I’m special, and I still had to fight. There is no gray with Miranda Wheaton—everything is black and white. You are either in or you’re out.

I need to stay in.

I also need to get the projector working. I’m sweating. I sweat when I panic. I’m panicking, too. Even though I’m not the one really getting an award, I am the one sitting up here on my knees in front of the small table, unplugging and replugging the same cord to the computer—expecting the screen to just randomly appear one of these times—despite the fact that I’m not doing anything different.

Come on. One, two, three…work!

I lean forward and rub my head. I should have worn my hair up. Right now, my heavy locks are only making me hotter. I twist my hair into a knot at the base of my neck, jabbing a pencil through the middle of the bun to secure it in place. I go back to the stubborn computer and punch a few buttons. Here I want to cut into people’s bodies for a living—and I can’t even get a PowerPoint to show up.

“Hey, mind if I maybe…just…”

A pair of very large, very masculine hands reaches in front of me, and when I look up I’m greeted with startling-blue eyes on a chiseled face and just enough of a beard to make me want to touch it…just once.

No, no…don’t touch it, Emma!

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, but I was in the back…over there?” He nods over his shoulder, to the doorway where two other equally handsome men are leaning, watching me flail. I’ve been flailing in front of them for nearly an hour. On my knees. I think maybe I swore a few times, too. Oh my god! “You’re…kind of struggling, huh?” he says. I blink at him, twisting my lips before I look back at the computer in front of us both. I pull the cord out and plug it in again.

“This is my only move,” I say with a shrug, looking back up at him again. “That’s all I’ve got.” Yep, those are definitely blue eyes. Not blue-gray like mine. His are a better blue, like…sky maybe?

His laugh comes from somewhere deep inside his chest, under the tight silvery gray shirt and slightly darker gray tie that he’s wearing on his chest like a superhero emblem. I laugh internally at my observation: my hero in a suit and tie.

“I think you just need to put it in…display mode…which is right…” His speech comes out in pieces while he crouches down next to me and opens a few windows, punches a few buttons, and holy shit, Miranda’s presentation is on the screen!

“You’re amazing,” I say, standing on my feet and staring at the screen with wide eyes and an open mouth, working every second to avoid looking back at him with the same awe and amazement. I can tell from my periphery that he’s smiling. I can also tell that his smile—it’s really nice.

He chuckles, and I give in. I look, and my body flushes instantly.

“No, I just do a lot of presentations. It’s more of a matter of knowing how to push the right buttons, not really being amazing,” he smirks, taking a few steps back until he reaches the edge of the stage I’m on—we’re on. This sexy, sexy man is talking about pushing buttons and I’m blushing in front of professors and doctors while on a stage.

“Oh…yeah, right,” I say. My heart is beating the way it does when I chug uphill in a rollercoaster. I’m nervous, and my palms are sweating, and this hot guy with a beard just winked at me.

When he leaves the stage, I move my attention back to the computer—sorting through the slides to make sure they’re in order and on the right one to start. I tug my purse out from under the table and pull the small note cards I’ve made out next. I sit against the back wall, in a seat in a line of chairs left there for the presenters for the night.

Dr. Miranda Wheaton saved my life.

Dr. Wheaton is more than a visionary.

It’s an honor to study with her.

I mumble to myself the start of my few short paragraphs. I’m uncomfortable speaking in front of a crowd, but speaking about this…it amps up my anxiety about seven-thousand levels.

I understand why I need to, though. Or maybe not need to, but why people want to hear it. It’s compelling. My story is the perfect illustration on why Dr. Wheaton is the best, why she deserves this award tonight, and why she’ll continue to win hundreds more just as prestigious.

The crowd filters in, and after several minutes, the background is filled with nothing but non-stop chatter and the clanking of wine glasses. When I look up from my notes, I’m almost dizzied by the number of important people—sitting in chairs around tables with linens—looking at me.