Page 1 of 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.”