Page 22 of Unapologetic Obsession
He was quiet for so long that it caught me off guard, even though I thrived in the silence. My lids flew up to look him in the face. His strong jaw moved side to side as if he were grinding the bottom set of his teeth. The five-o’clock shadow he sported today hadn’t existed yesterday. It made him look older and gruffer, and my attention lingered on it momentarily.
I internally cursed myself upon realizing I was gawking. How could I forget the one thing everyone warned me not to do?
“He’s interested in you,” he announced at long last, eyes moving over my face, calculating my reaction to his assessment.
I slanted my head for an,Oh.I had no idea where he was going with this or how he wanted me to react.
“But you already knew that, didn’t you?” When I said nothing, he followed up with, “You two aren’t a good fit.” His tone was unwavering, as if he had the final say on the matter.
Were faculty members allowed to comment on our personal lives?
His opinion was beyond inappropriate. Then again, Professor Maxwell was an unorthodox teacher. Should I be surprised he had weighed in on my dating life as if he had every right?
I shifted from foot to foot, unsure what to do.
When I didn’t acknowledge his veto on a suitable partner, his brows lowered. “You’re wealthy; he is rich,” he said in a justifying tone. “It’s not a good match.”
“Isn’t rich and wealthy the same thing?” I asked, confused. He had a way of pushing my buttons, which made me speak out when I was around him.
“No, Little Rose, there’s a big difference.”
The nickname, Little Rose, was almost a slip of his tongue. It was not lost on me that I was also the only person he called by their first name. He was otherwise formal with everyone else.
Was he taking a personal interest in me so he could butter me up for more PMU? If so, he was wasting his time. Poppy clarified it was a one-time favor, she couldn’t procure more.
It was possible he pitied me because of my scars. He was weirdly invested in them, though I wouldn’t complain if it garnered me some sympathy with the elusive professor.
As I highly doubted that he cared enough about my well-being, I thought of another plausible theory. Perhaps he was working on an ointment to heal old scars and needed a lab rat.I heard he had run unethical experiments before. The college looked the other way, of course. They would let him get away with murder.
I regarded his posture—seated at the edge of his desk with a hand gripping the ledge—and waited for his explanation.
“Rich people’s status depends on an income that can disappear at any time. Wealthy people can maintain their lifestyle without an income.” He stood to height. “That’s why rich people show off their money, but wealthy people are discreet about their assets. Mr. Doyle is rich, but you, Little Rose,”he enunciated with purpose, “You’re wealthy.” He skimmed my outfit at an exceedingly slow pace.
I crossed my arms over my stomach protectively. With my head bowed, I scanned my outfit as well. It was relatively simple—a cap-sleeve white shirt with a tan jacket, beige linen pants, and low-platform heels. Sure, they were designer brands handpicked by the family stylist, but you wouldn’t know it unless you looked at the tag or had an exceptional eye for this stuff. No one in our family wore flashy clothing, and we usually stuck to a neutral palette. Labels had to be discreetly placed because expensive clothing made you a target. Wealth had to be hidden, and neutral colors didn’t attract attention.
I shouldn’t be surprised that Professor Maxwell figured it out; his family rivaled mine in wealth. The thought made me do something uncharacteristic—pry unprovoked. “Which one are you?”
“Which do you think?”
I inwardly scoffed. By his standards, our two families were the onlywealthyones in this circle. Does that mean my only suitable match was a member of his family? If only he knew of my feelings for Damon.
“Do you always wear white or beige and cover every inch of your body?” he asked from left field. I couldn’t keep up with this man.
“My jacket’s tan,” I protested.
Everyone had implied that Professor Maxwell hated women seeking his attention in the workplace. This outfit should be a white flag where he was concerned. So, why did it seem like he was displeased with my style?
Instead of further engaging in the absurd conversation, I mumbled, “Did you need something from me, Professor Maxwell?”
His eye twitched when I called him Professor Maxwell as if the label was offensive. I thought he would dismiss me, but instead, he said, “Yes, you’re working with me today.”
He guided me to a workstation in his office, separate from the one outside. There was a table with a few beakers, a sink, and documents, all of which looked confidential and important. I realized it was work he didn’t share with his research assistants. So why was he sharing it with me?
He provided no explanations, just instructions on separating a few formulas. I assisted him quietly for the remainder of the class, highly aware of his presence and every small movement he made. Throughout our time together, I kept wondering what I had set in motion.
Chapter
Nine
