“How can I help you, Ben?”
“I’m here representing Beaumont Materials.”
I know Beaumont Materials—anyone who works in my field, who does any kind of work at all in materials science, knows about a company that manufactures everything from pipelines to jet engines to those little plastic thingamajigs you can use to hang pictures without nails. But some additional thread of familiarity tugs at my brain. I generally have a good memory, but probably this guy’s jerk-hotness has scrambled it. I decide not to try and sort it, and head instead over to the steel storage cabinet where we keep supplies, putting some distance between me and my new visitor.“Go on,” I say, appreciating the opportunity to look busy.“I just need to start packing up here.”
“We’ve reached out to you recently, Ms. Averin, regarding the article you and your coauthors published inMetallurgy International.”
Oh. Oh, fuck, I do remember now what that tug of memory is, and my palms go a little more sweaty beneath my latex gloves.“Ah. Yes. I saw a couple of emails. I don’t remember seeing your name, though.”
“I wasn’t part of the original contact team,” he says, stepping farther into the room.“But I read your paper, and I decided I had to meet you, and talk to you about the opportunities Beaumont could offer you for your research.”
“I don’t want any opportunities from Beaumont,” I say, more quickly, more defensively than I intend. I’m immediately grateful for the fact that I’m here alone today—just as I don’t want anyone here knowing about the lottery, I don’t want them catching wind of Beaumont trying to contact me. When those emails had come in, I’d deleted them almost right away, same as I did with any message from potential employers. I’m happyhere, and I don’t even want there to be a suggestion to anyone around that I’m otherwise.
He smiles again, and—ugh. I need to get this guy out of here; he is terrible for my self-preservation.“I think we got that message from your silence,” he says,“but I’m afraid we couldn’t let this go without having the chance to tell you what exactly it is we are willing to do for you.” He looks around the lab as he says this, and I suppress a wince—all right, so it may be super clean in here, but it is far from state-of-the art, and to a guy coming from Beaumont Materials, it probably looks budget as all get-out. Even after ten years of being here, Dr. Singh was still the most recent faculty hire, and he’d inherited this, the oldest lab, on a side of the building where the HVAC was unreliable and the floors had never been replaced.
“I’ve got everything I need here,” I say, but at that exact moment yet another handle from the already-dilapidated steel cabinet falls off, clattering on the peeling, faded linoleum.“I mean except for functional handles.”
Hell. That dimple.“We could take care of that.”
“I’m sure you could,” I say, hooking a finger through the hole left by the wayward handle and pulling open the cabinet.
“As I’m sure you know, state-of-the-art equipment is the least of what we’d be willing to do to have you on board. Beaumont is working on alloy technologies that relate directly to your research, and we think we could make a real difference working together.”
I let out an unladylike snort at this, this cookie-cutter pitch he’s giving me. And anyways, I know what alloy technology Beaumont’s been pouring most of its money into in the last five years—big oil and big guns—and I want no part of either. My work’s always been about figuring out weaknesses in old materials, studying bridge or pipeline failures, figuring out how to make what’s already here work better.“I’m not looking to make that kind of difference,” I say, setting the jug of ethanol back in its place.
“Many of the scientists we work with have that reaction initially, I can assure you. But Beaumont’s packages are very attractive—we’re talking a great deal of funding sources for your work. Let me take you to lunch and tell you—”
I cut him off here, bored with everything he has to say, and that’s in spite of the fact that I’m pretty sure I could look at him for a good, long time.“Tell me about the nondisclosure agreement you’re going to make me sign, so I can’t publish research that might hurt your bottom line? Tell me about the devil’s bargain this will turn out to be, when Beaumont uses my research to make some product that is horrible for the environment, or that you put on some weapon that you sell to the government at huge cost? Tell me about all the fine print that says you can terminate my contract if I’m not producing patentable material in the next two years? Listen, no offense to you, Ben, but there’s a reason I’ve avoided private funding in the work I do. There’s a reason I work here.”
“Two of your colleagues here are backed with corporate funding.”Don’t I know it. Dr. Harroway and Dr. Wagner both have massive corporate support, and there’s no kind of fifty-plus years of dirt on any of their equipment. If my lottery money would have made any kind of dent in what we’d need to match corporate funding, I would’ve donated it all.“And the College of Engineering is exploring avenues for long-term partnerships with industry.”
I can feel my eyes narrow at him. This kind of guy was the reason academic research was becoming—wasalready—a patsy for big money.“Let me ask you something about thatMetallurgy Internationalarticle,” I say, rising to my full—not very full, frankly—height.“What did you think of the technique I used to prepare samples for heat treatment in step three of my experiments?”
It’s fleeting, but I catch it, I think: a flash of something near surprise in his eyes, but he so quickly arranges his features into a sly,I’m-not-ashamed-that-you-caught-medevilishness that I suspect Ben Tucker never really lets himself get taken off guard. To this, I shrug my shoulders casually.“I don’t really blame you, actually. I didn’t write it with a corporate audience—with someone like you—in mind. But this is why I’m not interested in working for your company. I enjoy working with people who really know what it is that I do, and more importantly, with people who know what I really want to do with it.”
He lowers his eyes for a moment, looking down to where the cabinet handle rests on the floor. Damn, he has long eyelashes, a dark contrast to his light hair, which is actually unacceptable for me to be noticing at this time.
He looks back up and smiles at me.“I like you,” he says, and I stiffen in surprise and a fair bit of anger.
Because this is also unacceptable. What does he think, that I’ll roll right over and show him my belly, in gratitude for a little male attention? I’ve known guys like this. I’d taken notes all through general chemistry for a guy like this in my first year of college, stupidly not realizing that for him, the notes were all that I was good for.
“Oh, is this the part where you skate right over the fact that you didn’t actually read my paper, and instead tell me I’ve got ‘spunk,’ that I’m exactly what Beaumont needs?”
“No. That’s me telling you. Independent of Beaumont.” He says this firmly, with more conviction than he’s said anything else so far.
“Well. I know your type, and flattery isn’t going to work, either.”
“My type?”
I feel it, right here, that I’m losing a little control over the conversation, but I’m stuck with it, so I barrel on.“Oh, sure. You come in here, with your”—I pause here, to gesture vaguely in the direction of his body—“your suit. And your face, and…” I swallow the rest of it. I want him out of here. I’m afraid someone will come in, Dr. Singh, or any one of the faculty or graduate students who would probably wet their pants at meeting a Beaumont executive who seems to be handing out jobs.“Listen, it’s very kind of you to come all this way. But I did read those emails, so I know something about what you’re offering. I’m just really, really not interested. And I do, actually, have an appointment.”
He takes a deep breath and nods. His skin is golden-brown, a light tan, but I think I see flags of color on his cheeks. This is his fault, coming in here sleek but unprepared, but suddenly I feel a little guilty for being so dismissive. Before I can say anything, though, he speaks again.“I understand. I’m…” he trails off, long enough to run a hand through his hair, before continuing, “…sorry to have wasted your time.”
He steps forward a little, holding out his hand. I catch a little scent of something—pine, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s not what I’m expecting. With the suit he’s wearing, I’d expected some upmarket version of that heinous body spray I sometimes get a whiff of when one of the undergrads is trying to compensate for not-very-clean-laundry. Ben, though, he smells—clean. Natural.
Male.
I take his hand and shake it, forgetting the glove I still have on. He looks down and chuckles a little at the contact, and I try not to be ashamed of the little shiver that chases down my spine at the sound of that.
