“They’re an apology,” I say, keeping my voice steady.“For what I did in the staircase.I know how much you value your job, Eve.I shouldn’t have put you in a compromising position like that.”
Her expression shifts, wariness replacing outright hostility.She studies my face, searching for some sign that I’m playing another game.“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”I take a step closer, water still dripping from my hair.“I was out of line.Way out of line.You have every right to be pissed at me.”
The silence stretches between us, filled only by the sound of rain hammering against her windows.I can see her internal debate playing out across her features—the part of her that wants to stay angry warring with the part that recognizes genuine remorse when she hears it.
Finally, she reaches out and takes the roses, her fingers brushing mine briefly.The contact sends heat shooting up my arm despite the fact that I’m soaked and shivering.
“They’re not bad,” she admits quietly, bringing them up to inhale their scent.
“Good.They cost a fortune in this weather.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can see the way her expression softens.“I need to put these in water.”I follow her into the kitchen, my wet shoes squelching slightly against the floor.The space is compact and efficient, all clean lines and granite countertops.She opens a cabinet and pulls out a tall glass vase, filling it with water from the sink.
“So,” she says, carefully arranging the roses, “how did the meeting go?”
I shake the wine bottle lightly, the liquid sloshing inside.“That’s what the celebratory wine is for.”
She turns to face me fully, and the smile that spreads across her face is like the sun coming out after a storm.My chest tightens at the sight.The ball of tension that’s been sitting in my stomach since she started giving me the cold shoulder this morning finally begins to unravel.
“He said yes?”There’s genuine excitement in her voice now, all traces of our earlier conflict momentarily forgotten.
“He said yes.And he’s bringing Marcelli and Dubois with him.Giuseppe Marcelli for metalwork, Henri Dubois for leathercrafting.The holy trinity of maritime artisans, all in one showcase.”
“Jesus, Caleb.Do you realize what this means?We’re not just salvaging the campaign—We’re elevating it.”
Her excitement makes me want to grin.We’ve never worked together like this before, sharing our victories and downfalls.I like it, and the realization is staggering.I like working with her.Our wavelengths match when it comes to our job, and it’s so rare for me to have somebody who thinks like me.It’s another reason why I work alone.
Then I realize Eve is still talking, and I struggle to pay attention.
“...having all three of them together is going to generate the kind of buzz money can’t buy.”
“I know.”I can’t keep the satisfaction out of my voice.“Rogan’s reputation alone opens doors, but with Marcelli and Dubois?We’re talking about a cultural event.The kind of thing that gets covered inArt & Antiques, not just trade publications.”
She’s already moving, pulling wine glasses from another cabinet, her mind clearly racing with possibilities.“We’ll need to restructure the entire event timeline.If we’re featuring three master craftsmen instead of just one, we can extend the demonstrations, maybe create individual spotlights for each discipline...”
I watch her work, the way her fingers move with grace as she uncorks the wine.Even in that silk robe with her hair still damp from the shower, she’s completely in her element.Professional.Brilliant.Sexy as hell.
“The networking opportunities alone,” she continues, pouring deep red wine into both glasses, “having access to their professional circles, the connections they can make for future campaigns...”
“Eve.”
She looks up, eyebrows raised in question.
“We might actually pull this off,” I say.
A flush creeps up her neck, and she hands me one of the glasses.“Don’t get cocky.We still have a million details to work out.”
We clink glasses, and I take a sip of the Barolo.It’s rich and complex, with notes of cherry and earth, but I’m more focused on the way Eve’s lips look against the rim of her glass.
“There’s just one problem,” I say, setting my glass down.
Her face immediately shifts into business mode.“What?”
“I’m soaked through and freezing.If I don’t get out of these clothes soon, I’m going to catch pneumonia and miss the entire campaign launch.”
She looks me up and down, taking in my soggy shirt and the small puddle that’s formed around my feet.“You really are dripping everywhere.”
