Duty Preserved

Chapter 1

Sarah Calloway

The wine was terrible, and Alyson Goodwin, my best friend, was on her third glass. She’d been trying to set me up with every breathing male in the building for the last hour.

“I’m just saying.” She held up the glass like she was examining it in a lab. “For Paris, you’d think they could manage a decent house red.”

“It’s a nightclub, Aly. Not a vineyard.”

“We’re in France. The whole country is a vineyard.”

Daniel Henderson, her boyfriend, leaned back and draped his arm across the top of Alyson’s chair. “You picked this place.”

“Because it had character.” She gestured at the exposed brick, the low, arched ceiling, the dance floor packed tight under colored lights that swept in lazy circles across the crowd. Bass thumped through the floor hard enough that I could feel it in my molars. “Look at all this character.”

I took another sip. I didn’t care about character.

Honestly, I didn’t care about Paris at all.

I just wanted to get back to my animals.

I slipped one foot out of my ballet flat under the table and flexed my toes.

Five days of Paris had ruined my feet. Cobblestones and museum stairs in shoes that weren’t my field boots, and every blister had a story.

The Louvre. Montmartre. A three-hour walk along the Seine because Alyson had to photograph every bridge for her Instagram.

I was ready to go back to Kenya, to the animals under my care there.

Not that I’d say that out loud to Alyson.

She and Daniel had been looking forward to this break in Paris for months.

Our veterinary fellowship required a five-day break every six months—something about burnout and mental health—and this time, Alyson had picked Paris before I could suggest staying in Nairobi.

But I missed the red dirt and the early mornings and the weight of my own boots.

Since this was our last night here, Alyson had wanted to paint the town. I would’ve been happy just resting in my room, enjoying the air conditioning, an actual bed, and ice in my drinks. All things nearly impossible to find in my normal life.

But Alyson was my best friend, and I hadn’t been able to say no.

She’d picked this place from some list on her phone, made me change out of my one non-field-khaki outfit, and informed me that tonight I was not Dr. Calloway. Tonight, I was Sarah, and Sarah was going to have fun, even if it killed her.

So far, Sarah was sitting in a corner booth watching other people have fun.

“You’re doing the thing again,” Alyson said, leaning across the table so I could hear her over the music.

“What thing?”

“The watching-from-the-corner thing. You’re in Paris. Participate.”

“I am participating. I’m drinking bad wine and listening to you complain about it.”

“That’s observation.” She nudged Daniel. “Tell her there’s a difference.”

Daniel glanced over, obviously bored with the conversation. “There’s a difference.”

“See? Even Daniel agrees.” Alyson scanned the room, chin in her hand. “You know what you need? You need to interact with a guy. Talk. Dance. Do the nasty. Just prove to yourself you still can.”

“I talk to guys every day.” I ignored the do the nasty part. That was not happening.

“Kenyan Rangers and Daniel don’t count.”

“Hey,” Daniel said.

“You don’t.” Alyson was already surveying the crowd from the booth. She’d pointed out at least six guys tonight. I’d rejected all of them. “Okay. Guy near the speakers? Blond.”

I found him. Good-looking, sure. He was talking to two women at once, splitting his attention evenly between them, his body angled to keep both engaged. I’d watched bulls work a herd with more subtlety. “No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I didn’t need to.”

“And this is what I’m talking about.” Alyson jabbed a finger at me. “You do this. You use that big, beautiful brain of yours to disqualify every option before you even give it a chance.”

“Or I just have standards.”

“You have walls that’s not the same.” She pushed her wineglass away. “And this is the problem. We’re sitting here drinking terrible wine like we’re at a faculty dinner. No wonder you’re in observation mode.” She flagged a server. “Tequila. A round.”

“I don’t want tequila.”

“Nobody wants tequila. That’s not the point.”

The shots arrived. Alyson slid one to Daniel, one to me, and kept one for herself.

I drank. It burned. Alyson was already flagging the server again. Another round appeared before I could object.

“Aly—”

“Momentum.” She clinked her glass against mine. “Drink. It’s our last night in Paris. Live a little.”

I drank. The tequila landed on top of the wine, and I waited for something to happen. Nothing did. I didn’t feel any different. Okay, good. Maybe it was watered down.

“Better.” Alyson grinned. “Now, we’re dancing.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me to my already-protesting feet.

She dragged me through the crowd with Daniel trailing behind, and within thirty seconds, we were on the dance floor and Alyson was moving like the music had been written specifically for her.

She took hold of my hands and started rocking me side to side, bouncing on her heels, refusing to let me stand still.

I moved with her, completely awkward, but not dancing—if my movements could even be called that—wasn’t a choice.

We danced. Or, Alyson danced, and I did my best impression of someone who’d been shown a diagram of dancing once and was working from memory. At some point, we went back to the table for another round. Then back to the floor. Three songs in, I realized my hips were moving without my permission.

Oh no. The tequila hadn’t been watered down.

Alyson noticed. “Look at you go! See? You can dance.” She grabbed my hands. “This is what I’ve been talking about. Relax a little.”

I almost smiled. The music was doing something to me—or the tequila was…or both. My body was loosening in a way that felt unfamiliar and not entirely unwelcome.

Alyson leaned close. “Okay. Tall one. By the DJ.”

I looked. He was dancing big, elbows out. Every few seconds, he checked the crowd to see who was watching. I shook my head.

“Why?”

“He’s performing.”

“Everyone’s performing. That’s what clubs are.”

“I’m not.”

“No. You’re doing field research.” She spun me around. “Who, then? You have rejected every man in this building.”

“Here’s a thought: I don’t need to talk to a man. I don’t need to dance with a man. I definitely do not need to do the nasty with a man. That’s not really what I want.”

I didn’t even know why I was talking. Alyson could barely hear me over the music, and she was dancing with Daniel anyway. This was useless. Why was I even here? I didn’t want—

A group pushed past behind me, loud and careless, and someone’s elbow caught me between the shoulder blades. I pitched forward and crashed into someone hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs.

Hands caught me. Firm and fast, one on my arm and one at my waist. I was pressed against a chest that felt like it had been poured from concrete: wide, solid, warm through a plain dark dress shirt that wasn’t trying to show anything but couldn’t hide what was underneath.

My hands landed flat against him, and I could feel muscle that wasn’t for show. Built for something I couldn’t name.

I looked up.

Dark hair. Brown eyes. A face that was all hard angles, nothing in it that was trying to be liked.

He was close enough that I could feel his breath and see where his jaw tightened and notice that his eyes, up close, weren’t just brown.

They had flecks of gold in them that the colored lights caught and released.

He looked at me. Focused, direct. He didn’t let go until I had my footing. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. My brain had shut down and left my body standing there pressed against a stranger.

Then he stepped back. Gently, like he was making sure I was steady before he let go. He dropped his hands. He stepped around me and kept moving. Through the crowd, through the bodies, gone.

I stood on the dance floor with my palms tingling and my brain trying to restart.

Alyson pulled me back into the music. I let her. We danced for another two songs, maybe three, and I tried to focus on her and Daniel and the bass rattling my ribs. But my eyes kept drifting.

There he was. He’d sat down alone at a high-top near the wall. He had a drink in front of him, and he was watching the room—eyes moving through the crowd, never landing anywhere for long. His hand came up to his ear for a second, then dropped back to his glass.

“Oh my God.” Alyson was beside me. She followed my gaze. “Is that the guy from the dance floor?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s sitting alone.”

“I can see that.”

“Go talk to him.”

“What? No. I just— He already— That was—”

“Sarah.” She grabbed my shoulders. “That right there. That look on your face. That’s what I’ve been trying to get out of you all year. Now go over there before you lose your nerve.”

My heart was still pounding from the collision. My palms were still tingling. The last man I’d been with had been pretty thorough in explaining why I shouldn’t bother with moments like this.

“What would I even say? He’s probably French. I don’t speak French.”

“Then mime. Point at his drink. Do the international symbol for ‘you’re hot and I’d like to sit here.’”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now. Go.”

I looked at him across the room. He touched his ear again. Took a sip of his drink. His eyes swept past me without stopping.

“Go.” Alyson gave me a gentle push. “The worst thing that happens is you come back here and we drink about it.”

I went. I didn’t know why I went. Every reasonable part of my brain was screaming at me to stay on the dance floor and let the moment die a quiet death. But my feet were moving and the tequila was doing the thinking and the memory of his hands on my waist was louder than the screaming.

He saw me coming. I could tell because his eyes stopped their sweep, landed on me, and stayed. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He just watched me approach with an expression I couldn’t read.