God damn it.
I should have known Thorndyke wasn’t going to let this go.
“You’re here about the McPherson Fellowship.”
“I am.”
“Then you’re wasting your time. I already turned it down.”
I click a couple of windows open on the screen. I don’t care what. Anything to look busy. Anything to keep my gaze off the swath of thigh an inch away from my knuckles.
I’m about one mouse click away from accidentally brushing her thigh with the back of my hand. Which would be torture. Or bliss. Or a sexual harassment suit. Or all three. Though she’s the one sitting on my desk.
“Why on earth would you do that?” she asks.
And now I do look at her. Do what? Why would I touch her thigh? When it’s right next to my hand? The bigger question is why wouldn’t I?
Except that’s not what she’s referring to. I realize this a second later when she keeps talking.
“That makes no sense. The McPherson Fellowship is one of the most prestigious awards in the field.”
Right. The McPherson Fellowship.
The McPherson committee reached out to me a month ago. Apparently, I was on the short list to receive the fellowship this year. A fellowship worth five million dollars.
In the past, recipients simply showed up at a reception, took a few pictures and went home with the money.
This year, there were strings attached.
Heiress Lily McPherson had taken over the selection committee and apparently she wanted to “take advantage of social media to strategically position the fellowship in popular culture.”
The fellowship should be an honor. Instead, it’s making my life hell.
I give a snort of derision. “It’s not that prestigious.”
“Some people says it’s even better than a Nobel.”
“Nothing is better than a Nobel,” I grumble.
“It’s more exclusive. They only give out one McPherson Genius Award a year.”
I whip my chair around to face her, scooting back to put some space between us. “McPherson. Fellowship.”
“Excuse me?”
“Call things what they’re named. Not this trendy, popular nonsense.” In the past several years, the media had latched on to the ridiculous term “Genius Award.” The McPherson committee ran with it. What had once been a prestigious fellowship is now a platform for scientists who are more interested in showboating than doing real work. It’s a damn shame. “It’s not the Genius Award. It’s a fellowship. Not an award. I didn't win a race in an elementary school field day.”
“Well, you haven't won this yet either. And you won't unless you—”
“Unless I jump through a series of ridiculous hoops like I'm some sort of show dog.”
She blows out a breath, her eyes fluttering closed like she’s praying for patience. “It’s not a dog and pony show. It’s—”
“It’s twelve filmed lectures in front of a studio audience.”
Whatever moron thought I was a good candidate to be filmed in front of a studio audience like one of those flakes doing a TED talk needed to have their head examined.
“Yes,” she says slowly. “For the purpose of educating a broader audience.”
