“Morgan is the art restorer,” Lisa corrected him. Hearing the falsehood out loud made me wince. “Morgan, this is Wyatt.” Lisa nodded to the guy with the dreadlocks. She looked at the phone that seemed perpetually glued to her hand, but kept talking. “Wyatt’s head of construction,” she said. “And this is Adam, second in command.” She pointed toward the blond guy, whose left arm, shoulder to wrist, was encircled by the tattoo of a snake. Not very subtle, I thought. “And this is Oliver Jones, our curator in charge of the art.”

Oliver was the older of the three by eight or nine years and he held his hand out to me with a smile. “Welcome,” he said. “Glad you’re here.” He was tall with a techie look about him. Fair skinned, his cheeks boyishly tinted with pink as though he’d just come in from the cold. Angular features and thick dark hair that swept his forehead. Behind his black horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes were so blue I wondered if he was wearing tinted contacts.

“Hi.” I shook his hand, and when I let go, my gaze returned to Adam. He really did look like Trey. It wasn’t just my imagination trying to torment me. He had Trey’s not-too-tall, not-too-short build. Trey’s broad chest. He stared at me. I was used to it. It was my hair. Shoulder length, deep bangs, naturally blond. From the time I was very small, I’d felt its power—the only power I’d had.

I pulled my gaze away from Adam, annoyed with myself for feeling any attraction to him. I should be repelled instead. I turned back to the rolled canvas. “Can I see the mural?” I asked.

“Mm,” Lisa said, glancing one more time at the phone in her hand before she lowered it to her side. “Let’s get that thing opened up.”

The men moved as a group toward the rolled canvas.

“Better get out of the way,” Wyatt said, and Lisa and I moved back toward the door.

“I’ve been so curious to see this thing,” Oliver said as the three men tipped the rolled mural onto its side and moved it into the center of the room. He pulled a utility knife from his jeans pocket and cut the straps holding the canvas in place. Then the three of them began slowly unrolling the canvas over the floor.

“The paint’s on the wrong side,” Adam said as the back of the canvas was revealed.

“No,” Oliver said. “Actually, whoever rolled this did it the right way. Paint side out. Covered it in muslin to protect it.”