“That was a rhetorical question.”
“Oh.” He narrows his gaze, glaring down at me. “What right do you have to be mad at me, when you’re the one who stole my soil samples? You’ve wasted my department’s time and money. You’ve done incalculable damage to—”
“Calm down, your soil samples are fine.”
“Then return them.”
“I will. After you get your hair cut on Friday.” I reach for the door, but he wraps his hand around my wrist, stopping me.
“I don’t need a haircut. And I don’t think the university would tolerate this kind of irresponsible behavior from you. So—”
I pull my wrist from his hand. Because I don’t like being manhandled. Not because his touch felt disconcertingly good. I arch an eyebrow at him. “Oh, are you going to tell on me?”
“I’m not going to tell on you. We’re not eight-year-olds tattling on the playground.”
“You’re lucky we’re not. Because if the university doesn’t appreciate my irresponsible behavior, how do you think they would feel about yours?”
“I haven’t done anything irresponsible,” he growls, jutting out his jaw stubbornly.
“You haven’t? You’re refusing to put in even the bare minimum of work to earn a very prestigious fellowship that half the professors at the university would kill to be considered for. You don’t think that’s irresponsible? You don’t think that’s worse than the fact that I relocated a few Ziploc bags of dirt?”
“That dirt—” He cuts himself off, exhales, and then continues. “Those soil samples are crucial to my research. And if they—”
“They’re fine,” I tell him again.
“If they aren’t stored at precisely the right temperature—”
“Trust me. I know how to use a thermometer. And it’s not like the Frigidaire in your lab is some high-end specialty equipment.”
“So are the samples at your house? In your refrigerator?”
“Ew. No. I don’t want nasty bags of dirt in my fridge. But they are in a safe place. And I promise they will be returned to you as soon as that jaw of yours is bare.”
“That isn’t going to happen.”
“Then you aren’t going to get your samples back. It’s that simple.”
He glares at me. I glare back. His chin juts out a smidge more as he studies me.
If I had a gun on me, my hand would be twitching at the holster.
After several heartbeats, he says, “Fine. Let’s go.”
He turns and starts down the hall, drippy coat, muddy shoeprints and all.
“What?” I ask. “Go where?”
“To the shop. That flat top place. I’ll get my hair cut.”
“Ignoring for a second that you agreed to a haircut and not a shave, your appointment isn’t now. It’s tomorrow evening. And besides, I can’t leave.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have a class. Which you interrupted. Which is pretty rude.”
He gestured toward the door behind me. “How was I supposed to know that was a class?”
“What else would I be doing at a high school? How did you even know I was here?” I counter. “How did you know where to find me?”
