A muscle in his jaw twitches as he looks me up and down.
His gaze is somehow both hot and cold.
I feel he’s cataloging my every feature in a way that makes me intensely aware of everything about myself.
In particular, I’m aware of how different I look from the previous times we’ve met.
On both previous encounters, I’d gone to his lab. I’d known I’d be seeing him.
And, yes, that first time, I’d dressed down on purpose. Last time, I hadn’t given my appearance much thought. I hadn’t worn much makeup on either occasion.
As for today . . .
Well, today I was in full lecturing garb. Heels. Dress that skirted the line between professional and playful. My hair was in loose curls. My makeup worthy of the stage.
I look good. Like I always try to when I lecture.
To capture and hold the attention of nearly three hundred students, I need the confidence boost and they need to believe I’m worth listening to.
Max seems decidedly less impressed.
He steps closer, his gaze narrowing and his mouth curving into a sneer, and I know his next words are more about me than they are about Heidi Klum. “You expect me to believe that being beautiful is such a hardship.”
“You’re going to believe whatever you want to believe.”
“Am I?” he asks. “Or are you going to try to manipulate me into believing what you want me to believe based on how you dress.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask the question even though I can guess what he’s talking about.
Max Ramsey isn’t exactly a master of subtlety.
“Both times you showed up at my office dressed like a mousy undergrad. Then I walk into your lecture and see you looking like …” His mouth pinches as he drags his gaze up and down my body one more time.
I can’t tell if he can’t think of the words to describe my appearance or can’t choke them out past his disgust.
At least, my mind and common sense can’t. My body seems pretty darn sure it knows what he’s thinking, because heat flushes my skin and every darn cell in my body snaps to attention in response. Even my nipples harden as if to say, “Look at us! Look at us!”
Thank goodness my arms are crossed over my chest.
“Like what?” I ask coldly.
“Like a . . .” He seems to be casting around for a vile enough description. Then he gestures broadly at the screen behind me, where moments ago my presentation slides were displayed. “Like a fashion model.”
I nearly laugh. “I’m five-two. I look more like a Smurf than a fashion model.”
“What the hell is a Smurf?”
“What does it matter? I don’t look like a fashion model.”
“You know what I mean,” he grumbles.
“Why don’t you explain it anyway?” I goad. Because I need him to say it. I need to hear it out loud.
“You’re pretty. And you tried to pretend you’re not.”
His tone makes it perfectly clear that he means “pretty” as an insult.
Ouch.
