“Four-orgasm theory,” I pant, kissing her damp temple, “officially confirmed.”
She laughs, breathless and wrecked. “We’re buying ten of those rings.”
“Already ordered.” I pull her against me. “Welcome to engaged life, baby.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Minerva
The conference badge itches my neck. I’ve tried turning it around, loosening the lanyard, even stuffing a bit of Kleenex underneath the edge, but nothing helps. I hate it. I also hate that I’m about to speak in front of approximately three hundred people, half of whom have probably published more peer-reviewed papers than I’ve read this year.
“You’re chewing your thumbnail,” Tristan says gently.
I yank my hand down. “It’s a nervous system self-soothing strategy.”
He grins. “I like all your strategies.”
He’s calm, of course. Towering beside me in that fitted suit with his arms crossed and his expression casual, like he hasn’t just watched me spiral four times in the last twenty minutes over whether or not my sparkly ferret earrings are ‘too much’ for a conference full of men named Brent.
Spoiler alert: I wore them anyway.
And the world doesn’t end. Nobody dies. Maybe taking up a square inch of visual real estate is allowed after all.
“Your slides are flawless. You ran the tech check twice. Your prototype is in the display case with the label facing out. You’ve already won, Min.” He leans in, lowering his voice just for me. “You just have to go up there and show them what brilliance looks like.”
Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have to talk about neural tension response latency curves with a dry mouth and sweaty palms. But there’s something raw under his smile—pride, yeah, but also this flicker of fear that I’ll rise so high he won’t be ableto keep up. God, if he only knew… He’s the reason I’m standing here at all.
I adjust my jumpsuit again. I thought black would be chic. Instead, I feel like a sad ninja. “Is it weird that I kind of wish Kepler was here?”
“Only because he’d try to crawl into the cables,” Tristan says. “Want me to sneak him in next time?”
I try to smile, but my face feels frozen. “They’re going to know I don’t belong.”
“You invented something that’s being used in professional leagues,” he reminds me. “You belong more than anyone here.”
My stomach flips. I could still leave. I could fake a migraine. I could pretend to faint. Or really faint. Honestly, I’m not sure I won’t.
Someone calls my name. My heart sits at the base of my throat.
“This is it.”
“You got this,” he says, and kisses the back of my hand. “Go be a star, Dr. Marino.”
“I only have a master’s degree,” I argue. “I’m not a doctor.”
“You are to me. And if you want to spend the next few years making it official, I fully support that.”
That makes me laugh, which helps more than it should. He gives me a gentle push toward the stage, and somehow, my legs work. I walk up the steps, blinking into the stage lights, past a row of dead-eyed executives in suits.
There’s a moment—right as I reach the podium—when I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake. I don’t belong here. My throat is dry. My slides might be out of order. My name tag is still itchy.
I grip the edge of the podium. My first slide appears on the screen behind me.
And then I say the dumbest thing I’ve ever said into a microphone:
“Hi. I’m Minerva Marino, and I hate this badge with every fiber of my being.”
The audiencelaughs.
