Chapter 1 #2
I dip my head to hide my trembling chin, but it’s futile, so I pack my things and disappear out the door. I’ve tried every remedy available to improve my appearance. Steroid injections. High-end makeup. Hell, I even cut my own bangs on a particularly bad night.
It didn’t conceal the scar, but at least for six months, people fixated on my horrifying bangs instead.
Some aspects of the accident’s aftermath have been easier to accept than others.
I can handle aching joints before a treacherous rain and the uncomfortable pat down from TSA after I set off the metal detector.
I’ve learned to manage my arthritis and banished my fear of driving, but I haven’t overcome the hurdle of my image.
The scars are a soft spot—an insecurity so raw, even a look or comment causes an ache in my chest.
A balmy morning breeze rustles my hair as I head toward the biology building. Large glass windows and brick-red eco-conscious paneling—a juxtaposition to the older stone buildings surrounding it—come into view, and I pick up speed, rushing to my desk to see if Willy Wonka left a surprise for me.
Every morning, there’s a single dark-chocolate square, filled with gooey caramel, sitting on my desk.
I don’t know who leaves them, or why, but I refuse to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it’s a bright moment in my day.
On particularly bad days, when the universe has cursed me, an afternoon treat will appear.
I try not to think about how the mystery person knows I’m having a rough day, but rather just appreciate the kindness.
The chocolate, wrapped in blue foil, sits on my desk above a pile of strewn papers and crinkled sticky notes. I scarf it down in one bite .
Sometimes I wish I knew the secret identity of my Willy Wonka, because on days like today, when the world is heavy and every task feels impossible, the kind gesture reminds me there are slivers of light in every rainstorm.
A soft hum cuts through the fog of my sugar-addled mind.
Peeking around my monitor, I’m greeted by an all-too-familiar, cocky smile from Mateo Alvarez—fellow PhD candidate, thorn in my side, and, clearly, the universe’s favorite.
He’s been gifted every trait required to survive and thrive in our world.
His scientific work is inspired—even if it gives me an ulcer to admit it to myself—and he skates through life with a level of confidence I could never achieve.
Charles Darwin would take one look at Mateo and scribble down “marvelous specimen of a man” in his notebook.
Pisses me off.
On the flip side, I defy his idea of evolution. I was not adapted to survive, and yet, here I am, alive and kicking.
Not by choice.
I can’t be an evolutionary biologist and disregard the idea of natural selection.
That would be parallel to an assassin saying they don’t believe in murder.
The juxtaposition is otherworldly. But thanks to modern medicine, my mother’s iron will, and a dozen pins and plates keeping me in one piece, I’m here to disappoint Charles, right beside tea sachets and unnatural rates of extinction.
When we meet one day, I’ll apologize profusely.
I’m not the only one defying his work, though. The other sycophant blatantly ignoring well-established theories?
None other than Mateo: the most arrogant man on the planet and a fossil fuel supporter (not confirmed, but I have a hunch). He’s six feet, two inches of I’m smarter than you, with an infuriatingly attractive Spanish accent.
What theory has he thrown in the trash? That Satan doesn’t exist. He does, and Mateo is his chosen corporeal form .
His deep laugh skitters down my spine, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
“Something funny, Mateo?”
He sets down his coffee mug, an ostentatious vessel with “world’s best scientist” etched on the front. Whatever chump gifted it to him never met Charles or me, because he wouldn’t even be the world’s first- or second-best scientist.
His arms rise over his head, and the crisp hem of his linen shirt rises, offering a glimpse of his lower stomach and the dusting of dark hair that trails down his toned stomach. My heart races as I follow the path down to his waistband.
Do not look at his zipper .
I look at his zipper.
My breath hitches as I lose control of my thoughts, my imagination running around like a wild animal, creating images of him without any clothing.
Ripping my gaze north, I find Mateo watching me, watching him. His lips tug up in a lazy, knowing grin.
Heat floods my cheeks—from anger, naturally.
He is exasperatingly sexy, emphasis on the first part. Worse, he knows he’s attractive, and he flirts with me like it’s a game to him. A way to establish his academic dominance. Fluster me into making a mistake.
I see right through his malarkey.
When we first met, I was foolish enough to believe we could be friends, but that dream died a brutal death after he won an award for best poster presentation at our first marine genomics conference.
I was awarded second place, and his smarmy smile when they handed him the certificate hammered the final nail in our friendship coffin.
That day, he became my academic enemy.
“Just you, bruja,” he purrs. His tone is low and raspy and makes me want to throw something against the wall .
I hate the nickname and how he mocks the crystals and essential oils by calling me a witch. They offer me a sense of peace, and every time he belittles them, it grates my nerves a bit more.
Besides, Amy and I tried to curse him with bad hair forever after a night of drinking wine coolers, but our spell failed, which means I am not a witch.
Who the hell even has hair that always looks that good?
I tap my Charles Darwin bobblehead, intent on ignoring Mr. Perfect Hair for the rest of the day, but he moves around my computer to wink at me. It only happens for one second, maybe two, but I get lost in the flecks of gold in his irises.
When I return to the real world, Mateo’s grin is shit-eating.
“Do you think I’m pretty, Charlie?” he croons, batting his eyelashes.
I scoff, clamping down on my lip to fight the awkward blush that’s creeping up my neck. Finding Mateo pretty and liking Mateo are two entirely different things. I wish my vagina understood what my brain does. Instead, she is a cavewoman.
“I think you’re maddening,” I grumble, but by the way his head tips back in laughter, my words don’t land how I want them to.
Annoying asshole.