Yeah. That one hurts.
I’ve had a lot of people dismiss me over the years based on my appearance alone. Having this jack apple dismiss me shouldn’t hurt. But it does.
I knew it would. It’s why I pushed him to say it.
Because he’s a jerk. And I can’t forget that.
I can’t ever forget that.
Because if I do, I’ll end up focusing on the fact that he’s brilliant and smells faintly of pine and has hair that looks touchably soft.
“So what if I am pretty?” I ask, getting even closer. Getting right in his face. Because if he’s going to be a jerk, then I will be too. “You think that means I can’t also be smart? You think that means that I’m incapable of intelligent conversation? Of ambition?” My voice rises with each question, to the point that I’m almost yelling at him. “Of having the skills and knowledge you need to get this grant? Is that what you think?”
“No. Of course not!” he practically roars, hands flying into the air in a broad gesture. He doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s holding his cane in one hand.
I take a step back automatically. Maybe to avoid his cane, but also because his roar makes me realize how loud I’ve gotten.
Sucking in a deep breath, I press a hand to my belly, trying to settle the sudden tension stirring there. Because I never yell. I just . . . don’t.
That’s how unsettled this man makes me. This brilliant, infuriating man who says he didn’t dismiss me because of my appearance, but has obviously done just that.
I glare at him. “Don’t.”
“What?” he demands. “Don’t shake my cane at you?” He gives it another shake. This one accompanied by a mocking smirk. “I’m not going to hurt you. But since you demanded I come to you, I needed my cane to get down all those damn stairs. And I can’t very well throw up my hands in annoyance without shaking it.”
My gaze flickers to the stairs behind him. It’s a lot of stairs.
I haven’t asked about the cane. About why he needs it. But I have seen him limp, so I assume his leg hurts when he walks. Maybe that’s why he’s so grumpy all the time.
Maybe.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him get away with treating me like I’m less competent just because I know how to use a curling iron.
So I take a step closer. Again. Back into cane-shaking range, just so he knows I’m not scared of him. “I didn’t mean don’t shake your cane. I meant don’t dismiss me because of my looks.”
“I . . .” He stammers for a second. Then looks me over again, before saying, “I didn’t make your beauty an issue. You did when you purposely dressed up in that hideous sweater set designed to make you look like an avocado.”
I snap my mouth closed, not sure how exactly to respond to that.
“What am I supposed to think? You were frumpy when you came to my office, but when I show up here, you look like this. Obviously, you didn’t want me to know you’re beautiful. I didn’t dismiss you because of your appearance. You did.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. And I teach a lot of twenty-year-olds who say a lot of stupid things.”
“You didn’t want me to know you’re pretty. Why not? Were you afraid I’d be attracted to you? That I wouldn’t be able to resist you? Because trust me, that’s not going to be a problem.”
“Okay, I take it back.Thatis the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What else am I supposed to think when you deliberately hid the way you look?” he asks in a tone that’s . . .
What?
There’s something in his tone I can’t quite pin down. Almost like he’s hurt, like I hurt his feelings.
So I soften my tone when I answer. “That I wanted to be taken seriously. That I didn’t want you to dismiss me based on a first impression.”
“I wouldn’t dismiss you based on what you look like.”
“Oh sure,” I say glibly. “But you did dismiss me based on my profession. My field of research. My lack of PhD. Do you really think you would have stopped at my outward appearance?”
