turning out to be not her greatest idea, either. The minimalist black that would have been understated in L.A. made her stand out like, well, like a runway model amid the colorful (and baggy) Chico’s casual of her older female colleagues. Even as she thought it, a short, wiry, bespectacled woman with bad skin turned and gave her a blistering look that made Laurel practically desperate for more champagne.
And she was attracting far more attention than she’d wanted from the male contingent, many of whom couldn’t seem to raise their eyes above her hemline. She glanced back over her shoulder and realized she was still being stalked by a large and flat-footed associate professor with a ruddy face who’d cornered her with obvious lust, eyes crawling over every inch of her body even as he continually called her “Ma’am.” Laurel wondered fleetingly if anyone in the history of hookups had ever actually gotten laid by “Ma’aming” the object of his affection, though she didn’t expect the associate was a representative example.
As the associate started for her, she quickly stepped up to the nearest cluster of colleagues, nodding and smiling as if she were completely absorbed in the conversation.
But no one in the circle acknowledged her, and the topic of conversation was being ominously uniform.
“—just got the Peabody grant …”
“—proposals due on the nineteenth …”
“—book comes out from Macmillan in the fall …”
There seemed not a single faculty member in the group, or in the room, who was not talking about his or her most recent publication or pending grant proposals. Laurel shifted on her feet, her smile dying by the second. She knew her position at Duke was contingent on publication or the bringing in of grant money—preferably both. That stipulation had been clearly spelled out in both her qualifying interviews and her contract.
The “publish or perish” aspect of university careers was not new to her; she’d grown up seeing her professor mother slaving over articles after a full day of lecturing. The truth was, even though Laurel had faked her way through the Duke interview with what she knew sounded like an impressive overview of her research and publication plans, a series of interconnected articles on Myers-Briggs personality types and test scores as a factor in choosing professions, she’d had not the slightest hint of passion for the project since—
Since Matt. Since the dream.
How can I write anything about personality and the self when I have no self left?
Laurel murmured “Excuse me” to the circle, and edged herself out of the group. She paused by another table of appetizers with her stomach churning in anxiety, and again scanned the room full of her colleagues, looking for a remotely friendly face.
A ripple of feminine laughter drifted from across the room and Laurel turned to look. Beside the grand piano, a dynamic, dark-haired man in his early thirties, with broad shoulders and crackling blue-gray eyes and a dusting of Irish-looking freckles over his handsome and lively face, was surrounded by young female grad students, all hanging on his every word.
Laurel’s face shadowed. Shades of Matt. Definitely the last thing I need. She looked quickly away from him.
She reached for an appetizer—some kind of chicken sate—just to look busy. Relax, she ordered herself. She glanced around the room and started a categorizing game to calm herself—classifying the people around her according to Myers-Briggs basic personality factors. The good-looking professor was definitely an ESFP (Extravert, Sensing, Feeling, Perceiving), a combination of qualities that inevitably resulted in more charm than was good for anyone. The hostile woman in the baggy suit: ENTJ, the self-proclaimed judge. And that bearded man holding court by the fireplace—
Laurel started as she recognized Dr. Unger, the department chair, whom, of course, she’d met during her interviews. Like most psychology department chairs he had a hint of Freud about him, even though Duke’s academic reputation leaned toward neuroscience. Laurel swallowed the last bite of chicken, took a breath, and forced herself to go up and say hello.
“Laurel MacDonald,” she prompted the chair, as he turned toward her with a quizzical look.
“Of course, Dr. MacDonald,” he said smoothly, and she started slightly at the “Doctor.” He grandly managed not to sneak a look at her legs.
Laurel smiled what she hoped was a competent and professorial smile. “I just wanted to say thanks for the welcome and the party. It’s so nice to meet everyone all at once,” she lied.
Dr. Unger gave her a complacent and toothy smile back. “Yes, we want