He steps out of the circle of admirers, and he’s walking toward me. Straight toward me.
A thousand thoughts pinball through my brain. Is this ridiculous red lipstick smeared? Is my tag still sticking out? Should I duck behind the ice sculpture?
But then he’s here. In front of me. All dark eyes and tailored confidence.
“Hi,” he says, extending a hand as if this were a networking mixer and not a ballroom full of billionaires and wannabes. “Spencer Devereaux.”
As if everyone in this room doesn’t already know.
I take his hand. His touch sends a current through my palm and up my arm—electric and unexpected. I almost forget to speak.
“Rhea,” I manage, my voice thinner than I want it to be. “Rhea Sinclair.”
His mouth curves into a genuine smile. “Ah, yes. You’reone of our grant finalists. Maplewick Public Literacy Initiative.”
I’m shocked.
“You read it?” I blink.
“Of course I read it.” His gaze sharpens—not just polite interest, but real engagement. “Your proposal was smart. Scalable. Powerful case for expanding digital and physical media access in underserved rural areas. I was especially taken by your analysis of book deserts and community dignity.”
I feel myself straighten. This ismything.Mypassion. The topic I want to corner every dinner guest and Lyft driver to talk about.
But instead of speaking, I just… inhale. Because now he’s closer. And he smells like cedar and sandalwood and a hint of danger. His mouth moves, he’s still talking, but I’ve forgotten every statistic I’ve ever memorized.
Then the lights dim.
“Looks like they’re nudging us to our seats,” he says, gesturing toward the stage with an easy elegance that makes it impossible not to follow. “Let’s talk more later, Rhea.”
And he’s gone.
I watch him stride toward the stage—utterly composed, perfectly fitted in what’s probably a ten-thousand-dollar tux. And yet it’s not what he said that sticks with me. It’s the warmth in his handshake. The curiosity in his eyes.
A woman at the next table fans herself with her program. I’m not the only one watching him.
He steps up to the mic. Lights brighten. The room quiets. And then he speaks.
He’s not just rich. He’s articulate. Smooth. Funny. Unpretentious in the most calculated way. He makes themen laugh, the women swoon, and the idealists lean forward.
“We need to protect what’s tactile,” he tells the room, voice like velvet. “Not just the words, but the way we hold them. In a child’s hands at bedtime. In a hammock under the sun. Between lovers, trading lines of Hugo by candlelight.”
The foundation’s rural library grant program is one of his newest initiatives—funding six projects this year, with tonight’s gala serving as both celebration and suspense. He’ll announce the winners at the end of the evening. Which means—for now—I smile, sip champagne, and pretend I belong.
Then he shifts—leans closer to the mic like he’s letting us in on something sacred.
“Aimer, c’est agir.”
The syllables roll off his tongue, soft and unhurried. Even if you don’t speak French, the words land with weight, rich as velvet.
The room stills for just a beat.
He doesn’t offer a translation.
But I know it.To love is to act.
And I swear—right then—he looks at me like he knows my love of Hugo.
Dead-on eye contact. Soft but intense.
