Dating-ish (Knitting in the City #6)(15)

And that's when a knock sounded on the door.

"I'll get it," Jack said, jumping up.

I stood as well. "No. I'll get it. You stay here and plot our next move."

"But it's Professor Simmons," he protested, edging backward toward the door. "He usually comes over for dinner on Fridays."

I stiffened, the hovering shadow of discontent growing darker, more omnipresent at the mention of not-Derek/Professor Matt Simmons.

"Stay here, I'll be right back." I gave Jack a look that left no room for argument, though I could see he was tempted. Once satisfied the nine-year-old would stay put, I moved to the hall, mumbling under my breath, "He's not coming to dinner tonight."

Bracing myself, I counted to five, then opened the door.

"What?" I demanded.

The smile melted off the professor's face, replaced with an expression of startled surprise, as his eyes clashed with mine.

"Oh," he said, blinking once, and stuffing his hands in his pockets like he needed to hide them, or put them someplace to restrict their movements.

"Hello." I didn't smile either, instead leveling him with a glower. "What do you want?"

"I, uh . . ." His gaze shifted to the wand in my hand, the hat on my head, the scarf around my neck, and then back to me. "Hello, Luna."

I hadn't realized I'd been holding the plastic play wand raised between us until it drew his attention. Grinding my teeth, I lowered the wand and scowled at him. "Luna was a Ravenclaw. Not a Hufflepuff."

His lips tugged to one side, like he was fighting a smile. "Is that so?"

"Yes," I snapped, whipping off my hat and scarf and tossing them with the wand to the table behind me. "What do you want?"

He stood straighter, and he appeared to be trying to contain his grin. "I didn't expect to see you."

I crossed my arms. "Life is full of surprises."

"It certainly is," he agreed quickly, his gaze latching on to mine and growing oddly hazy.

A few seconds passed. The moment stretched. I waited. And still he gazed at me, looking a little lost and a lot conflicted.

I decided he probably felt guilty and wanted to apologize for being a douche canoe. But I wasn't interested in his apologies. Or, for that matter, hovering in the hallway with Matt the douche canoe.

My patience at an end, I huffed an aggrieved breath and wrapped my fingers over the edge of the door. "Good talk, Matt. See you around."

"Wait." He jumped forward, as though abruptly coming out of a trance. "Wait, wait a minute. Can I . . . can we talk for a minute?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. I need to get back to the kids. I'm watching them."

"Oh. I can help," he offered with a friendly smile.

"No."

"No?" His expression fell, morphing into a frown.



       
         
       
        

"No. I don't want your help."

"Oh." He took a step back. When he spoke next his voice dropped an octave. "Then I guess me asking you to sign a consent form for our study so we can use your data is completely out of the question?"

I had no choice. I squinted at Matt Simmons, squinted at him as though he were a peculiarity.

Because he was. Like a stubborn rash.

"Tell me something, Matt." I made no attempt to hide the hostility in my tone, making sure to over-pronounce the "t" at the end of his name. "What is the purpose of your study? To piss off as many women in Chicago as possible?"

"No," he ground out, mirroring my eye-squint.

And wasn't that just the kicker? Him. Squinting at me.

No.

I wasn't the one who'd lied, misrepresented my identity, and then tried to run an experiment on him. He had no right to squint at me. No right.

"Really? That's too bad. Because if pissing people off had been the purpose, you'd be achieving your goals."

"My aims are quite the opposite, Marie." He over-pronounced the "e," intensifying my irritation. "And they're entirely altruistic, which you would have known if you'd stayed through the entire interview."

"So tell me now," I scoffed. "Tell me all about your philanthropic objectives."

"I didn't say they were philanthropic." He lifted his chin. "I said they were altruistic."

My. God.

How could one person be so unbelievably irritating?

"Never mind. Forget I asked." I cut my hand through the air, stepping back, intent on shutting him out.

Again he stopped me, this time placing his palm against the door. But it wasn't his holding the door open that kept me from shutting it.