I’d felt his eyes on me as I hurried by, carrying a small sculpture that had been knocked askew. But I didn’t have time for alpha posturing. Not when I was trying to save my boss from a meltdown.
Ten minutes later, crisis averted, I’d been rewarding myself with a glass of champagne when a deep voice behind me said, “That was impressive.”
I’d turned to find Rett Sterling watching me, his blue eyes so intense they pinned me in place.
“What was?” I’d asked, taking a sip of my drink.
“The way you handled that situation. Quick, efficient, no drama.” His gaze had moved over my face with undisguised interest, lingering for a moment on my lips before meeting my eyes again. “Most people would have panicked.”
“Most people aren’t responsible for several million dollars’ worth of art on a nightly basis,” I’d replied with a shrug. “You develop a certain immunity to panic.”
A slow smile had spread across his face, transforming his expression into something devastatingly handsome. “I’mEverett Sterling,” he’d said, extending his hand. “Friends call me Rett.”
“I know who you are.” I’d taken his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine. “Zoe Clarke. Assistant curator.”
“Zoe,” he’d repeated, like he was tasting my name. “Would you like another drink? That one seems to be disappearing quickly.”
I’d glanced down at my nearly empty glass. “Are you implying I drink too fast, Mr. Sterling?”
“Not at all. Just that I’d like the excuse to keep talking to you.”
That should have been it. Polite small talk, then we’d both move on. That’s how these things usually worked.
Instead, Rett Sterling planted himself right there and said, “So what’s the story with that sculpture you just rescued?”
I blinked. Most donors wanted to know which pieces would impress their neighbors or hold their value. “You actually want to know about the art?”
“Crazy concept, I know.”
So I told him. And he listened. Actually listened, asked follow-up questions that weren’t stupid, and when I mentioned how the artist played with space, he made some comment about building design that actually made sense.
“Huh,” I said. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Sometimes you need an outside perspective,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made me look at him more closely.
That’s when another Sterling appeared with a fresh glass of champagne. “Diego,” he introduced himself. “Mind if I steal a second? I wanted to ask about that bronze piece in the corner.”
Great. Now there were two of them.
Except... it was actually fun. They both knew their stuff, asked smart questions, and didn’t try to mansplain art history to me. Diego had opinions about metalwork that were surprisingly insightful, and when I disagreed with him about theartist’s technique, he actually listened instead of getting defensive.
“Well, well,” a new voice said. “Are you two hogging the pretty curator?”
Sterling brother number three materialized beside them, all charm and dimples. “Tristan. I’ve been watching you guys have all the fun from the cheese table.”
“We’re discussing art,” Rett said.
“Sure you are.” Tristan’s grin was pure trouble. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
I felt my cheeks warm. “I should probably make the rounds?—”
“Do you need to?” Diego asked. “I mean, look around. Everyone’s having a great time without you hovering.”
He was right. The event hummed with conversation, people moving between pieces. No one needed me to hold their hand.
“Besides,” Tristan added, “we’re having an artistic emergency that requires your expertise.”
“An emergency?” I couldn’t help smiling.
