Page 66 of American Beauty

I should’ve drawn a hard line. Should’ve put distance between us. But I didn’t.

I still haven’t.

And now, he’s calling me like everything is normal. Like we didn’t almost crash and burn in guest room 112.

Ty’s voice pulls me back. “Take a break from work and come out with me tonight. There’s a gallery opening I want to go to.”

Not a call, not a text. Now, out of nowhere, he’s asking me to a gallery opening as if nothing happened?

I should say no, make an excuse. But that’s not what I do.

“You like art, huh?”

“I do, very much, and I want to buy some for the hotel. It’s a talented artist. I believe you’ll like his work.”

“Who’s the artist?”

“William Bloom.”

Wow. I’m shocked that he would have an interest in William Bloom. He doesn’t seem the type. “I love his work.”

“You’re familiar with him?”

“Absolutely.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Is it a formal event?”

“It is. Do you have a dress?”

My stomach dips. The dress isn’t the problem—I have plenty. Too many, if I’m being honest. Most of them bought in Sydney, for glittering nights with Alex—nights wrapped in silk and his arms, when I was his in every way that counted.

I shake off the memory. “I have a dress.”

Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea.

But I hear myself ignore my own advice. “Sounds fun.”

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“I’ll be ready.”

The call ends, and I stare at my phone.

What the hell am I doing?

Assisting my client in buying art for the project we’re working on. Totally legit. That has to be what I’m doing. Because no other answer is acceptable.

The low rumbleof an engine rolls through the quiet night, smooth and unmistakably fast. Ty pulls up in a car that looks like it belongs on a magazine cover—sleek, black, and made for people who have more money than they know what to do with. A car that turns heads simply by its existence.

My posture is perfect as I step outside, heels clicking against the pavement. A cool breeze blows up the skirt of my dress,whispering over my bare skin, but the chill disappears the second our gazes meet.

His eyes drag over me, slow and unhurried, dark with something unreadable. “Fuck, you’re a stunner.” The rough edge to his voice sends a ripple through me.

Fuck, you’re a stunner.God, I miss hearing those words.

I swallow, my grip tightening around my clutch. I know what’s on his mind. Hell, I know because it’s on my mind too.

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