REPRODUCTION: A Fake Dating Romantic Comedy

Book 8: Hypothesis Series

by Penny Reid

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Sam keeps sleepwalking . . . and waking up in the wrong bed.

Samantha Jarlston keeps telling herself she doesn’t want to get romantically involved with her former childhood best friend and current partner in crime, the very sexy chess grandmaster, Andreas Kristiansen. But despite her many, many, MANY protestations, Sam keeps waking up in Andreas’s bed. Even worse, he’s adorably flustered and shy about it. Every. Single. Time.

Sleepwalking into Andreas’s bedroom and his cute reactions aren’t complications Sam has time for, not when she needs to get back on track with her Ph.D., catch up with her part-time job while avoiding the inappropriate Dr. James Nieminen, not to mention juggling the demands of exacting revenge on the Kristiansens.

Basically, her social calendar is quite full.

Does her subconscious know something her conscious brain does not? Is Sam ready to give up on revenge once and for all and figure out how to make things work with her first love?

And what happens when Sam finally discovers adorable Andreas’s dirty little secret?

‘REPRODUCTION’ is book 2 in the ‘Fundamentals of Biology’ trilogy, ends on a cliffhanger, and cannot be read as a standalone. ‘Fundamentals of Biology’ is the third trilogy in a series of trilogies that begins with ‘Elements of Chemistry’ and ‘Laws of Physics.’ You do NOT need to read ‘Elements of Chemistry’ or ‘Laws of Physics’ before reading ‘Fundamentals of Biology.’

Release date: October 16, 2025

Publisher: Cipher-Naught

Print pages: 252

Sample

*Samantha*

Sunlight. Actual, golden, warm-on-my-face sunlight. My first coherent thought of the day
was, So, this is what it’s like to sleep soundly through the night and wake up after sunrise. The
next was, I feel fucking awesome.
For the first time in two years, I was well rested and not fighting a caffeine-withdrawal
headache.
Maybe I’d died and this was the afterlife, a high-thread-count sheet, a cocoon of perfect
warmth, and a brain empty of intrusive thoughts but full of serotonin, the type only made
possible by an appropriate length and number of REM cycles. I allowed myself the decadence of
drifting there, savoring the delicate pressure of a memory-foam pillow against my temple, the
gentle weight of a duvet across my hips, and the luxurious sense of not having a single place I
needed to be.
I let myself enjoy this blissful state for exactly eight seconds before my limbs, traitorous as
ever, craved movement. So, I began to stretch, arching my toes. But before I could fully
commence a morning starfish, I froze. Because my left hand was palming the undeniable reality
of another human being.
There’s a microsecond between “that’s a person” and “which person” that, for most people,
might be raw panic. For me, however, it was pure professionalism. I had a procedure for this.
Step one: Assess level of nudity. My left hand, still frozen mid-stretch, confirmed bare
skin, but not below-the-waist bare. Chest, maybe? Arm, maybe? Stomach, definitely. And a
muscly one.
Step two: Identify the person. Keeping my eyes closed, I mentally replayed the previous
twelve hours. Had I gone out? No. Had I let anyone into the building? Also no. Had I, at any
point, consumed more than the recommended daily allowance of alcohol? Negative.
So, no hookups. No midnight social calls. No one should be in my bed.
Yet, this warm body next to mine definitely existed. And this wasn’t a dream, I wasn’t
asleep. Someone warm and solid and occupying a scandalous percentage of my mattress.
Step three: Confirm position. With the meticulousness of a bomb technician, I moved my
fingertips. Male, for sure. Hairless chest, ridged with muscle. Not moving, which meant asleep or

possibly dead. Breath? Yes, regular, slow, and deep. So, not dead. I could feel his chest rise and
fall beneath the new position of my left hand.
Step four: Open eyes, assess the scene, and—oh my God!
This wasn’t the afterlife. This was a penthouse apartment in the Lower East Side of
Manhattan.
And I was spooning Andreas Kristiansen.
Not just spooning, but aggressively spooning. I was ladling him, as though sometime in the
night I’d turned into an octopus and decided his body was my favorite rock to cling to. My left
leg hooked over both of his, my left arm splayed across his chest and under his shirt, and my face
nestled in the crook of his neck like a needy baby possum.
My stomach folded itself into an origami crane. How did this happen?
Meanwhile, Andreas, for his part, either didn’t mind or hadn’t yet noticed. He lay mostly
on his back, turned slightly toward me, the soft sound of his breathing barely audible. Shifting
backward and reversing out of his neck, I tilted my head and readjusted my temple on the pillow.
His face was less than six inches from mine, so close I could see the individual eyelashes resting
on his cheek, the faintest pink flush along his jaw.
Step five: Detach with minimal jostling.
I tried. I really, really tried to execute an elegant, silent disengagement. What happened
instead was I pulled my arm back, but in my haste, whacked him square in the solar plexus.
Andreas grunted and flinched, which caused me to overcompensate. I attempted to roll away and
simultaneously kick off the duvet, but gravity betrayed me. Damn gravity, always letting me
down!
I tumbled off the edge of the mattress and landed on the carpet with a muffled thud.
For a moment, I just lay there, listening to the pounding of my heart in my ears,
contemplating how in the heck we’d ended up in bed together.
Above me, I heard Andreas take a deep breath. A moment later, he peered over the edge of
the bed. He blinked, hair sticking up in sleep-wild directions, and regarded me with what felt like
cool, clinical detachment. “Are you injured?” he asked, voice husky from sleep.
I scrambled to an upright sitting position, heat flooding my cheeks. “No, I’m fine,” I lied,
even as I clutched my tailbone, which would absolutely be bruised by lunch.

Andreas’s gaze did a quick vertical scan, pausing at my legs, then darting back to my face.
“Good,” he said stiffly, an unmistakable yet faint blush blooming over his cheeks.
Is he embarrassed? Good! Who did he think he was? Climbing into bed with me?
I pushed my hair out of my face, indignance flaring in my chest. “I, uh—why are you in
my bed?” I demanded.
Sitting up fully, Andreas righted his shirt in a way that felt oddly modest and careful, and
then cleared his throat. “You are mistaken. This is my room.”
I looked around. Oh my God!
He was right. The massive window, the bare walls, the sheer size of the bed—I was in the
main bedroom. His bedroom.
I pressed my palms to my eyes. “Oh fuck. I sleepwalked again.”
“Correct. You came in around three. You did not respond to verbal cues.”
Dropping my hands, I refused to feel mortified as I assessed the situation. Yes, I’d
sleepwalked into his room and climbed into his bed and ladled him aggressively, but he just
stated that he’d been aware of my invasion for several hours, and was cognizant when it
happened, and had done . . . what? Anything? He just let me sleep with him?
“You tried to wake me up?” I squinted at him.
He nodded, still stiff and serious. “Only at first. Then I remembered your roommate said
you were a sleepwalker, and you told me yourself you have insomnia. It can be dangerous to
wake a sleepwalker, so I let you sleep.”
Hmm. There was some logic there. And yet—
“So, your solution was to let me”—I gestured, indicating the proximity of our
bodies—“occupy your personal space all night?”
The pink on his cheeks burned brighter and he cleared his throat again, saying with a hint
of defensiveness, “It seemed to work. You slept well.”
I stared at him, noticing, to my utter incredulity, how this expression he currently wore
made him look ridiculously adorable. What is he thinking? What is this expression?
Not quite embarrassed, but something like it. Not regretful. Definitely not ashamed. More
like . . . bashful?
That’s it.

Huffing a short laugh, I rolled my eyes at myself, even as my lungs burned with confusion.
I didn’t understand him. Why would he be shy about it? Wasn’t he the one who let me sleep in
his bed? WHATEVER!
Since I was still on the floor, I checked to ensure my oversized T-shirt covered me to mid-
thigh and did my best to ignore my lack of pants. “Well, then”—I forced a calm confidence into
my voice I didn’t quite feel—“I apologize for sleepwalking into your bedroom last night. I will
barricade my door from the inside to keep it from happening again.”
“Is that safe?” Andreas stood, tugging on the front of his button-up, long-sleeve pajama
shirt. I noted against my will that Andreas wore a dashing matching blue-and-white pin-striped
pajama set. You know, the ones with the mother-of-pearl buttons, piping at the wrists, and a
pocket at the left breast. Basically, they were the pajama equivalent of an expensive suit.
In that moment, the stark dichotomy between us struck me. Andreas in his suit of fancy
pajamas, likely costing more than my entire wardrobe, and me in my oversized, four-dollar
cotton T-shirt. The last fifteen years had taken us on completely contrasting paths. We were not
the same.
Andreas reached for his phone while I mused over our surface level differences, but also
the invisible ones. Our upbringing, education, and life experiences. Suddenly, I felt immensely
curious about him, where in the world he’d been, what he’d been doing, who he’d met, who his
friends were. Had he gone to college? I had no idea.
I could look it up online, but I didn’t want to read about Andreas. I wanted to know about
his past from him.
I was so busy with my own thoughts that I didn’t notice he’d extended his hand to me until
he said, “Do you need help standing?”
“Um—” I didn’t need a hand, but his hand was so nice. Therefore I did what any self-
respecting hand aficionado would do. I accepted his fingers.
He hauled me up, steady and effortlessly. But instead of releasing me, he held on. “Are you
sure you are not hurt?” he asked, voice suddenly softer.
My brain short-circuiting on the gentleness of his tone, I blinked at him dumbly for several
seconds. But then I caught my reflection in the mirror behind him and my hair was in a full-
blown Einstein-on-MDMA situation. Yeesh.

Extracting myself from his grip, I crossed my arms and backed up a step. “I’m fine. And I
think I’m late for work.”
His eyes flicked down to my legs, then back up, and he straightened his spine before
speaking. “You have to work today?”
“Yes.”
Andreas’s eyes narrowed. “Today is Sunday.”
Aw crap.
“That—that’s right.” I spoke and nodded haltingly while fumbling with improvised
bravado. “But for a PhD student who has to fight for lab time, there is no such thing as a
weekend. So, I better get to it.”
I marched around him, but then spun in the doorway, remembering something I’d meant to
ask yesterday. “Oh, so. Andreas. Was the adoption paperwork filed? When will it be final?” For
good measure, I tacked on some humor. “Just want to know when to start addressing you as
father dearest.”
I noticed his jaw tighten at my joke. Pushing his hands into his pajama pockets, he leveled
me with his trademark bored stare. “Unlike PhD student labs, courts recognize weekends and are
closed until Monday.” He sounded calm, but I sensed an undercurrent of odd aggression. Or
maybe my vibe-checker was on the fritz this morning. Highly possible given my unconscious
brain’s choices.
He went on. “I have pulled some strings to get it fast-tracked. Everything should be
finalized before Thanksgiving.”
“That’s good. Thank you.” This felt like the first real, official step toward revenge. The
engagement was all a show, but this adoption was legally binding. Perhaps my subconscious
would avoid his bedroom once everything was final.
On that note. “Oh, again, since I’m apparently sleepwalking, I should barricade my
door—”
“Do you think that’s safe?” He shuffled a step forward.
“—but you should probably lock your door at night. If I somehow get past the barricade
and door, I don’t want to impose on you again. I am really sorry about last night.”
Andreas openly inspected me. The silence stretched for so long, I thought he might not
respond, and I was just about to leave when he finally said, “I will keep that in mind.”

Hoping that statement was his way of politely agreeing, I nodded, then darted out, speed
walking back to my side of the apartment. Once safely in the sanctuary of the bathroom, I braced
my hands against the cool countertop, stared into the mirror, and tried to process the previous
five minutes.
My hair was a fright. My shirt was askew. I still felt the ghostly imprint of Andreas’s hand
on my skin.
One night into living with him, and I’d already been betrayed by my subconscious brain. I
had to get a handle on myself. I was an adult. A scientist. A woman with a mission and that
mission came first.
And yet, the only thing I could think about, as I stared at my reflection, was how good it
had felt to be held by him. Even if he hadn’t meant it that way. Even if he was, very soon, going
to be my legal father.
I groaned into the sink, then splashed water on my face. “Get it together, Sam,” I
whispered.
But my skin still tingled where his hand had touched mine, and somewhere in my chest,
something soft and dangerous took deeper root.
* * *

If I were being honest, I needed the cold late-autumn air. I needed the sting, because my
brain had been running a fever since approximately 8:45 AM, which was when I’d tumbled out
of Andreas’s bed.
I hadn’t even managed to put on my shoes before fleeing the apartment, waving off
Andreas’s offer of coffee. Instead, I’d clutched them to my chest like a security blanket. Tara,
who seemed to have the tact of a Buddhist monk and the judgmental restraint of a golden
retriever, merely greeted me when I appeared on the sidewalk.
“I’m teaching a kickboxing class tonight. Want to come?” Tara asked as soon as she pulled
into traffic.
“Yes. Please. What time?” Anything to postpone going back to Andreas’s apartment.
“Nine.”
I thought for a moment. “That works. I’ll finish up work around six, grab a bite, then we
can head straight there? I’ll digest while I check out the gym.”

“Sounds good.” Tara flipped on her turn signal and the remainder of the drive passed in
silence.
I spent it recalling all the boys I’d left before, every strategy for extracting inconvenient
feelings or letting them die on the vine. Usually, disentangling myself was as easy as identifying
a man’s most repugnant opinion and, if necessary, blowing it out of proportion until I couldn’t
see the good anymore. But Andreas hadn’t cooperated last night, sharing none of his repugnant
opinions.
My second strategy was typically foolproof and involved asking myself: What was so
special about this guy, anyway? What did I actually like about him?
I mean, sure. Andreas was handsome. So were lots of guys. And he was a kisser of rare
talent, so that was something special. And he was thoughtful, smart, and strategic. And he
seemed to genuinely care about doing the right thing, even if it made his life difficult. And I’ve
known him forever. And his hands . . .
DON’T THINK ABOUT HIS HANDS!
Squeezing my eyes shut, I gave my head a quick shake to dispel the image of Andreas’s
gorgeous hands and decided to talk myself out of liking him later. For the remainder of the car
ride, I stayed busy by making a mental task list of all the work waiting for me at the lab.
But the lab was even less successful as a distraction. My hands shook so badly during
pipetting that I had to recalibrate the digital reader three times, which is, for anyone keeping
score, three more times than I’d ever miscalibrated it during all my years of grad school. By 2:00
PM, I’d gotten so little work done, I abandoned the blessedly empty lab and worked instead on a
project Dmitry had emailed to me last week. He’d asked me to read through his methods section.
I edited it for him instead, adding new citations and fleshing out a few of his placeholders.
The only thing that kept me grounded was the knowledge that, after work, I’d hopefully
get to burn off at least a fraction of my anxious energy doing violence to some heavy bags in
Tara’s kickboxing class.
That was my new plan: punch things.
When 5:30 PM rolled around I figured enough was enough. I texted Tara, changed in the
locker room, and made my way downstairs. Standing just outside the front doors of the biology
building, blue scarf wound up to my nose, I searched the curb for the familiar hulk of Tara’s
Mercedes. The wind had me blinking against the cold.

Movement flickered at the edge of my vision. A man, tall, moving forward purposefully,
strode up the far side of the street. His suit was an expensive blue-gray, not the fun blue of a retro
car but the cold, almost metallic blue of a winter sky right before it snows. He wore a cashmere
overcoat that looked incredibly soft. It reminded me of Andreas’s. Don’t think about Andreas!
Refocusing on the man, I noted his hair was cut close on the sides, styled just enough on
top that it seemed to mock lesser men who dared to try the look. Huh. He sorta looks like
Andreas . . .
Before I could chide myself for thinking about Andreas again, I registered who this man
was, and every neuron in my prefrontal cortex fired at once.
Henrik Kristiansen.
Andreas’s half brother, the one Andreas had described as “unpredictable and often resorts
to physical violence.”
Henrik’s stare locked on me at exactly that moment. A pulse of adrenaline had me standing
straighter.
Run. ....