Page 138 of After We Fall

“You must excel at your job.” I realize I’m focused on his chest. His very broad chest. My face heats again, and I touch my hand to my cheek and look into his eyes. “I’m so sorry I ruined your shirt. I talk with my hands a lot. Plus, I get a little carried away when it comes to discussing the girls.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Not at all.”

“I can have a new shirt brought in from our on-site men’s clothing store. What size do you wear?” My hotel employee discount will only make a small dent in the steep designer price. I’m not sure how my bank account will recover, but buying a replacement is the least I can do.

“This is not a problem, Daphne,” he says with authority.

With our eyes locked, I exhale. I want to lean into his voice, absorb the steady calm. Goodness. The walls of the hotel could be caving in, but if this man told me it wasn’t a problem, I’d believe him.

Patrons stroll through the ballroom. The aromas of heavily fragranced women and slices of toasted brioche float through the air. Even though I should move on to other parties for possible sales, I ask, “Do you often frequent art galleries?”

He scratches his cheek. “No. Tonight I had dinner with a colleague and his wife next door at the Golden Bee. I saw a flyer for your event.”

“I love the Bee.” I clap my hands once and hold them at my chest. “The old piano and ragtime sing-alongs are so much fun. I think they start at nine. You should head back to the restaurant soon.”

Michael’s features remain blank. “I don’t sing in public.”

No. No, a man like this probably doesn’t sing in public. But maybe a man like this needs to take his flatlined lips and whatever weighs on those strong shoulders and let loose with a song every once in a while.

I shift forward, lowering my voice to tease, “Do you sing when you’re not in public?”

“No.” His tone is abrupt, and I’m afraid my clumsy attempt at humor offended him.

“I’m sorry.” I send him a half smile I hope smooths the awkward edges of this conversation. “It seems I can’t talk tonight without throwing a hand to the hors d’oeuvres or putting a foot in my mouth. I should let you enjoy your evening.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Dr. Sloan and Dr. Hayword approaching. The professors wear the same uniform I’ve come to know since I began as a grad student nine years ago. The plaid elbow patches and brass buttons don’t match the high-end-dressed crowd at the Broadmoor. But with their heads in the clouds of academia, my guess is they hardly notice.

As they approach, I straighten my spine and conceal my fingers, chipping away at the drugstore nail polish on my thumb. I’ve won Evelyn over with the last component of my proposal, but these two gentlemen haven’t offered their final approval.

Just as I free a section of the magenta polish, I catch Michael’s contemplative scowl aimed at my hands. I quickly press the piece down, smoothing the wrinkled spot back onto my nail.

“Ah. I’m so glad you two found each other.” Dr. Sloan dips his chin to us with a rare look of approval. “Nice to see you again, Major Knox. Good evening, Ms. Fielding.” He pronounces “Ms.” with a strong z sound.

While my name buzzes between the four of us, I desperately try to connect these men. My professor knows Michael?

Wait.

“Major Knox?” I ask Michael, hoping my high-pitched voice isn’t as loud as it sounds in my head.

He nods, his perplexed gaze not leaving mine, as if he, too, is trying to figure out the scenario in front of us.

Embarrassment crawls over every inch of my body. I didn’t just ruin the shirt of one of Twelve Bluebells’ biggest donors. My actions stained a true hero.

Despite being a foot shorter and a few decades older than Michael, Dr. Sloan slaps him on the shoulder. “Major Knox, this is the graduate student we mentioned to you when we met earlier.”

A flash of surprise crosses Michael’s face, then it’s replaced by understanding. He nods again, this time slowly.

“Instead of requiring our master’s degree candidates to compose a thesis, we ask them to complete an extensive culminating project using curriculum content.” Dr. Sloan rocks from the tips of his toes to the backs of his heels, looking at me over his bifocals as if I should speak.

“My project analyzes the emotional impact of art on individuals.” Sweat turns my palms clammy. “I created a program teaching various forms of art to the halfway house residents at Twelve Bluebells. We’ll include their creations in care packages we send to our troops.”

I dart a glance at each of the three men. Realization topples into place like slow-motion dominoes falling one after another. My professors mentioned me to Michael. Michael’s in the military. I need a military contact. They want—

“Mizz Fielding brought us an impressive proposal,” Dr. Sloan says to Michael, “but she needs a military contact to accomplish the application task of the assignment.”

Oh no. Oh, please don’t put this officer in an awkward position. I open my mouth, but Dr. Hayword beats me to the moment.

“What do you think, Major Knox? Would you be willing to assist with her project?”