I pretend to straighten a piece of artwork on the wall near me.

There, that’s better.

Then I turn and step back into the throng, grateful that so many people have arrived for Aaron’s exhibition. As I wade through the crowd slowly, picking up a glass of champagne, I smile and nod to the guests I recognize. I get waylaid a time or two, chatting with some of Morgan’s most loyal clients, ensuring I pay respect where it’s due so they feel obliged to think long and hard about acquiring one of Aaron’s pieces.

Before long, I find myself near Emmett, and it’s not completely accidental. I’ve always been susceptible to his magnetism, this unyielding need to be near him, even back at St. John’s. All those nights I found myself creeping around the lake at night, I told myself I was just having trouble sleeping, but in truth, I was looking for him.

Tonight, he’s not alone.

He arrived with three others, all women. They’re dressed fashionably and all done up. I recognize who they are to him because of the logo embroidered on one of their bags. Pierce Waterhouse is an interior design firm known throughout the city. They are well acquainted with our gallery; we’ve sourced pieces for their clients dozens of times before.

It appears Emmett is in the market tonight, and these three are here to help him choose wisely. I watch in horror as one of the women pulls out a swatch of Schumacher fabric and holds it up to one of Aaron’s pieces to compare the fabric with the abstract work. It takes everything in me not to groan in agony.

They continue on, stepping in front of one of the largest collages in the collection, but Emmett lingers where they left him, checking something on his phone.

Impulsively, recklessly, stupidly, I step closer and lean in before common sense can grasp my neck and yank me back. I face away from him and speak as if I’m giving him some private piece of intel meant only for his ears.

“Tell your designers they should put away the fabric samples. Art should never be chosen that way.”

I’m already moving on, having done my civic duty for the day, but his voice stops me in my tracks.

“Excuse me?”

I turn toward him and feel my chest constrict with nerves. Up close, it’s impossible not to shrink in submission, just a little. There’s a French severity about him. It’s in the cut of his cheekbones, the mean set to his jaw, his dark brooding eyebrows. He’s all sharp angles and warning signs. Do not approach. Do not expect kindness. Or more simply, Beware.

Shockingly, I find my voice.

“It’s a mistake to try to ensure a painting matches your couch. If you want to create a space so maddeningly cohesive and mundane, why not just go to Hobby Lobby and grab a plank of plywood someone’s painted over? ‘Live Laugh Love’ stenciled right down the center.”