Page 10 of One Wrong Move

“Yes.”

Her gaze shifts to mine. “How?”

I shrug. Invitations like this regularly end up in my inbox or are filtered through my assistant, and most of them, I decline. I have no doubt this one came courtesy of her boss at the Sterling Gallery. I’d become a big art buyer, and big art buyers are always welcome at events like this.

“Like you said, I’m very handsome.”

She giggles, a bit breathlessly. “Right, of course. Well, you have to go, of course. Are you asking if these artists are someones you should look into? To make a purchase?” She furrows her brow and looks back at my phone, and I see her eyes reading. “I know two of them… the third I’ll have to investigate. Off the cuff, I think you should consider acquiring a piece or two by the first one. She’s starting to get quite a lot of traction, so her works won’t be bargain finds, but I still think it’s a wise investment.”

“Mm-hmm. And how do you feel about advising me on the night?”

“Like… in person?”

“Yes. This invitation includes a plus-one.”

Her eyes, already large, spark with excitement. “Really?”

“I joke about many things, Harper, but never about art.”

“Oh my God. And the entire museum would be closed to the public?”

“Yes. I think… scroll down a bit. They have private tours going on during the event.”

“I would love to. Oh my God, this is…” But then conflict blooms in her gaze. “But I’m not sure it would be appropriate.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You—the art adviser. Me—the art buyer. This is already an established pattern.”

“You can’t keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Twisting the truth.”

“I’m not,” I say. “It is the truth.”

She looks back at the invitation, and I see the war waging in her eyes. She wants to go. I knew she would. My assistant had called London Modern earlier today and asked if my RSVP could be changed from not attending to confirmed at the last minute.

And, originally, it didn’t include a plus-one. Trish had asked to rectify that, as well.

“Harper,” I say, and her eyes flicker back to mine. They look greener than usual under the interior lighting. “I’m the only person in London you know, and I’ve got connections. Use me. It’s okay.”

She blinks. “Really?”

“Yes. You and I were on good terms before there was a box, and I hope we can still be so. Besides,” I say and give her a crooked smile, “I could really use some company. Most of those art exhibitions bore me to death.”

Harper laughs, and the sound sends a rush of heat down my spine. I’m going to get addicted to that sound. To hearing her make it again.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll go. Thank you very much.”

I’m playing with fire here. Always have been when I’m with her. But I know this fire can only burn me. Because despite the use of the word “handsome” earlier, I’ve never been a choice for her. It was always Dean.

Pining for this woman has been the bane of my existence these past four years. But I can’t seem to make myself stop, either… and now, I’m getting ready to pine up close.

Harper

The knowledge that I know Nate, beyond the basic degree of acquaintanceship, has changed something at the gallery. I felt it immediately after our first encounter, but it became more noticeable in the following days, with both Aadhya, Eitan, as well as Brett—another sales associate—asking me circumspect questions about my life back in New York.

Any other big clients? Aadhya inquired with a smile, before popping chewing gum into her mouth. She always smells brightly of mint. Eitan had been slightly more casual about it all. He’d joined me one morning when I was adjusting the signs for the new exhibition in the North Room, and spoken about the importance of client relations. But there was a tone to his voice that hadn’t been present before.

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