“Do you want to get out of it?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Both. Neither.”
“Well, that’s your question then. Figure that out and go from there.”
“How do I even begin to figure out something like this?”
“Your research skills are second to none, I have full confidence you’ll be able to come up with a solution here.”
“I can’tresearchan answer to this one. I don’t think there are any peer-reviewed articles out there about pretending to be engaged to punish your friends and family for treating my doctorate like it’s a Perfect Attendance certificate.”
“You know they’re proud of you, right?”
“Yes, I know that, but it’d be nice to hear it. When we were over there the other night, no one even said anything, no apologies for not making it to my party, not even polite questions about my defense or my interview today. They just wanted to see the ring and make bad jokes about how much sex we’re having and how much my type he is.”
“It is a beautiful ring, and as to him being your type . . .”
“Don’t start. That is not part of this equation.”
“Ignoring data just because it doesn’t support your thesis is shoddy research, Dr Dimitriou.”
“You’re not my advisor anymore, Dr Wilkins.”
“Please, I will always be your advisor.”
Damn it, she’s right. She’s always right, which is definitely why Bianca told her in the first place.
“Well, then advise me. What do you think I should do?”
“Does it really matter what I think?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want your opinion.”
“I think you should marry that young man immediately since he worships the ground you walk on and has for years and I honestly do not know what it will take for you to see it.”
“That’s . . . not true. We’re friends, and anyway, I don’t think I’m his type.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Xavier doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to not say something if he’s interested.”
“Maybe he thinksyou’renot interested.”
“Who says I am?”
Miranda’s withering glare would have made her fold a few short years ago, but she’s older and wiser now, supposedly.
“He isphysicallymy type, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Fine, yes, it’s like someone merged Indiana Jones and Rick O’Connell into real life human form and then made him smarter than me, which is simultaneously hot as hell and extremely annoying. Is that what you want to hear?”
“First, he’s not smarter than you.”
“That’s what he says too, but he definitely is.”
Miranda gives her a completely exasperated look, like her point is proven by that alone and yeah, okay, maybe it is, but not enough for it to matter. “And second,” she continues, “I don’t thinkI’mthe one that needs to hear it.”
