“I didn’t—”
“You’re taken seriously simply because you’re a man. Throw a couple of PhDs in the mix, and there’s no one on earth who won’t take you seriously.”
“I didn’t throw PhDs in the mix. I worked my ass off for them.”
“Did you?” I ask archly, even though I know the answer. No one gets their doctorate without working for it. Not even people as brilliant as Max. But I’m desperate to get the conversation back on track. To talk about this professional relationship we’re supposed to have instead of whether or not I want him to be attracted to me. “If you worked for your doctorate, then why aren’t you willing to work for this?”
“Because I shouldn’t have to prove myself to anyone. The work should speak for itself.”
Yeah. There it is.
Every researcher I’ve ever met has that innate arrogance. It doesn’t surprise me that when it comes to his research, Ramsey has it in spades.
What is surprising is his vulnerability when it comes to his people skills. His stubborn refusal to even try to learn. He’s like a child so convinced he’s going to drown he refuses to step into the pool.
“Your work can’t speak for itself,” I tell him, “if no one ever sees it because you’re too lazy to learn how to share it with a modern audience.”
“I’m not lazy,” he barks.
“Then why can’t you bother to learn how to communicate?”
“I shouldn’t have to jump—”
I can tell he’s about to launch back into the argument about how he’s above all this, so I cut him off. “Wait. You don’t think . . . you don’t think I’m smarter than you, do you?”
“Of course not.”
His indignation is almost amusing.
Almost.
Though it would be better if he wasn’t quite so horrified by the implication.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I turn around and march back over to the podium to pick up my bag. “If you’re smarter than I am, and I learned how to do this stuff, then you can, too.”
I cross the dais to the steps on the other side before heading toward the door.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
I turn back around to see him following me. I almost feel bad for the guy. “I have office hours.”
“So we’re not going to do”—he gestures broadly again—“whatever it is you think I need to do.”
“Yes. We’re going to do it. The next time we meet.”
“But I’m here now.”
“And I have students waiting for me. Which I could have told you, if you’d bothered to make an appointment. Like I asked you to.”
He stops following me and his gaze settles into another scowl. “Fine,” he barks. And then, as if he just can’t stand not to have the last word, he says, “But the next time we meet, I don’t want you dressed like an avocado.”
I stop, turn back to him, and pin him with a look that would skewer a lesser man.
“Did you just tell me how I should dress? That I should look pretty for you?”
This time, it’s his turn to laugh. “I don’t give a fuck how you look. Just don’t hide your looks because you think I care about it. If I am going to dismiss you, it’s not because of how you look. It’s because I don’t need your expertise.”
God, he is such a jack apple.
