“What are we doing?”
Lucia’s heart dropped, but she couldn’t make herself regret it, not even if this was all she’d ever have of Penelope.
Chapter 18
Walls
The following Monday found Penelope hunched over her desk at home. Working remotely had never been more welcome, given her unsettled state of mind. She’d spaced out while making tea, lifting her mug to her lips only for the tea bag to slap her mouth—she hadn’t even poured the water.
Now, with steam finally curling from the cup, she wrapped her fingers around it, as if it could anchor her. She settled in front of her computer, opening her calendar and staring at all the tasks she still needed to accomplish this week.
The living room was cluttered in a way her office never allowed: folders abandoned on the couch, an empty yogurt cup on the side table, and the faint buzz of her old ceiling fan overhead.
Just looking at the mess sparked an irrational urge to abandon the week entirely.
She forced herself to work on her inbox. Emma alone had sent her five emails detailing various ball-related crises. Montgomery wanted another meeting the next time Penelope was at the Meridian, and there were several new requests from other galleries.
One email asked about the painting she’d shown Lucia. And just like that, her mind returned to the night before—to the balcony, then further back, to Lucia’s first approach after her lecture.
Who’d have thought this one moment would send such unexpected ripples through her life? Or prove so dangerous: a museum curator falling for a forger ten years younger.
Penelope didn’t have a reckless bone in her body—or so she’d thought.
Then she had kissed Lucia. God. If it had happened at the studio, they’d have ended up in that bedroom in a flash.
The thought of Lucia and her entangled in bed left her breathless and flushed with heat. She needed to get a grip. Attraction didn’t dictate action. And with so many threads hanging in the balance, ready to unravel everything she’d built, the last thing she needed was this…thingwith Lucia.
If only it were just lust. That would have been manageable. But Lucia drew her in with a force Penelope didn’t know how to counter—something elemental and unrelenting that called to her. So, despite it all, Penelope had yielded.
Only to flee. She’d run from Francesca’s mansion, leaving Lucia standing there, open and steady.
Coward.
But what else could she do? And Lucia had let her because of course she would. Lucia would never stand in her way. She’d never ask for anything Penelope didn’t want to give.
That infuriating woman!
During her lunch break, and against her better judgment, she picked up her phone and opened the thread with Lucia.
She traced her thumb over their last two messages: Lucia saying she hoped Penelope had arrived home safely, and Penelope’s answer.
Thanks, I did.
Even with that, she felt lacking.
Knowing better, yet still doing it—she wondered if that should be her new motto—she typed a new message.
I’m sorry for introducing all this confusion.
Penelope closed her eyes and leaned back against her couch.
A minute passed before her phone beeped.
She rolled her lips, trying to ignore her heart picking up its pace when she went back into the thread.
I’m not. Also, there was more confusion before.
Agree to disagree.
