The Professor settled down in a chair across from her, looking much too rich for the ratty furniture. The contrast between the cane in his hands and the beaten floor underneath was almost laughable. He took his hat in his hands as some gesture of respect, but it was easily lost on Scarlett.
“I wanted to make you an offer. You have heard of my research, I presume.”
Scarlett had, as a matter of fact, but shook her head anyways. Some numerical mumbo jumbo that she didn’t want to express any kind of interest in, lest the one behind it have his already balloon-sized head inflated further. No point in pleasing a prat.
“Well,” the professor started, “That is besides the point. I need a lab assistant.”
Fox immediately fell into a coughing fit, staring at the man ludicrously, waiting for his serious expression to give way. It didn’t.
“You...” she started, waving her cigarette around for added emphasis on the word, “You...want me to act like some kind of slave, carrying beakers around and waiting on you, hand and foot? I don’t think so. I may be in the showbiz but that doesn’t mean I’m all that willing to leave my job, and for you of all people.”
The professor waited patiently for her to finish her flustered ranting before waving the smoke away from his face with a hand.
Scarlett coughed again, unable to believe her ears. She wasn’t exactly working for peanuts, but still wasn’t about to see that much money in her lifetime. This man was officially mad.
“What on Earth?” she spluttered, wondering why any sane person would hand that amount over to a menial laborer.
“Ten million,” the professor quickly stated, “But that’s my final offer, for a full year’s services.”
Scarlett gawked a moment before her inner money hound pushed its way out of the suspicion and shock. The thoughts of an expansive mansion, retirement at twenty-two, and a pool flooded her immediate mind frame. A pool.
“I’ll do it.”