Page 114 of The Equation of Us
“People definitely know about us,” I mutter after a particularly pointed smile from the chair of bioengineering.
“Does that bother you?” Dean asks, his gaze assessing.
I consider the question seriously. “No,” I realize, somewhat surprised by my own answer. “It’s actually a relief. No more hiding, like you said.”
His smile warms me more than the champagne. “Good. Now, about that thing I wanted to show you—it’s just over here.”
He leads me toward a less crowded section of the exhibition, where a single display stands somewhat apart from the others. As we approach, I realize it’s a prototype of a prosthetic leg—sleeker than most designs I’ve seen, with an intricate joint system at the ankle.
“Is this—” I begin, recognition dawning.
“My design,” Dean confirms. “Or an early version of it. Whitman submitted it to the exhibition committee a month ago.”
I step closer, examining the detailed mechanics. The ankle joint features multiple pivot points, allowing for a range of motion far beyond typical prosthetics.
“For athletes,” I say softly, remembering his passionate explanation of the project.
“Yes.” His expression turns more serious, touched with the vulnerability he rarely shows in public. “Jesse would have been able to skate with something like this. Maybe not compete at the same level, but move on the ice again.”
I reach for his hand, squeezing gently. “It’s brilliant, Dean.”
“It’s a start.” His thumb traces patterns on my palm. “The Archer grant will help take it to the next level. And your research on neural pathways could actually help with the sensory feedback components.”
The connection between our work strikes me anew—how perfectly our academic interests complement each other, creating possibilities neither could achieve alone. Just like us.
“We make a good team,” I say, looking up at him.
His eyes soften. “The best.”
The moment stretches between us, intimate despite the public setting. I’m aware of people moving around us, of distantconversations and the gentle notes from the string quartet, but they feel peripheral, secondary to the man standing before me.
“Dean, Nora! I thought that was you.”
The familiar voice breaks the bubble of our moment. I turn to see Professor Wexler approaching, his characteristic bowtie slightly askew.
“Professor,” I greet him, instinctively taking a small step away from Dean. The gesture doesn’t escape Wexler’s notice, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“No need for that on my account,” he says, gesturing between us. “Though I do appreciate the professional boundaries you’ve maintained during academic hours.”
I feel my cheeks heat. “We’ve tried to be—”
“Discreet, yes.” Wexler nods. “Though perhaps not quite as discreet as you thought. The department has been running a small betting pool on when you’d make it official.”
Dean coughs slightly. “A betting pool?”
“Indeed. Dr. Lin won, I believe. She had ‘Spring Gala’ in the office pool.” He sips his champagne, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I was off by a week.”
“You bet on us?” I’m not sure whether to be mortified or amused.
“My dear, faculty members have precious little entertainment between grant cycles,” Wexler says. “Your clandestine romance was the most interesting thing to happen in the department since Dr. Heatherton’s ferret escaped into the ventilation system.”
Dean’s shoulders shake slightly with suppressed laughter. “And who started this betting pool, Professor?”
Wexler’s eyes twinkle. “That would be telling.” He glances over at the prosthetic display. “Impressive work, Carter. I can see why the Archer committee was so impressed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And Nora, I’ve been meaning to tell you—your latest data set on the oxytocin receptors is quite promising. I’d like to discuss expanding that line of inquiry when you have a moment.”
