The walk to Vivienne's study took me through seventeen hallways, past twelve paintings of dead ancestors, and cost me approximately fourteen percent of my remaining dignity.
My sneakers made this sound. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.
Water from the shower incident had soaked through everything. My uniform now lived in a plastic bag I'd borrowed and was dripping condensation like a crime scene evidence bag.
The only dry clothes I owned on campus were my gym clothes. Grey t-shirt. Navy athletic shorts. White socks that were losing their battle against moisture.
Every step announced my presence like a rubber duck convention.
Professional, I told myself. I am a professional. I will not mention the shower. I will not mention the ambush. There was a mishap with the sprinkler system.
The mental rehearsal wasn't working.
My brain kept replaying the way Cassidy had pressed against me in that shower stall. The heat of her skin. The way her fingers had curled against my chest.
