Page 42 of Unapologetic Obsession
“You didn’t eat with the other assistants.”
This lab was only a three-hour commitment for me, whereas the research assistants were obligated to spend eight to ten hours here. It just so happened that most of them took their lunch break during our regularly scheduled class and dragged me to the break room to interrogate me about Professor Maxwell. However, I didn’t pack a lunch as I generally ate afterward.
How did he know I didn’t eat or have the time to ask about my nutritional intake?
With my eyes trained on the counter, I wiped it down with a paper towel.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
I shook my head. It would’ve been convincing had my stomach not growled at the same time.
The comedic timing made him scoff. “Come with me.”
I stared after Professor Maxwell. I still hadn’t processed the discarded EpiPen. It was only a few feet away from me in the biohazard trash, taunting me with its existence. My stomach knotted. Leaving behind the paper towel roll, I reluctantly followed him while his staff watched us with interest.
He led us to the break room, where a lone assistant sat at the corner booth. The moment he saw us, he sprang out of his seat and threw away his unfinished lunch. I got the distinct impression that Professor Maxwell preferred to eat alone, and his staff stumbled over themselves to accommodate him. No one wanted to get on his shit list.
“I was just leaving.” The man bolted, but not before throwing a curious glance over his shoulder.
Why was everyone in the world so invested in Professor Maxwell?
He wasn’t bothered by how others fussed over him. He opened the fridge and pulled out a couple of boxes as I parked my butt on a booth.
There was no way Professor Maxwell was about to feed me lunch. Then again, he ate a cake that could have potentially killed him just to spare my feelings. The thought was overwhelming and confusing. It wasn’t like I could interrogate him about it, either. No one questioned him. If I couldn’t ask why he had done such a thing, the best I could do was speculate.
This couldn’t all be about my scars. Perhaps he was doing these things to spend time with me because he enjoyed my company.
Faint noise drifted from the other side of the room. Overcome by curiosity, I glanced his way and found him staring directly at me while plating the food. The raw expression on his face made my stomach dip. I released an unsteady breath and looked away.
Did Professor Maxwell like me?
No. It was impossible.
Our families hated each other with a passion. Not to mention, he would never be interested in a student. The man had many flaws, but philandering with subordinates and students wasn’t one of them. He was only four or five years older than most of the students, but he had put so much distance between himself and us that he might as well be untouchable.
I inwardly groaned for letting my mind wander into dangerous territory. First, I was hopelessly in love with his twin, Damon. Second, anyone who assumed anything about Professor Maxwell always made an ass of themselves. If he knew of the thoughts cruising my mind, I could say goodbye to graduating early and any hope I had for the coveted recommendation letter.
Self-preservation instincts told me not to look too deeply into his actions.
Professor Maxwell placed two bowls and forks on the table. When he sat beside me, the scent of his cologne made me slightly lightheaded. Distracted, I stared at the quinoa bowl with grilled chicken, roasted veggies, and avocado, topped with a drizzle of olive oil.
“Change starts today. This is one of the recipes from the new anti-inflammatory diet I had recommended in your care plan.”
Spoken like a true scientist.
I knew he wanted me to become proactive about my scars, but I didn’t anticipate he would personally administer the anti-inflammatory diet. My stomach growled once more, though it didn’t tamp down my curiosity.
When I didn’t pick up my fork, he said, “From now on, you’ll arrive thirty minutes before class to have breakfast with me, and we’ll have lunch together after class. Keep up the diet for any meals we don’t eat together. I’ll track the progress of your scars throughout the semester and measure the effect of the anti-inflammatory diet.”
It turned out that I was a lab rat, and his interest in me stemmed from a purely scientific standpoint.
Thank God!
No wonder he had been coaxing me; he didn’t want to scare away his guinea pig. I didn’t mind being his test subject. The scars frequently irritated my skin, so this was a win-win situation.
I relaxed a little, feeling stupid for entertaining the idea of Professor Maxwell liking me.
“Thank you. But…” I gulped. “You shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.” My ability to speak around him never failed to astonish me. I hadn’t been able to get these many words out in front of a new person in years. He delivered the shock value required to activate my voice.
