Beautiful, brilliant, comfortable in every room they'd entered tonight. But she'd wanted to see his penthouse, not his game tape. Had asked intelligent questions about concussion protocols over dinner, then thrown him to the academics when it counted.
"You're looking for someone who can navigate your world," Grant said. "That's fair. But I need someone who sees all of mine."
Thea's chin lifted. "I was trying to help you in there. Dr. Ashford is a major donor. You can't just?—"
"I know how donors work."
"Do you?" Her chin came up higher—the look of someone revising their thesis in real time and not enjoying it. "I thought we were on the same page about how these things go."
"We're not."
A beat. Then Thea smiled—smaller, sharper. "Well. I suppose that's that."
"I'll make sure you get home?—"
"I'm fine." She was already pulling out her phone. "My Uber's two minutes out."
She didn't touch his arm. Didn't offer wisdom or absolution. Just gave him one last assessing look—filing him away undernot worth the complication—and walked toward the front steps.
Grant stood in the empty corridor. He should leave. Get his car. Go home. Film study, ice bath, pretend the last two hours hadn't happened.
Instead, he walked back inside.
The gala had thinned—donors in smaller clusters, servers clearing tables, the string quartet gone.
Emmy was on the terrace.
Alone, leaning against the stone balustrade, arms wrapped around herself against the cold. That red dress a blade of color against the night.
Grant pushed through the glass doors.
She turned. Surprise, relief, then carefully constructed professional distance—all in under three seconds. A magic trick. He'd watched her do it his entire life and still couldn't catch the mechanics.
"Grant." She straightened, unwrapping her arms. "I thought you'd left. I'm so sorry about—I shouldn't have made a scene. Cecelia's going to kill me."
"You weren't wrong."
"I was inappropriate. Dr. Ashford is a major donor. I just heard what Thea said and I—" She stopped. "Where is Thea?"
"Gone."
Emmy's eyes widened. "Gone? Grant, you didn't—because of what I said?—"
"Because of whatshesaid."
He crossed the terrace. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to see her pulse jump at her throat.
"I didn't know you followed football."
The shift caught her off-balance. "I don't. I mean?—"
"Hot routes versus audibles. Progression reads. Pre-snap reads." Color climbed her neck. "That's not casual fan knowledge, Em."
Her chin lifted. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Grant Knight."
"Apparently."
He took another step. She was backed against the balustrade now. The October wind picked up, carrying exhaust from Huntington Avenue, car horns muffled by museum walls. Her perfume cut through it—the same thing from the tennis court, from her apartment. He was building an involuntary catalog.
