Page 102 of Almost Ravaged

I hide my grin behind my cup. Never in a million years would I have assumed this man liked sweet coffee.

Once he’s dumped in the sugar and cream and procured a wooden stir stick from his pocket to mix it all in, he replaces the lid and clicks his mouse, bringing his computer to life.

“Catch me up on last week’s discussion posts,” he prompts as he slides his glasses into place, focusing on the emails loading on the screen in front of him.

Early on, I thought he was an asshole who couldn’t be bothered to give me even half his attention at any given time. In the time we’ve spent together since, I’ve learned he’s a master of multitasking. His ability to skim and sort through his emails while holding a thoughtful conversation is actually pretty damn impressive. Now that I understand him a little better, I’m jealous of his efficiency.

While he types out an email, I set my cup down and pull out my purple folder. My system for managing this class involves color-coded folders and lots of handwritten notes, but it works well for me. Mercer teases me about my love of pen and paper, but writing down information allows for easier absorption. Plus, if I have to write out notes, he’s forced to slow down. With the way his mind works, he could very easily bulldoze me during these updates without meaning to.

“Most of last week’s commentary surrounded the students’ opinions about using assistive artificial intelligence for research and analysis. They were split down the middle regarding the use of generative AI for those same types of tasks.”

Mercer hums, giving me his full attention. His stubble is more pronounced today, the dark hair on his jaw catching my attention. “What were the actual splits?”

I press my lips together to hide my grin. I knew he’d ask. And honestly, I was curious myself. “Eleven students were completely against the use of generative AI,” I say as I pull out the notes I took last night. “Six said it depends on the context, and the other fourteen were open to using it.”

Mercer tips his head back, then forward and back again. A habit I’ve noticed that suggests he’s lost in thought.

“Deduct points for the six who said it depends on the context. I don’t care for opinion straddling when the prompt clearly told them to defend an opinion.”

With a nod, I make myself a note.

“What are your thoughts on the subject, Ms. Davvies?”

Amusement rolls through me. I knew he was going to ask me that, too. I can argue both sides, but it’s clear he wants a definitive stance.

“I’m against generative AI in all applications.”

He cocks one eyebrow. The dark, defined arch creeps up over his glasses, the look alone sparking to life a heady tension in my core that makes it hard to focus.

Good grief, he’s disarmingly handsome. I’ll never get over how intense his dark brown eyes appear when they’re framed by his glasses. Or the way his undivided attention simultaneously warms me from the inside and makes me squirm, as if I’m a specimen he’s studying under a microscope.

I force myself to look away. If I don’t, I run the risk of shamelessly ogling him.

“I’m surprised,” he muses. “Since you’re studying information and library science, I thought you would be all for the vast and broad applications of artificial intelligence.”

“No.” My spine snaps straight. “Don’t get me wrong—it absolutely has its place and has the potential to be a remarkable asset to so many fields of study. But any time gen-AI has to mimic morality or steal creativity to do its job, I’m against it, full stop.”

He turns his chair to face me head-on.

“You have the heart of an artist,” he alleges.

I square my shoulders, more than ready to engage him in this debate.

“Perhaps. But I don’t hold a modicum of respect for anyone who thinks products created using artificial intelligence can be categorized as art. Contextisking. AI cannot replace the informed intuition of a human. Nor can it ethically create, which is essential to marketing.”

Lips pursed, he rests his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers. “What is art,” he says, “if not the tangible expression of inspiration? At the heart of every marketing initiative is the drive to inspire. So is all marketing art?”

“No,” I counter. “Art can and does exist without the expectation of ROI and profitability.”

He drums his fingers on the glass top in front of him, the muscles in his forearm dancing, and leans in closer. “I would argue that art for art’s sake cannot exist in a late-stage capitalistic society.”

He’s not wrong, but his argument sends a thrill through me, urging me to continue the debate.

“What about the classics?” I challenge. “What about art that was created thousands of years ago?” I look him right in the eye, my chin lifted. “Art is a universal language of self-expression. It existed long before it was required to serve a specific purpose in a capitalistic framework.”

He regards me, the spark in his eyes lighting up my insides.

“But with time, art increases in value, not because of the nature of the art or the quality of the piece, but because of its age,” he says. “Despite the intentionof the artist at the time of creation, ‘the classics’ and any other art that exists today must exist in a capitalist framework.”