The Error Of Us

Chapter Two: Controlled Variables

Her phone buzzed.

[Declan]: Still alive in there?

She ignored it.

Another buzz.

[Declan]: I brought coffee.

Mara's resolve wavered.

[Declan]: It's that oat milk latte you like. No sugar, extra shot.

Damn him.

She stood and yanked open the lab door. Declan leaned against the opposite wall, holding two cups, looking unfairly pleased with himself.

"You're insufferable," she informed him.

He handed her the coffee. "And yet you opened the door."

Mara took a long sip, the caffeine hitting her bloodstream like a lifeline. "I hate you."

"Liar."

She scowled but didn't argue.

Declan nodded toward her laptop. "How's it going?"

"Terribly." The admission tasted bitter. "I can't get the models to align."

"Let me see."

Mara hesitated.

Declan raised an eyebrow. "What, you think I'm going to steal your half-finished draft?"

"No," she muttered. "I just hate being wrong."

"Join the club." He nudged her aside and dropped into her chair, scanning her screen. His fingers flew over the keyboard, tweaking lines of code with infuriating ease. "Here's your problem—you're forcing the parameters too tight. Loosen the constraints and let the data speak for itself."

Mara leaned over his shoulder, her breath catching as the simulation finally worked, the graphs aligning in perfect, beautiful harmony.

"Oh," she said softly.

Declan turned his head, and suddenly, they were close—close enough that she could count the flecks of gold in his stupidly green eyes. His gaze dropped to her mouth.

Mara's pulse roared in her ears.

Then her phone rang.

She jerked back, fumbling to answer. "Hello?"

"Dr. Sinclair?" The department secretary's voice was apologetic. "I'm afraid there's been a change to the grant review process. The committee wants all candidates to present their proposals together tomorrow—a joint session, with collaborative Q&A."

Mara's stomach dropped. "What?"

"Ten a.m., Conference Room B. And—" The secretary hesitated. "You'll be paired with Dr. Whitmore."

Mara's eyes locked with Declan's. His slow, wicked grin told her he'd already guessed the news.

She hung up.

"Well," Declan said, leaning back in her chair, "looks like we're officially stuck with each other."

Mara groaned.

This was a disaster.

Mara's grip on her coffee cup tightened. "This is some kind of joke."

Declan spun her chair lazily, looking far too entertained. "Afraid to work with me, Sinclair?"

"I'm afraid of committing justifiable homicide before tenure." She snatched her laptop back, glaring at the now-perfect simulation. It burned her pride to admit he'd fixed it in three keystrokes. "We'll divide the presentation slides. You take methodology, I'll cover results."