“You look different,” Jessica said, taking in the emerald silk with a low whistle.
“I look the same.”
“You look like someone who got interrupted.”
Tessa pulled her apron on over the dress and tied it without commenting.
Her phone buzzed again.
Gabriel: I can’t stop thinking about taking that dress off you.
She stared at the screen for a beat too long, because Jessica saw.
“Oh,” Jessica said. “Oh, boss.”
“Get back to work.”
“Yes, boss.”
Tessa pocketed her phone and got to work. Thursday could wait. The Berkowitz bar mitzvah couldn’t. But if the emerald dress had driven him crazy, she’d need something on Thursday that would finish the job.
Chapter 9
GABRIEL
Gabriel toldhimself Thursday would be soon enough. That he could wait. That showing up anywhere Tessa happened to be before then would make him look desperate.
Then Devney mentioned Eleanor Beauchamp was sponsoring a gallery opening and that Thorne Events was catering. Gabriel had called Eleanor within the hour to secure an invitation.
So. Desperate it was.
He stood outside the gallery and studied her through the window. She wore a navy dress that moved with her breath, and her dark hair fell loose down her back. She had paused in front of a Rothko, her head tilted, her mouth moving as if she were talking to herself, or to the painting. The gesture was private. Unguarded. She looked like she’d forgotten the room behind her existed.
Eleanor Beauchamp materialized at his elbow. “She has been standing there for ten minutes.”
“When did she arrive?”
“Right at seven. I told her to relax and enjoy herself. She was fussing about checking on her team, but I insisted. David has ithandled. She deserves a night off.” Eleanor patted his arm. “Are you going to stand out here all night, or are you going in?”
Gabriel walked inside.
Conversations and laughter echoed off the walls. He moved through the crowd, past Martin Calloway from the Meridian deal who raised a hand in greeting and got a nod in return, past a woman he vaguely recognized from a board dinner two winters ago. Tessa hadn’t moved from the Rothko.
He paused beside her, and she didn’t look surprised.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
They stood there studying the painting. Orange bled into red. Red bled into darker red. The colors vibrated against each other.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think it’s angry.”
“Angry?”
“Or hungry. I can’t decide.” She turned to face him. “What about you?”
