Catherine hesitated, her gaze flicking briefly to the gallery around them before returning to Sloane. “Your work speaks for itself. There’s no need for embellishment.”
Sloane chuckled softly. “That’s probably the closest thing to a compliment I’m going to get from you, isn’t it?”
Catherine’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. “You should be satisfied with that.”
Sloane leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “You showed up once. I wonder if you’ll surprise me again.”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed slightly, her cool exterior firmly back in place. “Don’t count on it.”
But there was a glint in her eyes, something Sloane couldn’t quite name but knew instinctively wasn’t a rejection.
“We’ll see,” Catherine added after a beat, her tone as sharp as ever.
As Catherine turned and walked toward the exit, Sloane watched her go, her heart pounding in a way she hadn’t expected.
She leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly as a small smile played on her lips.
She’s like a storm,Sloane thought, watching the way Catherine’s heels clicked against the floor, her head held high.Cold, untouchable, and impossible to ignore.
And for the first time in years, Sloane felt a thrill of possibility.
5
CATHERINE
Catherine stepped out of the gallery feeling a little buzz from the wine, her heels clicking softly against the pavement as the cool night air enveloped her. She shouldn’t have drank that much, she very rarely drank alcohol, but she had enjoyed it nevertheless. The bustle of the evening faded behind her, replaced by the soft cadence of the city. She paused under the glow of a streetlamp, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
The night felt sharper out here, clearer. It was a reprieve from the vivid colors, the laughter, and the overwhelming presence of Sloane Bennett. For a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes, the memory of the evening pressing against her mind.
She was about to move toward her car when a familiar voice broke through the stillness.
“You really don’t like sticking around, do you?”
Catherine opened her eyes, her head turning slightly toward the source of the voice. Sloane stood a few feet away, her figure framed by the soft glow of the gallery lights spilling out onto the street.
Sloane’s hands were tucked casually into the pockets of her leather jacket and her hair was tied up in a messy bun, but her eyes were anything but casual—sharp and intent, locked onto Catherine with a mix of curiosity and mischief.
Catherine straightened, her cool exterior snapping back into place. “I’ve seen everything I needed to.”
Sloane tilted her head, a smirk playing at her lips. “I don’t think you’ve seen anything yet.”
Before Catherine could respond, Sloane closed the distance between them, her steps confident and unhurried. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just the bold certainty that defined her every move.
And then Sloane kissed her.
It wasn’t tentative and it didn’t ask for permission; it arrived with a certainty that stole Catherine’s breath, soft mouth set with quiet purpose, the kind of unhurried pressure that didn’t shove so much as insist she notice what was already there between them. Sloane’s lips were warm despite the night air, tasting faintly of wine and something clean and mineral, paint and jasmine threaded through her skin as if she’d carried the studio out here with her.
For a split second Catherine froze, mind scrambling to reassert order, to reach for the familiar choreography of control she relied on. This wasn’t how she did things. There was no calendar invite, no careful preamble, no clause tucked neatly in the margin of a life she had color-coded into obedience.
But something in her shifted. The shock softened into heat. Her body betrayed her with ease, tilting into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut as if her bones remembered how to surrender long before her brain caught up. Sloane’s hand slid to Catherine’s jaw, her thumb resting under her ear where her pulse was quick and obvious; the other found Catherine’s waist and stayed there, steady, the heel of her palm a quiet anchoras she deepened the kiss by a fraction, then another, building rather than grabbing.
The city thinned to a smear at the edges—headlights, laughter, a taxi door somewhere—while the center of the world narrowed to the press and drag of their mouths. Catherine felt the soft catch of Sloane’s lower lip, the brief, deliberate graze of teeth that sparked high in her chest, the subtle change in angle when Catherine’s hand finally moved of its own accord and fisted in Sloane’s lapel. She hadn’t felt this alive in years; it arrived like a clean shock, a clarity that wiped the slate of her thoughts until only sensation remained.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. It was happening anyway.
Sloane kept it slow and controlled, not coy but measured, the kind of kiss that knew exactly what it wanted to say. Catherine felt her own restraint break in small, tidy pieces: the soft sound she couldn’t swallow, the way her fingers slid from the lapel to the back of Sloane’s neck, the involuntary step that brought them chest to chest. Heat pooled low and sure. Her head tipped, letting Sloane take more, then giving it back, their breath mixing, a rhythm starting that felt discovered rather than invented.
When the kiss finally broke apart, they didn’t stumble. Sloane eased back by a breath, close enough that Catherine could feel the warmth of her across that narrow gap, both of them breathing harder than the moment warranted if you measured it by time alone.
