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“Are you not?” Dr. Donaldson said. The rise in his voice sounded like slightly more than the normal question’s pitch lift.
“Remind me what he said about working with a woman,” I requested.
Dr. Donaldson paused a moment as if rewinding his memory back three weeks. “He was concerned about the level of animosity between you.”
“He—what?”
Dr. Donaldson repeated what he’d said. Why was this the first time I was hearing this? And why did that tug at my heart, like I’d done something wrong?
I’d certainly never downgraded the threat level from the minute Mr. Platinum Member hopped in line in front of me. Had I hurt him with hostility? Could Davis Freaking Hardcastle be hurt?
He must be capable of it. I just... hadn’t cared.
“Have you managed to work together?” Dr. Donaldson asked.
“Yes, I guess. It’s all been over email.”
“And that’s gone well?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to admit to myself, let alone my mentor, how eagerly I anticipated every email. “We’re making good progress.”
“That’s good.” Thankfully, he changed the subject. “So, the gala’s next week.”
“Yes.” As further proof he didn’t see me that way, this was the first Dr. Donaldson had mentioned it in two weeks. For all I knew, he was about to tell me about the wonderful woman who was his date—or how he planned to spend the evening at home, reading the latest journals. Surely he had hobbies, but I had a hard time picturing him doing anything other than poring over a screen. Maybe a book.
“Are you planning to drive?” Dr. Donaldson asked.
“I think so?” It wasn’t far to the Liberty Convention Center, but I was pretty sure we weren’t supposed to attend a “gala” via public transit.
“You’re over in, um—” Dr. Donaldson didn’t even know.
“Society Hill. And you?”
“Washington Square West. A couple blocks from here.”
That was more or less on my way. “Are you going?” I asked. “We might as well drive together.”
Dr. Donaldson’s smile was reassuring and easy. “Great idea. Six thirty?”
“It’s a date.”
Dr. Donaldson nodded. So there, Davis Hardcastle. You weren’t always right.
The victory still felt. . . hollow. Even more so when I reached my desk and found an email already waiting for me.
Dear Doctor, it began, as always.Spasibo for your support today! Our visitors were very compelled by your contributions.
I kind of hated him.
Worse, I kind of didn’t.
Two days after the meeting with the Philly Health Department, leg day sprints were killing me. But at least they kept me from remembering how Dr. Croft glared at me through the whole meeting every time I tried to be extra nice to her, like an idiot.
Worse, exercise wasn’t making me forget the way her whole being lit up when she finally did smile back at me—and I might never forget the way my heart stuttered at the sight.
She never alliterated back, she never even acknowledged my efforts, but when I sent her a thank you note after the meeting, I pictured that smile on her face in front of her screen.
This was bad. What was the matter with me, thinking this much about someone who clearly wanted nothing to do with me?
