“Yes, cute,” I muttered, sitting a little straighter. “And it’s actually hard to get the right shade. Everything looks differentin sunlight than in artificial lighting, so half the time the bow looks off even if the heels are perfect. And don’t get me started on fabric textures, some colors photograph too light, and others?—”
I stopped mid-ramble.
He was listening, but I doubted he was emotionally invested in my bow-to-heel color-matching saga.
I cleared my throat. “You probably don’t care about any of that. Wait…” I frowned. “How did you know I wear bows? Plural. You said it like you’ve noticed before.”
His eyes didn’t move from mine. “You’re always in this building.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is, when half the men stop paying attention to their own meeting the second you walk in.”
My mouth opened. Closed.
Heat rushed straight to my face.
“I would remember meeting you,” I said softly. “Trust me, I would. And my father, he’s very insistent on keeping our business with the Crow Dynasty to as little possible. Not in an insulting way, just?—”
“Thornes,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
My breath hitched. “Yes.”
His gaze sharpened. “And your name?”
“Oh. Madeline.” I can’t believe I hadn’t introduced myself, “But everyone calls me Maddy.”
His expression changed slightly. A slow inhale like he just learned something important.
“I don’t always wear bows,” I added.
His gaze dipped deliberately to my head, where myvery largeblack bow held half my hair up while the rest fell over my shoulder.
“You do. And heels that are always ridiculously high.”
“High heels are anart,” I countered, offended on behalf of my collection. “None of them are ridiculous. I collect them.”
One corner of his mouth tugged up. “That so?”
“Yes,” I forgot for a second that he was a Crow and that I should probably behave with a smidge of self-preservation. “It’s like jewelry. Shoes are wearable sculptures.”
“Jewelry. Let me guess?—”
“Yes,” I cut in, already turning toward him. “I collect that too.”
He didn’t laugh. He just waited, like he’d already decided he’d let me talk as long as I wanted. I lifted a hand to the necklace resting against my collarbone.
“Look at this one. It’s a work of art. Look at the drop, really look.”
He did. Well as good as he could look in red light. I moved a bit closer.
His gaze followed the fall of the pendant, then the cluster of tiny storm-cut diamonds woven into the chain pattern. His attention was focused, like my jewelry wasn’t an accessory but a problem he was solving.
“The jeweler spent eighty hours weaving the lattice,” I couldn’t stop my excitement. “And see the curve? That tiny arc right there? That’s intentional. It matches the earrings.”
He reached out, and moved my hair to the side so he could see the earring properly. When his fingers brushed my cheek, I realized how close we’d gotten. My pulse fluttered embarrassingly loud in my ears.
