolded.

His fingers traced a path along my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps and burning desire. I could practically feel that perfect stubble (seriously, how did he maintain that?) grazing my cheek, his teeth doing things that would definitely violate lab safety protocols.

My skin prickled with anticipation, my breathing ragged and uneven. The monitor vibrated in a frantic rhythm, mirroring the storm brewing inside me.

His hands sliding down, gripping my hips, pulling me closer. I could imagine his hard muscles under my fingertips, the heat of his body against mine. His mouth would trail down my neck, leaving a path of fire in its wake. I could almost hear the low growl as he explored my body, claiming it as his own.

He’d whisper filthy things in my ear, his voice thick with desire. “I want you, right here, right now,” he’d say, his breath hot against my skin. His words sending waves of heat coursing through me, my body responding to his every command.

Then those hands would slide under my clothes, fingers exploring with a rough tenderness that made my pulse race. The friction of our clothes, the urgency of our movements—everything would blur into a haze of pure lust.

But he’d take his time too, savoring every moment, his hands and mouth a relentless assault on my senses. The kisses… deep, his tongue exploring with a fervor that left me breathless.

His hands would slide lower, gripping my thighs and lifting me up, strength in every movement. I’d wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, the hard length of him pressed against me.

“Hey,” Liam’s voice echoed through the park.

My eyes flew open, cheeks heating up as I realized how lost I’d gotten in my thoughts. The heart monitor showed wildly elevated readings, and I made a mental note to jot them down in my research log as soon as I could.

This was all just part of the experiment, I reminded myself. A controlled study of my own reactions to romantic thoughts.

Liam held out a cup of coffee. “Thought you might need this,” he said with a smile, setting the cup on the park bench beside me.

He’d gotten it just the way I liked it—a splash of almond milk, no sugar. A small detail. Damn him and his thoughtful gestures.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, trying to ignore how my pulse was still fighting to slow down.

His gaze lingered on me, making my skin prickle with awareness.

But maybe this was an opportunity.

Curious and determined to gather more data (or so I told myself), I decided to bring up the elephant in the room… well, park.

“About that kiss the other night...” I began, casually checking my pulse. It was racing like I was about to run a marathon.

Liam’s eyebrows shot up, a grin playing on his lips.

“Ah, the kiss,” he said, half sitting on the arm of the bench. His blue eyes sparked with mischief as he watched me. “The way you ran off afterward, I thought maybe I did something wrong.”

“Um, definitely not,” I said. “I’m still not even sure why I did that. I just… it was overwhelming, I guess.”

“Overwhelming.”

“Right, which was an interesting and unexpected biological response.” I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “And I was thinking—from a purely scientific standpoint—that it might be worth exploring further.”

I stood and started pacing, launching into a rambling explanation. “As you know, the biochemical processes involved in romantic attraction are really complex.”

Liam watched me, amusement flickering in his eyes.

But I just rambled on.

“There’s the release of dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin… all contributing to that euphoric feeling people call ‘falling in love.’ And I really think, given how everything is elevated at the beginning of a relationship, that this could be a good opportunity to document our own responses so we can understand some of the less concrete variables of the study a little better.”

He stood and closed the distance between us in a few strides.

“Doc,” Liam said softly, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek, and my breath caught. “You can’t quantify everything.”

Bristling at his comment, I was ready to argue, but the words died on my lips as Liam’s gaze dropped to my mouth. He was so close, his scent wrapping around me—that rainstorm with just a hint of something deeper and undeniably masculine.

My heart pounded, and for a moment, I forgot all about my research, lost in his eyes.

Liam’s hand cupped my cheek, his thumb gently brushing my skin. His touch was warm and grounding, yet electrifying, making my body quiver.

“Maybe some things are meant to be felt, not analyzed,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, the kind that promised sleepless nights and tangled sheets.

I struggled to find my voice, my mind spinning. Part of me wanted to pull away, to hide behind the safety of my scientific detachment. But another part, a growing part, was desperate to lean into his touch, to explore the emotions swirling inside me.

Warmth pooled low in my belly, threatening to unravel me completely.

“Liam, I…” I started, but he silenced me with a finger pressed to my lips.

His touch was soft yet commanding, making my pulse race even more.

He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear. “Control isn’t everything,” he said, his words seductive. “Sometimes, you just have to let go and feel.”

As he pulled back, his eyes locked on mine; he must have seen the change in my expression because his eyebrows knit together.

My heart was racing, and I knew the monitor strapped to my wrist must have been reading off the charts. But there was something else too, something I couldn’t explain with science or logic. It was raw, unfiltered emotion, and it scared the hell out of me.

Liam’s thumb brushed across my lower lip, so lightly, but it sent a jolt straight through me. “Maybe your heart monitor is on the fritz,” he teased, a sexy smile creeping across his face. “You seem a bit… off-balance.”

I tried to pull myself together. But even as I opened my mouth to retort, a smile tugged at my own lips. Damn him and his ability to disarm me with one look, one touch.

He was infuriating and irresistible all at once.

Liam leaned in closer, his forehead resting against mine. The closeness made my breath catch. “I’m serious, Doc,” he whispered, his words brushing against my skin, his lips so close. “What would happen if you just let go and let yourself feel?”

It sounded simple. It sounded like a good idea, even. The only problem was, I had absolutely no idea how to do that.

And with Jasper's project deadlines looming, did I even have time to figure it out?