It’s long. It’s detailed.
For the record, it does not include things like “bleach the image of his abs from my brain,” “stop smelling woodsy candles at the grocery store in hopes of making your bedroom smell like him,” or “stop fantasizing about what his beard would feel like against your skin.”
Because I’m professional like that.
Instead the list has items like, “create content calendar for his social media,” and “figure out what Max actually does.”
There is a whole subsection devoted to “Make him look less scary.”
Items on that list are things like, “Buy him clothes that fit,” and “get him a decent haircut,” and, perhaps most importantly, “shave his beard.”
And, no, the beard-shaving thing isn’t on the list just so that I will stop wondering what he looks like without it. As I’ve said, I’m a professional.
So instead of fantasizing about a man I know has zero interest in me romantically or sexually, I work my way down the list, starting with the easy jobs. Because that’s always the way to go.
I send Max a text asking if he has a preferred barber. When I don’t hear back, I text and email him a list of local shops with good reviews. When I don’t hear back, I call Clarissa, get his schedule for the week, text Gwen to confirm his schedule and make him an appointment myself.
Which I then send to him in multiple formats.
And he still misses that appointment.
And the next two I schedule.
By the following Wednesday, I still haven’t heard back from the state social worker about the home visit, I’ve fielded three calls from different hairdressers regarding the two appointments he’s missed and received a very distressed text from the hairdresser I sent to cut his hair at his actual lab. I didn’t know it was possible to know a person is crying over text. But I knew.
On the upside, my weird fascination with Max is definitely waning.
No amount of woodsy-scented abs make up for this kind of bad behavior.
On Thursday I don’t have classes. Which leaves me an entire day to torture Max.
Or, rather, to get his hair cut and get him measured for a well-fitted suit.
I hire a tailor to come with me.
If there is one good thing about being the height of a Smurf, it’s that I know a good tailor. Several actually, since I have to have all my pants and most of my skirts hemmed.
Rodrigo is either a sweet old man with fourteen grandchildren or a hardened criminal who learned his skills in prison and was the inspiration for the Morgan Freeman character in Shawshank. He tells a lot of stories and I haven’t figured out which ones are true.
Either way, he’s the best tailor in town and I know Max can’t bully him.
Plus, I recruit help. I convince Clarissa to convince Stu in maintenance to temporarily change the digital passcode on the lab.
I may be professional, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fight dirty.
Chapter 12
Max
I’m not some superstitious Neanderthal. I don’t get my palm read. I also don’t cast bones to predict the future or read my horoscope.
However, recent research has revealed that the intestinal tract contains as many neural cells as the brain. Which means there is truth to the adage about having a gut feeling.
When I get out of the elevators on the sixth floor on Thursday morning to find all three of my grad students waiting outside the lab, my gut tells me it’s going to be a rough day.
“Why the hell aren’t you already in the lab?” I ask.
Priya flinches at my tone like a goddamn drama queen. Gwen puts a hand on Priya’s shoulder and whispers something to her. Jaxon, the only guy in the group, steps in front of the other two protectively.
