When I’m ready, I steal a quick glance at myself in the mirror. Even four years after my parents’ accident, I rarely look at my reflection. The girl looking back at me with wide eyes is paler than usual against her waist-length black hair. I don’t linger on her purple eyes. They’ll always remind me of Clare.
I whirl away from the mirror and tiptoe to the door so I don’t wake Reagan. In the misty morning, the bluebirds are already chirping. I drive the MINI to school with the windows down, timing the periodic table to their twitter.
Denton is waiting for me in conference room B even though we still have two hours before the presentation.
“Good morning, kid. I knew you’d show up at the crack of dawn.”
“Yes, I couldn’t sleep.”
“What’s there to worry about? You’ve got great results and an ingenious idea. And a British accent. They’ll eat out of your hand.”
I nod and start reviewing my slides one more time while Denton connects the laptop to the projector and sets out three packets on the first row of desks. Right before the HH representatives are supposed to show up, I pull out a paperclip from my purse. This is a trick I use when I have to speak in public so that I won’t fidget or twitch my fingers. Unfortunately, reciting the periodic table while talking is impossible and, therefore, useless. I grab the clip between my thumb and my index finger, rubbing and pinching it gently. On the twelfth pinch, the door opens.
I freeze on the spot, my breath leaving for England already. My knees lock for impact and something like an ice bath trickles from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. The person walking through the door is none other than my Mr. Hale. Not his grandpa, not his father. Him, in all his perfection. Oh, bloody hell! How am I supposed to look at him and keep a straight head? And why did I title my thesis “Does This Protein Make My Mass Look Big?”
Ever erect, he scans the room with keen vigilance. He spots me, and his impassive face registers surprise. His gaze is controlled but I think I see the ghost of appraisal in his eyes. The same way he looked at me at Feign Art. I blush the color of rubidium when I think of my paintings hanging on his wall. He starts walking toward me with precise steps. His eyes are lighter than the first time I saw him—almost turquoise, like my dreams. Not like the color has changed but like a light is shining underneath. I take some shallow breaths so he can’t see the havoc he is wreaking.
“You must be Miss Snow.” He extends a long hand to me. I register vaguely that his voice is not as cold as I remember it. It’s equally polite and hypnotic but now, it has a soft after-sound. I have to make an effort not to close my eyes.
“I’m Aiden Hale. It’s nice to meet you.” He looks at me intensely for a moment, as if he is trying to say something else. Maybe trying to assess whether he should mention that he has seen me before?
“Mr. Hale, a pleasure to meet you too,” I manage, but my voice sounds softer than usual. I reach for his hand, expecting it to be cold. But it isn’t. It’s warm and his long fingers wrap almost above my wrist. A jolt of electricity runs through me at the touch. The good news is that it brings me back to the here and now. The bad news is that it lingers on my skin even after he has withdrawn his hand, which does not help the prospects of my presentation.
Luckily, Denton is here. He shakes Mr. Hale’s hand, looking perfectly electricity-free. Mr. Hale steps backward into the seat closest to the wall, as though he knows the precise distance. Then he picks up my packet of materials from the desk and starts flipping through it quickly. His shoulders never release their tension.
The door opens again and a second man comes in. He introduces himself as Daniel Samson, marketing director at HH. He has ginger curls and an avuncular air that makes you think of family get-togethers. I teeter to the podium and notice the same Shaquille O’Neal-sized man who was at Feign Art, standing outside the door. He must be Mr. Hale’s bodyguard. Why would he need a bodyguard on a college campus? Oh, right, because the all-women dorm might kidnap him, tie him to a chair in the basement and ogle him shamelessly 24/7. Much like I am right now. I try to focus anywhere else. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium, 4.003—
“Miss Snow, Arthur Denton has been quite complimentary of your thesis project. At your convenience, I’d like to hear about it,” Mr. Hale says in that same measured tone that’s a few degrees warmer than it was in the gallery but still very formal.
As I think more about the gallery, the gratitude I have felt toward this stranger all week for getting me through hell makes a welcome appearance. It’s enough to give me some clarity, and some volume. Years of British gentility are triggered in my brain.