And no, it’s not like I think every woman should want to fuck me. It’s not that I think I deserve to have sex with anyone. I’m a dick, but I’m notthatkind of dick.
I just hate knowing that no woman would ever sleep with me out of anything other than pity.
Worse, I hate that I fucking care at all.
I’m a scientist, God damn it. I work my ass off for the betterment of humankind. I shouldn’t fucking care how good any woman smells—not a beautiful woman or even this passably attractive woman in an ugly sweater.
But I do care. And I don’t want her any closer to me than she has to be.
I want her out of my lab before I notice if she smells like flowers or lemons or whatever the hell kind of perfume she uses. I look at her again. No. Not perfume. The kind of woman who wears a sweater that ugly wouldn’t also wear perfume. Which means she probably smells like her shampoo.
Unless she smells like the puke-green of her sweater. That might help.
But somehow I doubt I’ll be that lucky.
So I ramp up the rudeness. “This is the Louisa Franklin building. Communications Department is on the main campus in the Franklin Lewis building. Surprised they didn't tell you that at orientation. Another way to tell would be the fact that they don’t have labs. This is for hard sciences.”
She blinks in surprise, pushes her bug-eye glasses further up her nose and says, “I’m not looking for the Communications Department. I'm not a student—I'm a lecturer here.”
As if I give a shit.
Still, I squint past the ugly clothes and severe hairstyle. Faint lines by the corners of her eyes. Frown lines between her eyebrows. She’s older than her porcelain pale skin makes her look. Plus, the combination of a skirt and sneakers looks more like something a student would wear.
What did she say her name is? Dolinsky? Why does that sound familiar?
“What are you doing in my lab?”
“I was hoping I could have a few minutes of your time to—”
“Office hours are posted on my door.” Jesus, even her pattern of speech is annoying. Can’t she just get to the damn point? “Come back then.”
“I did.” She takes a step closer. “I waited at your office on the other side of the building for the last three posted office hours. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of last week. You weren't there.”
Even though the university mandates I post office hours, my students know better than to waste my time.
This woman obviously doesn’t.
“Shoot me an email. I'll make an appointment for you.”
“I did send you an email. Two weeks ago. And a follow-up email last week.” I open my mouth to talk, but she holds up a hand. “Also, I made an appointment with you through the department admin. You didn't show up for that either.”
I frown, unable to remember if Clarissa had handed me a note the previous week. “Make another appointment. I don't have time to talk to you today.”
“No,” the woman says. “I’m here now. And I'm not leaving. So you might as well talk to me.”
I glance at the computer. It’s still booting anyway. “Fine,” I grumble. “You’ve got about two minutes before this is done booting up. What do you need?”
“It’s not what I need. It’s what you need.”
She steps even closer. She’s right next to my desk, her hip cocked to the side, one sneaker-clad shoe tapping in irritation.
And people say I’m not observant.
“I don’t need anything.” Which isn’t precisely true, so I add, “A bigger budget.” I quirk an eyebrow at my computer. “A faster booting computer, maybe.” Her eyes narrow in irritation and I feel a spike of pleasure that I’ve annoyed her. “And apparently I need better security outside my lab. How did you get in here anyway?”
“When you missed our appointment, I asked Clarissa to let me in.”
Hmm . . . Clarissa wouldn’t have let just anyone in, which meant the woman knew Clarissa. She might be one of those people who just knew everyone. But it was a big campus.
