“Far from it,” she said, smiling, feeling as awkward as he did, and trying to regain her composure. “What does she like?” she asked him as they continued to stand in the doorway of the makeshift stockroom, inches apart, neither of them moving forward or back. She could almost feel the warmth of his body. But she hadn’t rebuffed him and sent him back to the party to work with Valentina and the others. She knew how busy they were and it might be a long wait. Her eyes met Mike’s bravely as she tried to adapt to the unexpected situation.

“Mike Andrews,” he said, smiling broadly, fascinated by her, as he held a hand out and she shook it. She was so much more beautiful than her photographs. She seemed so fragile and human. There was something so kind and mysterious about her. He felt as though he was going to fall into the deep blue pool of her eyes.

“Hello, Mike.” She smiled up at him. “What do you think your sister would like?” It was all a lie. His sister was an artist and hadn’t worn decent clothes since high school. She lived in a loft in the village, and everything she owned was splattered with paint. But he could see that Theo wanted to help him. He had hit the right chord with her.

“She likes red,” he said off the top of his head, not even sure if that were true. She wore mostly khaki and army surplus, and paint.

“A red mink jacket? A red dress? A red purse,” she suggested, and he lit up at that.

“That sounds perfect.” She led him deeper into the stockroom and pulled out a box with a Saint Laurent purse in it. It was bright red and very chic, and he smiled when he saw it. He couldn’t even remotely imagine his sister with anything like it. “She’ll love it.”

“Perfect. I can gift wrap it for you.”

“I can’t believe you’re waiting on me. I apologize.”

“Don’t be silly. I have the time since I’m back here.”

“You shouldn’t be hiding back here,” he said gently, and meant it.

“I don’t go to parties anymore.” He didn’t ask her why, he knew, and his heart ached for her. His whole body ached for her, and he could barely focus on the purse for his sister. She wasn’t even turning forty, she was forty-two.

They completed the transaction with his credit card, with a machine they had in the back room, and when she handed it back to him along with the gift-wrapped box in a Theo.com bag, he handed her his business card, which gave his name, the address of his office, and said he was an attorney. It had his cellphone number and email address on it too.

“You don’t live in New York, do you?” he asked her.