Respect. Or maybe... curiosity?
It lasts exactly one second before he smirks. “Didn’t peg you for a math snob, Victoria.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m a math competent. Also, it’s Tori. Stop calling me Victoria. You are not my father.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Noted.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. That’s what makes it fun.”
I roll my eyes and turn to walk out, but before I reach the door, I toss over my shoulder, “You can walk that corrected exam to my desk when you’re done, Dr. Euler. I’m not a dog or a maid to be summoned.”
“Noted again,” he calls out.
But his voice sounds less amused this time. More like someone realizing they’ve underestimated their opponent.
I settle into my chair and pull my keyboard closer, pretending to be far busier than I am. Not that I’m not busy—but I make a point to lookveryabsorbed. If he wants me to drop everything and jump every time he snaps his fingers, he’ll have to try a little harder.
It’s petty. I know that. But so is he.
A few minutes later, a revised packet lands silently on the edge of my desk. He doesn’t say a word. Just drops it off like a sulky teenager handing in late homework and walks away. I don’t even glance up, though I track him from the corner of my eye. His stupid shoulders are annoyingly broad for someone who eats vending machine Pop-Tarts for breakfast.
I wait until he’s fully back in his office and walk to the copy room with the kind of pointed grace usually reserved for pageant contestants. I load the document, hit start, and listen to the comfortingwhirrrrr-chunkof paper feeding through the machine. Thirty clean copies. I check the page numbers twice. I may be spiteful, but I’m not careless.
I slide them into a file folder and walk them back toward his door. He sees me coming and doesn't move from his desk. Doesn’t say a word. Just waits, fingers steepled again like some smug little academic mafioso.
Setting the folder down with more force than necessary, I affix asecretary of the year smile on my face and say, “Your precious exam, now error-free.”
“Much appreciated,” he says, his tone maddeningly even.
As I’m halfway out the door, Leo calls after me. “So, two degrees in accounting?”
I pause. Turn. “What, did that not come through loud and clear when I refused to copy your broken integral?”
He shrugs, unfazed. “Just confirming it wasn’t a bluff.”
“Not a bluff,” I say, stepping just far enough back into view. “Earned both. With honors.”
“Impressive. And yet here you are—babysitting professors and decoding department email chains.”
I shrug. “When I left Moraine, Dexter mentioned this job was open. Figured if I was going to babysit anyone, math professors were at least numerically consistent.”
He huffs a laugh. “Debatable.”
Leo leans back in his chair, stretching out like we’re settling in for a conversation neither of us really invited.
“So. Left Moraine, huh? What was so bad you had to run four hours south?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think you’ve got the Cliff Notes version already.”
“Maybe. But I haven’t heard it from you.”
“Not really your business.”
He taps his pen once against his desk, then spins it between his fingers like he's weighing something heavier than office gossip. “Color me curious.”
I cross my arms. “Look. We’re not friends. We’re barely coworkers. You can be friends with Dexter, Alis, and Skye, and still mind your own business.”
