Sierra’s mouth flattens until you can hardly see her lips.
“I came out especially to see you,” Todd says, beaming at her.
What about Linda, who has an arm wrapped around his shoulders? I doubt she’s old enough to be his mother.
The third woman, who’s been walking behind Linda and Sierra and is old enough to be Todd’s mother, ignores the commotion and studies me. Unlike the others, she seems sensible, with a neat bob and no-nonsense shoes.
I pray she’s the one I need to deal with, because it’s obvious this unfortunate group is the people from Silicone Dream I’m supposed to meet with my class.
“Are you from Wollstonecraft?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Linda swivels her head in my direction. “What?” she screeches, her voice echoing through the lobby. She lets go of Todd and comes closer until she’s only a couple of steps away. “Charles Phillips sent you?” she demands rudely. It’s clear she’s expecting a no for an answer.
Drama Queen, you guessed wrong.
I stare back at her. “That’s right.” She can’t seem to tear her gaze from my face, which isn’t unusual. A lot of women stare at my face. But most don’t do it this overtly or obnoxiously.
I resist an impulse to make a V with my fingers and poke her eyes.
“You’re a professor?” she demands again.
“Yes.” Don’t let her do anything crazy. Don’t let her do anything crazy.
I don’t tell her my name. Given my luck this week, she might just decide to peel that dress off and flash me in front of my class, with the bubblegum-purple cock clock in the background.
“But Charles sent him!” she yells, pointing at Todd.
My gaze slides to Todd, and then to Sierra, who’s standing to the side observing the scene. She seems to be perfectly placid and at ease, which is irritating. She isn’t the one being inconvenienced by this farce or who’s been kept waiting.
“No, he didn’t,” I say, hoping Linda makes enough fuss so Todd and his class can do this “case” and I can return to campus with what’s left of my sanity. My patience for drama this month has hit bottom and is pulling out a shovel.
“But of course he did! I was hoping for a professor who specialized in poetry from the romantic era.”
The woman’s lost her damned mind. “Nobody in the department specializes in poetry.”
“Yes, they do!”
“No, they do not,” I say in my most authoritative voice. In my peripheral vision, Todd licks his mouth nervously, then nibbles on his lower lip. How is he doing that with his jaw injury?
Sierra’s speculative gaze slices from me to Linda, then to Todd, and back to me. For some odd reason, my mouth dries.
Must be the heat. My blood is boiling because my time’s being wasted by these jokers.
“Are you telling me Wollstonecraft has no poetry class in its English department?” Linda shouts like a loon.
“Not at all. But you asked Charles Phillips,” I point out. No number of buildings with their name can be worth this bullshit. I should fund the research center that Charles is panting after. Have it built anonymously on the condition that he never bothers me again.
Her face is bright red now. “And?”
“And Charles is the head of the economics department.”
“Incorrect. He is the head of the English department,” she says triumphantly.
God save me from people who have half the info. “Chuck Phillips is the head of the English department. Two very different individuals.”
Linda’s jaw slackens, while Sierra’s eyes quicken with interest. Neither bodes well.