“Well,” a smooth, familiar voice says from right behind me, “you can’t argue with good bones.”
I close my eyes for a single, brief moment, praying for a sinkhole to open up right under my feet. No such luck. I turn, my professional smile feeling stretched to its breaking point.
Tristan Sterling looks... good. Annoyingly good. Dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal blazer over a simple white t-shirt, he manages to look both casual and like he belongs among the wealthy art patrons. His dark curls are perfectly styled, and his smile, complete with that devastating dimple, is aimed directly at the Davelles.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he says, though he doesn’t look sorry at all. “I was just captivated by your curator’s expertise.”
“Not at all, young man,” Mrs. Davelle beams at him. “Are you an art enthusiast as well?”
“More of a technology enthusiast,” Tristan says with a self-deprecating shrug. “But I’m learning to appreciate the finer things.” His eyes flick to me, and there’s something in them, a hint of nervousness beneath the charm, that catches me off guard.
“Tristan Sterling,” he introduces himself, extending his hand to Mr. Davelle, who perks up immediately at the name.
“Sterling? As in Sterling Solutions?” the older man asks, suddenly engaged.
“The very same,” Tristan confirms.
“Fascinating work you’re doing,” Mr. Anderson says, shaking Tristan’s hand with newfound vigor. “I was just reading about your latest patent...”
And just like that, I’ve lost half my tour to tech talk. Mrs. Davelle rolls her eyes good-naturedly.
“Perhaps we should continue while the boys discuss their toys,” she suggests, linking her arm through mine.
I shoot Tristan a warning look as I lead Mrs. Davelle toward the next exhibit. He responds with a wink that makes my stomach do an unauthorized flip.
The rest of the tour is a blur. I’m hyperaware of Tristan’s presence as he and Mr. Davelle follow behind us. Every time he speaks, his voice seems to resonate directly through my claiming marks, creating a pleasant vibration that’s deeply distracting.
By the time we reach the final piece, my turtleneck feels likeit’s slowly strangling me, and I’m fairly certain my face is the same color as the crimson abstract painting we’re standing in front of.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Davelle’s eyes dart between me and Tristan like she’s watching a particularly juicy soap opera, and I wonder,oh God, if she’s seen the PackTrackr alert. “Well!” She claps her hands together, bracelets jangling. “I think we’ve seen enough to know we want our name on this exhibition.”
My shoulders drop half an inch. “That’s wonderful news?—”
“Though I do wonder,” she continues, leaning in, “if we might get a private tour with the artist? Perhaps when you’re less... occupied?” Her gaze flicks to Tristan again.
Mr. Davelle chooses that moment to emerge from his intense discussion about—Christ, are they really talking about yacht engine maintenance?
“—but you’ve got to winterize the fuel lines,” he’s saying, jabbing a finger at Tristan’s chest. “Rookie mistake, not doing that.”
Tristan nods. “I’ll take that under advisement, sir.”
Mrs. Davelle hooks her arm through her husband’s. “Arthur, we’re sponsoring the show.”
“Excellent.” He pats her hand absently, then frowns at me. “You should get that turtleneck looked at. Looks like you’re having an allergic reaction.”
Tristan makes a small, choked sound that is definitely a suppressed laugh. I send him a death glare and discreetly jab my elbow backward into what I hope is his side.
“Right!” Mrs. Davelle drags her husband toward the exit. “We’ll just... find Helen ourselves, shall we?”
The moment they’re out of earshot, I turn on Tristan. “Are you insane?” I hiss, swiping at my damp forehead. “You can’t just waltz into my workplace smelling like a damn Christmas candle and?—”
“Gingerbread,” he corrects. “I was going for gingerbread.”
“—and start making yacht talk with donors!”
He has the audacity to look pleased with himself. “Worked, didn’t it? They’re sponsoring the show.”
“Despiteyour help, not because of it.”
