There was something magnetic about her—the way she moved, the way she laughed, the way she made everything around her seem just a little brighter.
It irritated Catherine to no end.
But as she left the gala that night, her mind kept drifting back to those hazel eyes and that teasing smile and those wild red curls.
For the first time in a long time, Catherine felt something stir inside her.
And she didn’t know if she liked it.
The cool night air was a relief after the oppressive warmth of the gala. Catherine stepped outside, her heels clicking softly against the marble steps leading down to the valet station. The sky was still heavy with clouds, the faint scent of rain lingering in the air, but for now, the storm held off.
She exhaled, her breath visible in the chill. The gala had been exactly as tedious as she’d expected, though perhaps not entirely unbearable, thanks to one particular bright interruption.
“Dr. Harrington,” a voice called, pulling her from her thoughts.
She turned, her spine straightening instinctively, only to seeheragain: Sloane Bennett, the artist with too much energy and not nearly enough sense. Sloane’s colorful dress flowed around her as she descended the steps with an easy grace, her red curls catching what little light the streetlamps provided.
“You left without saying goodbye,” Sloane said, her tone teasing but her smile soft.
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware we were on such familiar terms.”
“Not yet,” Sloane replied, stepping closer. “But there’s time.”
Catherine stared at her, caught off guard by the intensity in her hazel eyes. There was nothing calculating about Sloane’s gaze, no agenda. It was disarming.
“You seem determined to make an impression,” Catherine said finally.
Sloane’s smile widened. “And am I succeeding?”
“That depends,” Catherine replied, her tone neutral. “Is your goal to be insufferable or merely persistent?”
“Why not both?” Sloane said, laughter dancing in her voice. “You need someone to shake you up a little, Dr. Harrington.”
“And you’ve appointed yourself for the role?”
Sloane tilted her head, her grin softening into something quieter. “Maybe.”
The valet arrived then, pulling Catherine’s car to the curb. She turned to leave, but Sloane caught her hand, a brief, fleeting touch that somehow felt like more.
“Think about it,” Sloane said, her voice low. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Catherine glanced down at their hands before pulling hers away. Her pulse quickened, but she ignored it, stepping toward her car. “Goodnight, Ms. Bennett.”
“Goodnight, Dr. Harrington,” Sloane called after her, her tone light but her gaze lingering.
As Catherine drove away, the conversation replayed in her mind. She gripped the wheel tighter, her knuckles white against the leather. Something about Sloane’s words, her smile, her touch, none of it made sense. And yet, she was impossible to forget.
For the first time in a long time, Catherine felt the cracks in her carefully constructed walls. And for reasons she couldn’t yet explain, she didn’t entirely hate it.
2
SLOANE
The sunlight streamed through the oversized windows of Sloane’s studio, bathing the chaos in a soft, golden glow. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, suspended between the strands of fairy lights that swayed slightly from the ceiling. The floor was a riot of color: splashes of blue, streaks of red, and faint traces of gold that had been ground into the wood over years of carelessness.
This was more than just a studio; it was Sloane Bennett’s world.
Brushes, palettes, and half-empty paint tubes were scattered across the mismatched tables and stools that lined the space. Canvases leaned haphazardly against the walls—some completed, others bearing only the first wild strokes of her ideas. A steaming mug of jasmine tea sat precariously on a pile of art books, its faint floral scent mingling with the sharper tang of turpentine and drying paint.
