Page 147 of One Wrong Move

“For years,” he mutters. “Yes.”

I feel too hot. From the warm water, his cock in my palm, his eyes on me. The only cool thing is the porcelain against my chest. “Does that mean you’ve been wanting to do this, too? For years?”

The question hangs in the steamy, scented air.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from my gaze.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”

My hand tightens around him on instinct, and my breath hitches.

He groans. Reaches out to grab me. “Now come here. You’re getting into this tub with me, and in return, I’ll finally agree that baths are superior.”

“I’m still wearing my panties!” But I scramble into the hot water and into his arms.

He pulls me close. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I think we’ll be able to get those off.”

Harper

Sunlight streams in through the gallery’s large windows, illuminating the white space. White walls, white floors, white ceilings. The heat wave that kept London in a chokehold for a week slowly dissipated, and now we’re back to beautiful June weather.

Aadhya is giddy. I feel it, the emotion radiating from her, even though she’s standing calmly beside me. Eitan is talking with two buyers just a few feet away. The paperwork has already been drawn. The pen is out.

I feel the same giddiness Aadhya does. I nudge her, a teeny bit, and she nudges me back.

We just sold a trio of paintings for a number so large, so staggering, that even our tiny cut of the commission will be epic. Epic. Kinda like Eitan’s approval.

The couple is in their fifties, glamorous, worldly, eccentric. Two married women who appear to be complete opposites but finish each other sentences. They walked in, and Aadhya and I snapped into our roles.

I feel giddy a lot these days. Last night, in the bathtub…

And this morning, when he drove me to work. Completely unnecessary. But he did, and before I got out of the car, he kissed me.

On the street by the Duke of Kent Square, right across from the Sterling Gallery. Where everyone might see. Aadhya. My other coworkers.

And it didn’t bother me as much as it should.

The couple leaves with assurances that the art will be delivered to them later in the week, and Eitan turns to us. He has an uncharacteristically large smile on his face.

“Excellent work, ladies,” he says. “Right artwork paired with the right clients.”

“We live to please,” Aadhya says grandly with a smile.

“And you do,” he says. “I looked over the latest plans you two finalized for next week’s party. I must say, I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s not looking too bad.”

That’s high praise coming from him.

“Harper, I saw your note about having a guide at hand for those who want to take a more extensive tour of the facilities,” he says. “It’s… unusual, but it’s good.”

I’d stolen the idea from the art event Nate and I went to at the London Modern. Our gallery is much smaller, but the work we do and our collection are diverse enough that we can offer whoever is interested a behind-the-scenes tour, and discuss preservation and authentication.

We’re still discussing the party, out in the main gallery, when the doorbell rings. The gallery is open to the public, but the door is always locked for safety reasons. Anyone can press the button to unlock it from the inside.

And in walks Willard.

The man I’d spoken to at Nate’s party, the nephew of one of Nate’s business associates. Outwardly charming. Very easy on the eyes. And definitely someone with ulterior motives.

When I think about it, Nate’s jealousy that night had been entirely misguided. This isn’t the kind of man I’d ever fall for.

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