Cecelia materialized at Grant's elbow, champagne flute catching the light. "Mr. Knight. How good of you to grace us with your presence."
"Ms. Ferrance. Wouldn't miss it."
"Cecelia, please. We're practically family now. Have you met Sabine?" Cecelia gestured toward a woman standing dutifully at her elbow—tall, elegant, with a bone structure that would photograph like a dream and a smile that never quite reachedher eyes. "My star matchmaker. She closed three high-profile matches last quarter. A tech CEO, a state senator, the curator here at the Museum of Fine Arts." Cecelia's voice carried a note of pointed pride. "All still together. All actively recommending Elite Connections to their friends."
Sabine inclined her head in acknowledgment, her expression coolly professional.
"Impressive," Grant said.
"She's my benchmark." Cecelia's gaze drifted to Emmy across the room, currently laughing too loudly at something Duke was saying. "Though Emmy's showing promise. Raw promise, but promise nonetheless."
Her shrewd eyes narrowed on him. "Her work procuring you has been truly impressive. You’re the topic of conversation at every table tonight." Cecelia's gaze swept the room, a general surveying the field before the charge.
Grant followed her sight line to Emmy, who'd already moved on to another group, working the room like she'd been born to it.
"She's a natural," he said.
"Mm." Cecelia's lips pursed. "Let's hope she remembers she's here to work, not socialize. Excuse me. Father Callahan is talking to that Mary Agnes Richards. Absolute disaster. Sabine! Go!"
She glided away, trailing expensive perfume and quiet threat.
Grant checked his watch. Thea should arrive soon. He should position himself near the entrance, be the attentive date, focus on the woman he was actually here with.
He stayed where he was.
"There you are."
Grant turned.
Thea stood beside him looking like she'd stepped out of the museum's collection. Dark hair swept up, emerald dress that moved like water, jewelry dainty and understated—the kind of restraint that came from people who'd had money long enoughto stop proving it. She'd mentioned her family on their first date. Boston Brahmins, old money that probably had ancestors on the Mayflower.
She fit here in a way he'd been faking for a decade.
"Thea. You look stunning."
"You're not so bad yourself." Light touch on his arm—easy, comfortable. "Sorry I'm late. My driver had opinions about the best route and wouldn't accept feedback."
"Sounds productive."
"Riveting." She accepted champagne, surveyed the atrium with obvious pleasure. "God, I love this museum. Did you see the Sargent exhibit on the way in?"
"Came straight here."
"We should circle back before dinner. There's a portrait of Madame X that caused an absolute scandal—wore a dress with fallen straps to the Paris Salon in eighteen eighty-four and the critics lost their minds over exposed shoulders."
Movement caught Grant's peripheral vision. Emmy turning, that red dress catching light.
He looked back at Thea, cleared his throat. "Some things don't change."
"Exactly." Thea took a sip. "How was your week? Preparing for Florida?"
"Always."
"You mentioned you have a home game Sunday, right? One o'clock?"
"Yeah."
"I've never actually been to a football game." Curiosity, not apology. "Is it very loud? Should I bring earplugs?"
