My phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was from Tom, saying he was downstairs.

I stood and collected a jacket from my closet. It wasn’t a cold night, but I wanted to be prepared. I tucked my purse under my arm and headed for the door.

“See you, Sage.”

She waved. “Bye, Willow. Stay away from weird old men for me.”

“I’ll try.” I took the stairs down and rolled my eyes at the sight of a limo idling by the curb. We no longer owned one, so he must have rented it. A driver, too, by the looks of it. I climbed into the back seat. “You look sharp.”

His gaze flickered up and down my outfit as we pulled into traffic. “Good effort from you too, all things considered.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He meant well, but he could be a shameless snob. I glanced at his date, a blonde woman with a bored expression. “I’m Willow.”

She arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “I’m Chardonnay.”

Well, okay then.

“Nice to meet you.” I turned to Tom. “Is there anyone we want to impress tonight?”

Often, he had a business associate or a prospective client he wanted to wow, and it was my job to charm them so they’d sign on the dotted line with Lennox Securities.

“Petrov,” he said.

I glanced out the window so he wouldn’t see me pull a face. I wanted to ask if this was another of his attempts to thrust me at one of his business acquaintances in the hopes we’d click, but I held back. I’d rather not fight tonight. Things were tense enough.

We traveled in silence to our destination, The Art Institute of Chicago. When we arrived, he helped Chardonnay out while the driver rounded the car to open my door. I walked alongside them as we were escorted past the lion statues that stood guard by the stone steps. Inside, each of us was handed a glass of champagne. I looked around, taking in the grand staircases where people milled about and the quietly opulent décor—everything in tones of cream and gold. We did the rounds, circulating among his friends and acquaintances. I began to hope he’d forgotten Petrov, but then he led us to a standing table in the corner of the raised platform that ringed the room.

“Good evening, Mr. Petrov.” I forced a smile but didn’t offer him a hand, remembering the kissing incident from last time.

Tom gave me a meaningful look, and I ignored him.

“Willow,” Petrov said, touching my shoulder. “How many times must I tell you to call me Adrian?” A shiver raced up my spine. His finger was cold and unwelcome. I didn’t like it on my bare skin. But I liked the idea of calling him by his first name even less. Dad hadn’t liked him and wouldn’t have wanted to see us associated with him. Tom might have bought Petrov’s story that they’d been friendly rivals, but I got the feeling there hadn’t been anything friendly about it. “You are absolutely exquisite.”