Her voice is soothing. Like I’m a fucking toddler she’s trying to keep from throwing a fit in a grocery aisle.
That’s it. I’m done.
Done being talked to likeI’mthe problem here. Like putting me in front of a studio audience is a reasonable thing to do instead of the worst fucking idea ever. Like I don’t know my own limits.
I turn my chair to face her, leaning in. “You mean dumbed down for a broader audience!”
“Lectures geared to introduce the public to—”
“Dumbed. Down.” I bite out the words with a fierce snap of my teeth.
“Just because they’re going to be on TV, doesn’t mean—”
“Most of the grad students who take my classes end up dropping out because the work I do is too complicated for them to understand. You think the average viewer in Bumblefuck middle America is going to understand it?”
“I think if your students can’t understand your work, there’s a chance the problem isn’t with them. It’s with your teaching.”
Does she think I don’t know that?
Does she think I’m a fucking moron?
Obviously the problem is with me.
Yes, analyzing the microbiology of soil is complicated, often tedious work. It’s dense. But it’s not impossible to understand. So obviously the problem is that I’m a shit teacher.
“Which is why I’m the last guy on this planet who should be giving lectures to a studio audience.”
And I sure as fuck don’t need her driving that point home.
I rise from my seat, bumping back the rolling chair with my legs. I stand right in front of her for a moment, breathing deeply, looming over her. Praying for patience. Waiting for her to panic.
Not because I want to scare the shit out of her.
That’s never what I want.
But I’m a big guy.
At six-four, the combination of the build, the beard, the goddamn limp—it scares people.
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I don’t do it on purpose. It’s just me not reading social cues, because that’s another thing I’m shit at. But every once in a while, when someone is really pissing me off, I use it to my advantage.
I have never—and I mean never—purposefully scared a woman with my size. But this chick is hitting every damn button I have and I need to get her out of my space.
But, again, she doesn’t do what I expect.
She doesn’t panic. She doesn’t bolt. She doesn’t fucking leave me alone.
Instead, she narrows her gaze, scoots her ass off my desk and stands. Which puts her way too close to me.
She doesn’t take her gaze off mine. She doesn’t so much as blink.
Her chin is tipped so far up she’s probably going to need to see a chiropractor for neck strain. But she doesn’t back down.
Instead, in a fierce and angry tone, she says, “I can help. This is what I do. I teach people how to speak in front of crowds for a living. If I can teach a generation of phone-addicted introverts to give presentations, I can teach you.”
I want to argue with her. I’m about to. But then I make the mistake of a lifetime. I inhale deeply, preparing to light into her, and get hit with a whiff of her scent.
It’s something warm and homey, but with the faintest hint of citrus layered on top. Like pancakes drizzled with lemon glaze.
