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At the end of the day, Emma repeated the same procedure as she had in the morning. She waited in an office with a glass window, her laptop open in front of her just in case anyone saw her and thought it was strange that she was sitting there alone, until Patrick went to the elevator. Then she leapt to her feet, quickly packed her laptop, and joined him.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she joked.
Patrick smiled. “It looks like we have a very similar schedule.”
“I suppose so.” Emma made a mental note not to ride the elevator with Patrick all the time in case he grew suspicious. “How was your day?”
“Busy.” He sighed. “The months before the new year are always a bit of a mess. There are so many events and parties and so many things to close before January first.”
“That sounds stressful.”
“A bit. How was your day?” The question sounded a bit strange on Patrick’s lips, as though he wasn’t used to asking that of anyone. Emma knew the feeling.
“Busy, too. But I think I’ll go home and paint something.”
The smile on Patrick’s face was so warm and genuine that Emma felt her knees weaken a little.
“That’s wonderful, Emma. I’d love to see it.”
She blushed. “Maybe you will sometime.” In fact, if things went according to plan, he’d see her work very soon. And hopefully he wouldn’t know it was hers.
The elevator dinged and they both got off.
“See you tomorrow,” Emma said.
“I’ll look forward to it.” Patrick nodded and strode off toward the taxi stand outside without a backward glance. Emma made her way more slowly across the lobby, carefully putting her scarf and other outdoor clothing back on. Every moment with Patrick brought her closer to her goal — and made it harder to do what she needed to do.
At least she was finally excited to paint again.
And when she got home after work, Emma was finally able to pick up the brush and start putting paint to canvas. As strange as it was, Patrick had managed to get to the heart of her worries and pop them like a soap bubble. He’s helping me steal his painting, even though he doesn’t know it.
It was a strange thought, but Emma put it aside. She needed to focus on her forgery.
CHAPTER 8
PATRICK
Patrick glanced left and right as he stepped out of the taxi. He would have liked to pretend that he was taking in the sights of blushing October maples lining the street, but it was a drizzly gray morning and Patrick wasn’t much for taking in the scenery anyway. No, he was hoping that Emma might appear.
Over the last few days, she’d arrived or left at the same time as he did more often than not. He’d started grinning whenever she appeared, amused that they seemed to keep such similar schedules. This morning, though, there was no sign of her coming down the street in her nondescript gray jacket and bobble hat.
A little disappointed, Patrick paid the driver with a tap of his phone and headed into the lobby of the LWC Capital building. He nodded a good morning to the receptionist on his way past, then pulled up short and smiled at a familiar outline beside the elevator. Emma. She was here after all. Patrick’s heart lifted.
“Good morning.”
She turned and smiled. “Good morning.”
Patrick fell in beside her as the elevator arrived. They both stepped in and the automatic doors closed behind them.
Emma looked especially lovely today. Her dark hair was pulled back in an elaborate French braid and she was wearing a dark orange sweater and a pair of gray slacks that hugged her curves. Her jacket was draped over her arm. Not that Patrick focused on any of that. He especially was not paying attention to Emma’s light vanilla scent or the way her cheeks were slightly flushed from the cold.
“Did you do any painting last night?” Patrick asked. Since their elevator conversation on Monday, Emma had been telling him about her artistic adventures in the evenings after work.
“A little.” She held up a slim hand, and Patrick saw a splash of dark red paint at the base of her palm. “I thought I got everything cleaned up, but I suppose not.” She gave a self-deprecating eye roll.
Patrick resisted the urge to take her hand and smooth his thumb over the paint. He’d never felt this attracted to a woman, especially someone he’d met relatively recently and whom he knew very little about. Yet every time Patrick saw Emma, he felt more and more drawn to her. It was getting harder to keep things professional.
“I like the color,” he told her. “And since that’s the only evidence I have to judge your art by, I’ll say it shows good taste.”
