Chapter 1
Max
Everyone knows I’m an asshole. Everyone I’ve ever worked with, taught, or even met agrees. I’m a total dick.
I don’t see what the big deal is. I don’t demand people waste their time being nice to me. Why should I be expected to do the same for them?
The upside of being a dick is that no one expects me to act like anything else. Former students never want letters of recommendations. The head of the department has never once asked me to be on a committee. No one asks me for favors. No one ever just stops by to chat.
Except today. Today, when I let myself into lab, there’s a woman reading the notes I wrote on the whiteboard before leaving last night.
“What are you doing in my lab?”
She’s petite, with mousy brown hair pulled back into a bun low on her neck. She’s dressed in a knee-length skirt, sneakers, and a sweater the color of something I might've poured out of a petri dish.
The lenses of her glasses are so big they make her look like an insect.
Despite her delicacy, she doesn’t blanch at my tone.
Instead, she smiles. “You must be Dr. Ramsey.”
She walks over and holds out a hand so tiny I’d probably shatter it if I touched her.
I’ve got my satchel in one hand and my cane in the other. I’m not about to shuffle all my shit around to shake hands with a stranger. And people sayI’minconsiderate.
She looks down, realizes I can’t easily shake her hand and she jerks her hand back, blushing.
Yeah. There it is.
I stomp past her and can feel her gaze on my damn leg.
I’m aware of the weakness in my leg with every step. The way the muscles spasm seemingly for no reason, like they might suddenly give out.
I always feel it. Every step I’ve taken since the car accident that shattered my hip and left a mangled scar slashing across my cheek.
I don’t mean to stomp everywhere I go, but the slight difference in my leg length plus the cane makes every step I take seem louder and clumsier. I don’t growl when I walk past but I want to, because I hate being watched, especially by a woman. The fact that she’s young and even passably attractive makes it that much worse.
I wish I hadn’t brought my cane today. It draws attention to my limp. Nine days out of ten, I don’t use it. But on the rare day I overdo it and I’m on my feet too long, I need it. The last thing I want when I’m already fatigued is for my leg to give out in public.
She just watches me as I pass her, like she’s waiting for me to say something.
I don’t.
So far, I haven’t frightened her away.
Stubborn little thing.
“I’m Holly. Holly Dolinsky. From the Communications Department.”
I shrug out of my coat and drape it over the back of my stool before sliding onto it. I toss my satchel on to the empty chair beside me so that she’s not tempted to sit there herself. Because, Christ, that would be a fucking disaster.
The only thing worse than having a woman in my lab would be having one sitting right next to me.
I don’t hate women. I hate being near women. I hate how good they smell. I hate their pitying looks. I hate their sympathy. I hate how fucking kind they are.
Kindness is the worst.
Women aren’t kind to real men. They’re kind to kittens and lost puppies. They’re kind to ugly, crippled men they would never dream of fucking.
