“Why is he even a contender if he doesn’t have a doctorate? Isn’t that against the rules?”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to hide my smile, because—God help me—indignant Max is... well, he’s cute. I say gently, “There aren’t rules for this. The committee gets to pick whoever they think is most worthy of the fellowship. And Sandeke is doing groundbreaking work with communications satellites that—”
“He’s not even a scientist?” His voice rises, this latest affront clearly too much. “He’s an engineer?”
A lesser woman would have laughed out loud. It’s really a sign of my moral fortitude that I don’t. Instead, I explain about the Sandeke Foundation and the work Martin has done since turning his back on his father’s fortune.
“So he’s an engineer? And he doesn’t even need the money?” Max’s frown fades.
And then something happens I didn’t expect. Something I could never have prepared myself for.
Max’s mouth curves into a smile.
Of course, on Max, this looks like a subtle shifting of the mass of hair covering the lower half of his face. Still, there’s a glint in his eyes. The combination hits me like a wrecking ball.
How on earth is his smile even more devastating than all those muscles he was hiding under his ill-fitted shirts? Is it the confidence? Or that masculine arrogance?
Either way, it’s deadly.
Thankfully, before I can drop to my knees and pledge my eternal devotion, Max says, “The committee will never give it to Sandeke.”
“Because he’s an engineer?” Max gives a smug nod. And now it’s my turn to smile. “Before Lily McPherson joined the committee, probably not. But now, I think he’s the frontrunner.”
Max blanches. “He can’t be.”
“He’s brilliant, tech savvy, and”—I waggled Max’s phone—“he knows how to play the social media game. He is exactly the kind of candidate who would parlay this fellowship into great things.” I let Max stew on that for a minute. And then I add, “But you’re right. He’s not as brilliant as you. The only thing he has that you don’t is a social media presence.”
Max looks from me to the phone in my hand and back again. Obviously, he’s still reluctant.
“Don’t forget, this is what I do. I can fix this for you. But first you have to create the social media accounts.”
I hand the phone back to him, because the apps have mostly loaded now. But he’s still frowning. “But won’t you know all my passwords, then?”
“You are digging pretty deep for excuses there, big guy. I promise I will not use them to hack your accounts. It’s not like I’m your stalker.”
Right as I say that last bit, his phone rings again in my hand. This time, I see the name and avatar. The avatar is an outline of a buxom woman, tire-flap style. The name is “Your Stalker.”
He snatches the phone from me, his cheeks flushing bright red.
“I need to take this.”
“Go right—”
But he’s stormed away before I can get the word “ahead” out.
It’s a big house but it’s mostly empty, so his voice carries even though he leaves the room. Or maybe he just doesn’t mind that I hear his side of the conversation.
“I’m not doing this now,” he growls as soon as he answers the phone.
Which means whoever it is, is someone he knows well enough to answer without greeting her.
There’s a pause and then he says, “No. I’m not doing that. Ever.” Then, “I will call as soon as this is done.”
He says the word “this” like he’s undergoing an unanesthetized root canal.
When he speaks again, his tone is softer. Almost fond. “Yes, I promise.”
Well. That’s interesting.
