Below Zero (The STEMinist Novellas, #3)

by Ali Hazelwood

“Don’t you feel like your entire life has led you to this moment? Like you were meant to be here?” Aside from Eager Beaver,

I wanted to stop feeling as though I were rotting in my own aimlessness,

I did not come here to make friends, but hurt my weird Cheez-It friend or my other weird soccer friend and I will beat you up with a lead pipe till you piss blood for the rest of your life.

“You ask a lot of questions.” I tilt my head. “Bad questions?” Silence. “No.” More silence as he studies me. “Remarkably good questions.”

He is fully smiling now. He has a heart-stopping dimple on his left cheek, and . . . Okay, fine: he’s aggressively hot.

He is, very simply, a never-before-experienced mix of cute and overwhelmingly masculine. With a complex, layered air about him. It spells simultaneously Do not piss me off because I don’t fuck around and Ma’am, let me carry those groceries for you.

Wow. A male engineer who’s not an asshole. The bar is pretty low, but I’m nevertheless impressed.

“It’s fine. Let’s forget I said anything. But do email me your application package once you’re back home, please. I promise I won’t reply with unsolicited nudes.” “No, it’s not that . . .” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. His cheekbones look rosier than before. His lips move, trying to form words for a few seconds, until he settles on: “It’s just . . . unexpected.”

“You don’t look okay,” and . . . no. “Really.” My tone is icy. Is Ian Floyd trying to imply that he’s out of my reach? Because if so, I will slap him. “How do I look, then?” “Just . . .” He swallows again. “I . . . Women like you don’t usually . . .” “Women like me.” Wow. Sounds like I’ll actually have to slap him. “What’s that? Because—” “Beautiful. You are very, very beautiful. Probably the most . . . And you’re obviously smart and funny, so .

“Stop,” he pants into my mouth, urgent, a little desperate. “You need to be quiet, or I’m going to—I just want to—”

“Can I buy you dinner?” he asks against my lips. “Before we . . .” I shake my head. The tips of our noses brush against each other. “No need.” “I . . . I’d like to, Hannah.” “Nah.” I kiss him again. Once. Deep. Glorious. “I don’t do that.” “You don’t do”—another kiss—“what?” “Dinner.” Kiss. Again. “Well,” I amend, “I do eat. But I don’t do dinner dates.”

“You don’t date . . . at all?” “Nope.” His expression is suddenly withdrawn again, so I smile and add, “But I’m very happy to come to your place anyway. No need to be dating for that, right?” He takes a step back—a large one, like he wants to put some physical space between us. The front of his jeans is . . . a mess. I want to clean him up. “Why . . . why don’t you date?”

“I like you, too.” I shrug. “Shouldn’t we hang out, then? Isn’t that good enough?” He looks away. Down, to his shoes. “If I spend more time with you, I’m only going to like you more.” “Nah.” I snort. “That’s not the way it usually works.” “It does. It will, for me.” He

“Hannah.” The shock of hearing my name—in Ian’s voice, cocooned by the whistle of the wind, and through the metallic line of my satphone, no less—has me instantly shutting up. Until he continues. “Just relax and think of Mars, okay? I’ll be there soon.”

“An informational interview?” Alexis sounds skeptical. She stares at Ian, who is still staring at me. “Yeah. Kind of. It devolved into a . . .” Into what? Us almost fucking on NASA property? You wish, Hannah. “A debugging session,” Ian says. Then clears his throat. I let out a laugh. “Right. That.” “Debugging session?” Alexis sounds even more skeptical. “That doesn’t sound fun.” “Oh, it was,” Ian says. He’s still staring at me. Like he’s found his long-missing house keys and is afraid he’ll lose them again if he looks away.

“Do you ever think about it?” “About what?” “Five years ago. That afternoon.” “I think about it a lot,”

“Is that why you came to rescue me?” I tease. “Because you were thinking about it? Because you have been secretly pining for years?” He meets my eyes squarely. “I don’t know that there was anything secret about that.”

“Sadie, I’m fine.” “You really think you’re going to win this?” “Fuck yeah.” She leans forward over her bowl of cereal with a small smile. “It’s on, baby. Let the best bitch win.” • • • Sadie, naturally, wins.

“Hannah, if that changes. If you ever find yourself able to believe that someone could care about you that much. And if you wanted to actually . . . have dinner with that someone.” He lets out a laugh. “Well . . . Please, consider me. You know where to find me.”