"Callum! We were just getting acquainted with your charming?—"
"Girlfriend," I finished. "And she's not your sweetheart, your dear, or your concern."
Reeves blinked. “Hey, calm down, I was just making conversation?—"
"No, you were being a predatory prick to a woman who could take you apart in thirty seconds if she felt you were worth the effort." I stepped closer. Holding back the bristling urge to rearrange the fucker’s face. “Which she doesn’t. I’m less generous."
I felt Willow's gaze on the side of my face. Didn't look at her.
Reeves's smile curdled. "Callum, I didn't mean?—"
"We're done here." I put my hand on Willow's back, already turning us away. “I’m well aware of what you meant and if you ever try it again, I’ll make sure you aren’t able to comfortably hold a pen ever again. Got it?”
I guided her away before Reeves could respond. My hand stayed on her lower back—possessive, deliberate.
We walked until we found a quiet corner near awindow overlooking the city. Only then did I turn to face her.
"Sorry," I said. "That was?—"
"Don't apologize." Her voice was strange. Almost wondering. "No one's ever done that before."
"Done what?"
“Stood up for me.”
I tried to push down the immediate rage for how Willow’s been treated in the past. “No woman deserves to treated like that. I’m sorry. I would’ve rather punched his lights out but getting kicked out of a gallery doesn’t look great on my social card.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” she murmured with amusement but something else sparkled in her eyes. “But I appreciate what you did, even if you didn’t get to punch him in the nose.”
I smiled. “It would be nothing less than he deserves. Phillip has a reputation for being a handsy dickhead. The only reason he’s tolerated is because his daddy owns the largest plumbing company in the area and contracts with most of the people in this room.”
“The politics of connections.”
“Exactly.”
Her hand tightened in mine as her smile brightened. “Still, it felt good to have a champion. Thank you.”
This is what you deserve,I thought.This is how you should always be treated.
But I wanted to be the one who showed her.
The gallery had live music—a jazz quartet in the corner, their sound drifting through the space with the understated elegance that matched the venue.
People had started dancing. Couples moving in small circles near the musicians, champagne abandoned, bodies pressed close.
I should have suggested we mingle. Work the room. Maintain the performance that had become increasingly difficult to sustain.
Instead, I said: "Dance with me."
Willow raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't dance."
"I don't. Not well. But I want an excuse to hold you, and this seems less conspicuous than the alternatives."
Her mouth curved. "Smooth."
"I try."
We moved to the makeshift dance floor. My arm circled her waist; her hand found my shoulder. Close. Closer than the "tasteful public affection" we'd negotiated weeks ago in my office, back when I'dbeen foolish enough to think boundaries could contain this.
