Green light if he'd ever seen one. She was beautiful, smart, and clearly willing to skip the "wait and see" phase. Ten years ago, Grant wouldn't have hesitated.
But he'd gently taken her hand and stepped back. "It's a mess right now," he'd lied smoothly. "Another time."
He hadn't invited her up. He wasn't a monk, but he was thirty-two and tired of waking up next to women who looked at him like he was a Super Bowl ring they could wear to brunch. Hewanted to see if she stuck around for the conversation, not just the view.
They'd parted mutually interested—or so he'd thought—and when he'd called her with Emmy's proposed pivot to the museum gala for their second date, Thea had seemed both charmed and excited.
So why did he feel like he was suiting up for a game he'd already decided not to win?
Grant locked his condo door and headed for the elevator. Game in two days. Gala tonight. Date Two with a woman who deserved better than a man mentally reviewing defensive schemes while she talked.
The elevator doors closed.
The Museum of Fine Arts had gone full peacock for the evening.
Grant stepped out of his car and into the organized chaos of valet parking—luxury sedans, a Tesla or two, one vintage Bentley that looked like it belonged in a different century. He handed his keys to a kid who couldn't have been more than seventeen and headed for the entrance.
The woman at the door had an iPad and a professional smile.
"Mr. Knight. Table twelve." She tapped something on the screen. "Your guest hasn't arrived yet, but please, go ahead. Cocktail reception's in the atrium."
Grant nodded and walked into money doing what money did best: performing philanthropy.
The museum's main atrium soared three stories, all glass ceiling and marble floors. White linens, silver settings arranged with surgical precision, a string quartet playing something Grant didn't recognize but suspected he was supposed to. Champagneflowed. Conversations hummed at that specific frequency where everyone sounded important and nobody was listening.
He accepted a glass from a passing server and did what came naturally: read the field.
Exits. Bathrooms. Bar stations. The museum board clustered near a Calder sculpture, its red metal somehow both massive and delicate. Cecelia Ferrance holding court by the windows, her posture suggesting ownership of the building and possibly the air inside it.
And Emmy.
She was on the far side of the atrium, talking to an older couple. The woman wore enough pearls to fund a small country. The man's bow tie sat crooked. Emmy's laughter carried across the space—sweet and a little too loud for the carefully modulated conversations around her—and the late sun coming through the glass ceiling caught her hair.
Amber waves of grain, his brain supplied helpfully, because apparently he was having a stroke.
The dress was deep red. High neck, long sleeves, sophisticated enough for a museum gala. She turned slightly to gesture at something, and Grant caught the collective shift of attention from at least three nearby groups. She was the warmest thing in the room by a factor of ten, and more eyes than just his were drawn to her.
Pride warmed his chest.
He looked away.
Three women stood near the coat check, designer dresses and shoes and jewelry that came with insurance policies. One was definitely looking at him. She leaned to whisper to her friends.
Grant had stopped being surprised by recognition somewhere around his second season. Professional athlete in one of the most visible sports in the world—came with theterritory. Grocery stores, gas stations, charity galas. Someone always knew your face.
He turned before they could approach and found himself tracking Emmy again.
She'd moved to a younger group now—a blonde woman in navy silk, a man with architect glasses, someone's plus-one looking bored. Emmy gestured with her champagne glass, animated.
Then Tyce Duke appeared at her elbow.
Hard not to recognize him—since retiring six months ago, he had a permanent spot in the Boston social pages and a presence that made gossip columnists reach for words like 'magnetic' and ‘untouchable.’ Tyce said something low, and Emmy laughed—head tilted back, genuine, that too-loud laugh she only did when something actually surprised her.
Grant's hand tightened on his champagne flute.
He watched Tyce lean in closer. The man had an easy physicality Grant recognized—the same kind of spatial confidence that came from decades in a body that performed at the highest level. His hand settled light on Emmy's bare back as he gestured toward something across the atrium. And Emmy leaned into it, just slightly, the way people did when they felt safe.
That was the problem with Duke. He wasn't performing. He was just like that.
