“Shut up,” I snap.
Brandon pauses, leveling me with a hesitant look. “Kate, have you eaten today?”
“Yes,” I lie. “And that intern is practically a child. I’m just saving the museum from a lawsuit.” I tip the shoulder of my graphic silk bomber jacket with a dismayed sigh. “And it’s none of my business who you…fraternizewith.”
“Ooh. A play on words. Witty,love.”
That nickname causes me to clench my empty coffee cup into styrofoam shrapnel. “If you still love your mother and want to see her again, you’ll stop calling me that.”
Those annoying dimples punctuate the slight hollowness of his cheeks before his voice darkens seductively. He steps closer. Too close.
“Mmm…” His minty breath is accompanied by his trademark sexy cedarwood scent. “You know how much I like it when you act all bossy, but like you kindly reminded me, thisisa workplace.” His emerald gaze dips over my body, and a prickle of heat follows every square inch his eyes touch.
“Unfortunate,” he murmurs.
“What’s unfortunate?” A jolt of self-consciousness zips through me, and I stupidly puzzle down at my outfit.
A calloused finger slips beneath my chin before Brandon lifts my face to his.
I startle but don’t move. I’m nothing but a quaking deer in headlights, either too stupid or stubborn to get out of danger’s way. His eyes drop to my mouth and darn it, mine drop to his, too.
Besides the fact that Brandon is stupidly hot, there’s a depth to him that is equally captivating. His magnetic pull is every bit as dangerous now as it was six years ago. Because I’mnotgoing to fall for the charms of Brandon Roberts ever again.
“It’s unfortunate you won’t admit you still want me—love.”
I shove his hand away from my chin. “No, it’sunfortunateyou won’t quit and go work somewhere else. This museum is mine.”
“How do you keep up that big head with that tiny neck of yours?” He eyes me with a pretend sense of wonder before his grin turns crooked. “Last I checked, this is the Chicago Legacy Art Museum. Not the Kate Chen Ego Rehabilitation Center. And why would I go back to working at a gallery when I get to see your pretty face everyday? So, no. This place is every bit mine as it is yours.” And with that, his dimples deepen before he strides from the room.
That sexy degree of cockiness is all it takes for the feral fluttering in my stomach to start, and I want to murder every single butterfly. Because that’s what Brandon Roberts reduces me to.
A butterfly serial killer.
The morning meeting starts soon, so I rush down the hallway, deposit my things at my desk, and pick up speed as I jog toward the curved glass walls of the conference room.
Even from here, I can see my boss, Blythe, fidgeting inside. Her frizzy, shoulder-length blonde hair sticks out like it can’t be coaxed into calming down any more than she can. I’m convinced her blood is purely made up of energy drinks.
My gaze shifts sideways, and Brandon’s amused green eyes lock with mine through the open doorway. A cocky grin slides onto his lips as if he somehow hears the betraying uptick in my pulse.
Forget the butterflies, I want to murderhim.
Ihold my head high as I sit beside Blythe in the conference room. Brandon sits next to Amantha and Val, but I refuse to acknowledge his presence.
The museum director, Kendra Steele, looks impossibly more serious than usual. She always gives off strict high-school principal vibes, wearing her black hair in a bun so tight it’s better than a facelift. But her bronze skin looks fantastic for her age, so maybe she’s had one of those too. A heavy silence stills our chatter as Kendra stands.
Amantha and I exchange a worried look.
“I’m not going to sugar coat this.” Kendra’s voice is thin and reedy. “The museum is in trouble. Three of our largest donors have pulled their donations for unrelated reasons. Federal funding has been reduced significantly across the country. Even though we had a smashing success with Lance Stirling’s exhibition last July”—she offers a fleeting lip twitch toward Amantha, who had worked closely with the viral artist—“the museum cannot function on ticket sales alone. Unless we can raise a significant amount of funding by the end of the second quarter, layoffs will be imminent.”
The curation staff is encased in stone. I’m not sure I’m breathing, either. Did I hear that right? Funding got cut? Donors pulled out?
An annoying tapping sound beneath the table breaks the silence. My eyes seek out Brandon—whose annoying ways know no bounds—but then I realize that it’s my bouncing left knee against the mahogany.
Amantha’s voice is a hoarse whisper before she clears her throat. “Is any of it… related to what happened after Stirling’s soiree?”
Kendra responds with a brisk head shake. “No. Just a perfect storm of unfortunate events.” Something akin to sympathy shadows her expression. “Which means, Amantha, that in addition to cutting other departments’ budgets, I’ve had to do the same here. Unfortunately, you no longer have the funds to transport your exhibition pieces from Amsterdam.”
Amantha’s jaw drops. Val stands in protest.
