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“Why were you struggling? A doctorate is no small feat.” I shot a curious glance her way before I returned my attention to the road.

In my peripheral vision, I saw her wince. “Long story. Mostly, I’m an idiot.”

“I’d say idiots don’t become doctors, but I’ve met a few in my time,” I teased. “But I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

She scoffed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know. It was pretty bad. Head downtown, by the way. It’s the Blueridge Apartments.”

“Oh yeah, I know the place. Close to where we work, right?” She nodded. I gave her another brief look. “So?”

Ruth groaned. “You really want to know? Seriously?”

“We’re married,” I replied with mock gravity.

Laughing and shaking her curls, she sighed. “So, I got my master’s degree in archaeological science—carbon dating, subsistence strategies, sedimentology, that sort of thing.” She rotated her hand like she was listing off ingredients in a pot of goulash, not listing off highly technical, incredibly intelligent scientific fields that she had apparently taken years of her lifeto master. “But in my last few months, I met—” she paused, screwing up her face again.

I gave her a fast, pitying glance before making a right turn. “A guy?”

Nodding, she fiddled with her skirt again. “He was a humanities professor. He’d just gotten a big grant for really specific research into medieval art forms. It’s a rare thing to get that sort of funding—it was a shit ton of money that the historical arts don’t usually receive. And I… well, I fell pretty hard.” She said the last part like she was admitting to having a rare skin disease.

“Anyway, to fulfill the requirements of the grant, he needed four postdoc researchers. As far as post-graduation research gigs go, it was amazing, and he lured me in with the promise of half a decade of research in Italy. He convinced me to get my doctorate in humanities, which, he argued, was close to the things I loved doing. The funding was for ten years, which is huge, and I had plenty of time to finish my dissertation and join his research team.”

My stomach got a foreboding, gurgling feeling. “Uh oh.”

“Yeah. I got the degree. I did six months of postgrad research with him, which fulfilled the base requirements of the grant. Then he took all our funding and went to Italy on his own to finish the research.” Ruth pushed her glasses up her nose and sniffed. “And I was left with a doctorate I can’t use.”

And probably a broken heart, I added silently. “Well,” I tightened my hold on the wheel, sneaking one more look at her melancholy features. “What a dick.”

She turned a hesitant smile my way. “Yeah. He is.”

“So,” I summarized, eyes on the road but mind on her predicament, “you gave up on finding a humanities position and took upmatchmaking?”

She puffed out another laugh, leaning her head back against the headrest. “I didn’t give up. I just… floundered. He left in November. I had some money saved because everyone knows that postgrad can be a little brutal. But eventually, that dried up, and my odd jobs weren’t doing so well keeping me afloat while I looked for other professions. And let’s be real,” she shrugged, “finding humanities jobs is like playing the lottery. I knew that, but I—” The words seemed to catch in her throat, and she put her hand to the base of her neck.

“You trusted him,” I finished for her. My heart squeezed painfully. Whatever Ruth had done in her life, she certainly didn’t deserve that kind of treatment.

She shrugged. “I told you. Idiot. I should have gotten the degree I wanted and not let someone else influence my future.”

“Trusting and loving doesn’t make you an idiot,” I pointed out, stopping slowly at a red light. I looked over at her again. “Although, you matched yourself to someone about as well as you matched everyone else, apparently.”

Ruth laughed, and the sound left her lips with a reluctant lilt before she looked down and pressed her glasses to her face. “My survey data is consistent, it’s true.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, yes, that’s how I got myself in desperate circumstances. But more importantly, we need to discuss some terms, don’t we?”

“Terms?” I rubbed the back of my neck. “What terms?”

“Well, you know, like,” she gestured wordlessly between us. “What do we… do?”

“What did you do with your dick ex-boyfriend?” I challenged, knowing full well I was teasing her now. It was probably because she’d been unable to ask with her words if we’d slept together last night. I sensed an easy target.

“Hell,” she muttered, rolling her eyes up to the car roof. “I mean, how many times do you want me to show up as your date? How much do I need to know about you? Are you usually into PDA, and if we don’t touch each other, is that going to tip off your parents? Do I have to hold your hand or… or should we—”

“Okay, brainy babe, relax.” I reached out my hand and rested it heavily on the top of her head. “Turn your smart noggin off. We’re going on two dates. That’s it. Just do what you usually do on dates.” Without moving her head, she swerved an uncertain look my way. I cocked my head, glancing at her quickly before returning my attention to the downtown street we crawled down. “Youdidsay you had a boyfriend.”

“I said I fell for him,” she clarified in a quiet voice.

I removed my hand, speechless. There was no conceivable way this adorable, intelligent, quippy little scientist hadn’t been snagged by someone at some point. Unless…

“Wait, did you hold off on dating throughout your entire doctorate program for this asswipe?” I asked.

Ruth winced, pushing up her glasses again. “We did hookup.Casually. Sometimes.”