The prickle came then. Late. Much too late.
"I shouldn't have said that." Emmy set down her champagne. "I'm—I've had too much to drink. Can we forget the last?—"
"Emmy." Petra's voice was gentle. Almost sorry. "I should have said this earlier. I write forBoston After Dark."
The room tilted. Or maybe Emmy tilted. The champagne turned to battery acid and she could feel it burning a slow hole through her chest.
"This wasn't an interview." Petra held up her hands. "I really was just enjoying the party. But I can’t help it when people literally bring the gossip to me.”
"No." The word came out strangled. "No, that's not—I was making it up, I was?—"
Petra rolled her eyes. “Please. Don’t bother.”
Emmy's vision narrowed the way it did before she fainted in tenth grade, the edges going soft and useless. She needed to deny. Say she was drunk and spinning stories. Rearrange her face into something breezy and dismissive.
But her body was already turning toward where she’d last seen him.
"You're going to him right now," Petra said softly.
Emmy froze. But her feet had already betrayed her, her whole body a compass needle pointing at the one person in this room she couldn't afford to look at.
Her eyes found him. Across the room, Grant was helping Bailey into her jacket. Safe. Almost out.
“TheGrant Knight." Petra followed her gaze. "Of course. Boston's most eligible hermit." She laughed—a short, not unkind sound. "Someone you've known your whole life. Private. Famous. Here tonight." Her thumb moved across her phone screen. "You practically wrote his biography for me, Emmy."
"No." Emmy's voice cracked. "No, you can't—please. This is off the record. I never confirmed?—"
"You described him in detail, unprompted, to a stranger at a party." Petra's smile was almost sympathetic. "That's not off the record. That's a conversation you chose to have."
Petra flagged down a passing man in an ill-fitting jacket—a quick gesture, a pointed look toward Grant. The man pulled slim digital camera from an inside pocket.
"Wait." Emmy grabbed Petra's arm. She heard her voice almost from a distance, thin and high. Bargaining. She was bargaining with a gossip columnist in a red dress while her career burned down around her ears. "Please. It's not what you think. He deserves privacy. He didn't ask for any of this."
"Then maybe you should have been more careful." Petra pulled free gently. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. But this is too good to sit on."
The photographer was already moving.
Emmy ran.
Coat check. Bailey in her jacket. Grant reaching for his.
"Grant." Breathless. Heart hammering. "Grant, wait."
He turned. Whatever he saw in her face made his expression change instantly—polite neutrality to sharp attention, his whole body going still.
"What's wrong?"
"I—" The words tangled in her throat. "There's a reporter. Petra,Boston After Dark. I didn't know who she was. She was just—we were talking, and I—" Emmy's voice broke. "I told her about you. Not on purpose, I just thought—I wasn’t thinking. She knows you’re my client.“ She pressed her hands over her eyes. "Grant, I'm so sorry. I did this. I practically wrote the article for her."
"Where?" Flat. Controlled. Already scanning.
Emmy pointed toward the auction tables, where Petra was conferring with the photographer. Both of them were looking this way.
Grant's jaw tightened. He looked at Emmy.
One look.
Then he was in motion. Coat on, and from a pocket, a baseball cap. That stupid, ancient, faded-to-nothing cap, pulled low, ruining the shot the way it had ruined a thousand shots before. He was already moving to the door, a wide hand splayed on Bailey’s back.
