Page 109 of A Temporary Forever

I lean in and she tenses. “It turns me on when you speak French.”

She stifles a snort and pushes me away. “Now you’re just cheesy. We better go. You have work to do.”

Shit. I forgot about the event completely. In light of Celeste being upset, it didn’t matter. I don’t even care that she overreacted, or why, as long as she feels better now.

And as Peter gets back in the car and pulls into the traffic, Celeste puts her hand on top of mine.

She doesn’t look away from the window, but it still feels like the world rearranges itself to its regular, comfortable rhythm.

My mind is spinning from all the information and fucking small talk. More importantly, my head isn’t in it, as my gaze keeps trailing Celeste. Not so difficult since she’s the most beautiful woman here.

“If you’ll excuse me…” I try to extricate myself from the banker who’s droning on about capital interests. “I need to find my wife.”

My wife.If I could bottle up the feeling behind the word, the ICE would expedite Celeste’s visa.

“I didn’t know you got married, Caleb.”

And I wish I remembered your name.

“Your father hasn’t mentioned anything.”

And now it’s obvious why I don’t know who this man is. He’s been living under a rock, because everyone knows about the fallout of the van den Lindens.

I turn away, done with this loser, and locate Celeste. She’s laughing at something at the bar, but I don’t see the source of her entertainment.

“Here you are.” Xander appears by my side. “Art Mathison’s wife was saying goodbye to someone just now. If we want to get a meeting with him, we better find him.”

Mathison is the best in surveillance and security. Rumor is he made his money hacking, but nowadays his significant riches come from information gathering. Information is money in our world.

Celeste angles closer to whoever she’s talking to, but other guests still block the person.

“Okay, let’s find him quickly,” I growl.

“What’s up your ass?” Xandershakes his head.

I don’t bother to explain myself. Mostly because I don’t really like the answer.

We need Mathison on retainer, but the fucker is as elusive as a taxi in rush hour. We haven’t been able to secure a meeting.

He comes to these events only if his wife forces him. It’s as if she’s socializing her stray dog. I have yet to see him enjoying himself at a function.

“There he is.” Xander gestures toward a large man. He’s glaring at someone who talks to him while his hand rests on his wife’s back.

We weave through the mingling guests in the ballroom, my stomach growling. I can’t believe that we were late, I’ve been networking for an hour, and they haven’t even started the dinner or the awards ceremony.

As we approach the Mathisons, the person they’re talking to leaves.

“Violet.” I bow my head to Mrs. Mathison. The blond with unusual brown eyes is a gallery owner.

“Caleb.” She smiles, and her husband gives me a murderous look. “Art, this is my client, Caleb van den Linden.”

Mathison nods, but doesn’t bother extending his hand until his wife looks at him. Not sure what her look tells him, but he shakes my hand and mumbles something unintelligible.

“Pleasure’s all mine.” What’s this fucker’s problem? “This is my business partner, Xander Stone. We were hoping to have a chat with you.”

His features rearrange into something akin to constipation, but before he can refuse us, Violet chimes in, “I’m going to the powder room.”

She pats his chest, and another silent communication passes between them before she leaves.

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