We didn't discuss any of it.
Instead, we sat in charged silence while the city slid past my windows, and I reminded myself approximately forty-seven times to keep my eyes on the road.
"Graham texted me," she said, breaking the quiet. "Asked if I could convince you to wear a bowtie instead of a regular tie. Said it would be 'on brand' for the gallery."
“First, how did Graham get your cell number and second, Graham can mind his own business."
"I told him that. In nicer terms." She shifted in her seat, the fabric of her dress rustling. "He also said you've been distracted at work. Implied it was my fault."
"It is your fault."
The admission hung between us. I hadn't meant tosay it out loud, but there it was—the truth, unvarnished and inconvenient.
She turned her head toward me. I could feel her gaze on my profile. "Is that a complaint?"
"No."
"What is it, then?"
I considered the question. Considered lying, deflecting, retreating behind the wall I'd spent eight years constructing.
"An observation," I said. "You've disrupted my operating system, Willow Monroe. I'm still calculating the damage."
She was quiet for a beat. Then: "Good."
I didn't ask what she meant by that. I suspected I already knew.
The Whitmore Gallery occupied a renovated industrial building on the east side of downtown—all exposed brick, soaring ceilings, and steel beams that someone with vision had transformed into a showcase for contemporary art.
An architect's dream, honestly. The proportions were immaculate. The sight lines had been carefully considered. Even the lighting—recessed, unobtrusive,designed to illuminate the work without competing with it—showed thoughtful execution.
I appreciated all of this on an intellectual level while simultaneously being unable to focus on any of it.
My hand found Willow's lower back as we entered. The familiar gesture—the one I'd used at Ashford's gala, the one we'd rehearsed in my office a lifetime ago—felt different now. More possessive. More real.
And she leaned into it.
A small shift. Barely perceptible. But I felt it—the way her body moved toward mine instead of holding itself separate. The way she settled against my palm as if she belonged there.
My pulse did a thing that would've embarrassed me if I'd been hooked up to a monitor.
Forty years old, Hayes. Get it together.
"The atrium is impressive," she said, surveying the space. "Very... industrial chic."
Happy to contribute something of value, I quickly shared. “The original structure was a textile mill. Built in 1923. They did a good job preserving the character while updating the functionality."
"Is that architect-speak for 'I approve'?"
"It's architect-speak for 'I'd have made different choices, but these are defensible.'"
Her mouth curved. "Highpraise."
"I'm feeling generous tonight."
A server passed with champagne. I took two glasses, handed her one. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and I watched her cheeks flush—a subtle pink that had nothing to do with the wine.
Is she acting?
