* * * * *

After my last exam, I plod to Denton’s office in my squishy canvas sneakers that are still soaked from the trek to the bus stop.

Denton is waiting for me. “Hey, kid. How did the finals wrap up?”

I shrug. “I wish they hadn’t.”

He gives me a sympathetic look but does not linger. “Okay, let’s talk about tomorrow. Here’s what I know: Hale Holdings was founded by Aiden Hale…” Denton’s professorial voice is muted by a sudden pounding of blood in my ears. Hale? As in my Mr. Hale? My Mr. Hale? Bloody hell, I’ve lost it.

“Isa?”

“Yes, sorry. Still here.”

“Good. Now, HH is a venture capital firm. Hale started it out as a small fund and now it owns equity in over one hundred companies around the world. He runs them single-handedly, which is unique even among venture capitalists. Most are notorious control freaks. How the man does it, I have no clue.” Denton laughs. His eyes twinkle as they do when he witnesses a scientific wonder.

“Anyway, HH has the smallest carbon footprint in the U.S. for companies its size, and its philanthropy is astounding. From funding stem-cell research to supporting low-income schools. But its pet cause is the rehabilitation of U.S. veterans.”

Denton goes on like this for a while. I absorb everything I can. “Do you know who they’re sending?”

“No, but I’m sure it will be someone who knows enough to ask pointed questions. Let’s get the PowerPoint slides going.”

My nerves start creaking again. To distract myself, I wonder whether my Mr. Hale is the son or grandson of whomever founded HH. Or maybe he is not at all related and does not even spell Hale the same way. I shake my head at myself.

By eleven, my slides are all finished and we have run through them five times. I feel confident about my material. I’m just worried about phrasing it right and unexpected questions. Denton drops me off at home in his environmentally friendly Prius and reminds me sternly to get some sleep.

I nod back as enthusiastically as I can. No need to tell him I have no hope of following his instruction.

Chapter Seven

Mr. Hale

When my alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m., I am still awake. Mr. Hale has kept me company all night—lulling me into a trance between dreams and reality. Reluctantly, I force him out of my mind to rehearse my slides. But the mental distance fills me with a sense of loss, so I escape to the restroom to shower and get ready. Last night, Reagan insisted I wear one of her suits, but as I slip it on this morning, it feels strange. Suits are not for scientists. I decide on a pencil skirt with my mum’s white blouse instead. Maybe it’s not quite as professional but at least I’ll feel like me.

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.

“Of course, sir.” I pick up the PowerPoint remote control in one hand, my paperclip in the other, and start going through my slides.

The moment my project design comes on the screen, I gain more confidence. I have lived and breathed this material every day over the last year, and even before. I try not to focus on Mr. Hale, but the few times that our eyes meet, he is watching me intently, just as he does in my dreams. I think he seems mildly impressed but it’s hard to tell with his well-controlled mien. He must be an excellent chess player. Denton gives me several small encouraging smiles, and Daniel is writing down various things. Mr. Hale takes no notes. Finally, I’m through my last slide. Resisting the urge to do a cartwheel, I set down the remote control and take a sip of water.