Page 15 of The One-Night Heist

With the easy humor between us now replaced by awkward tension, I turned on my heel and strode further down the hallway, eager to reach our destination and get this over with.

“Okay…” he murmured upon entering my study. “Here you are.”

“What do you mean?” I glanced at him as I circled my desk, intending to sit but then deciding to remain standing instead, even as I grew dizzy with nerves.

Ignoring my question, Rowen walked to the sideboard where my Yankees memorabilia was displayed, immediately snatching my signed 2009 World Series team baseball off its decorative stand.

I hissed, and he turned to face me with a self-satisfied smirk stretched across his face. “Am I not supposed to touch?”

“Well…” I cleared my throat, more distracted by the gap in his teeth than what was in his hands. “The oil from your fingers can transfer to the leather⁠—”

“Do you not like people touching your things, Giano?” he crooned. “Only child problems?”

Then he placed the ball back on the stand while continuing to touch it with a single finger.

Brat.

My gaze involuntarily drifted to Poppy #5. “It depends.”

I wouldn’t like someone else touching you.

I would absolutely hate that.

“Ooh, what’s this?” Rowen’s long legs had him across the room in two strides.

I tensed as he reached Poppy #5, worried he was about to touch the one thing that mattered most to me in this world, but once again he surprised me.

“This isn’t part of the auction, is it?” he softly asked, examining my masterpiece from a respectful distance.

“No,” I replied, rounding my desk again and half-sitting against the edge with my hands clasped in my lap to stop them from shaking. “That one’s mine.”

Just like you are.

As if somehow catching on to my double meaning, Rowen glanced at me sharply—warily—before returning his attention to the canvas. I watched him drink it in, wishing I could hear his thoughts, wondering if he was experiencing what I did when I first saw the painting.

Do you feel it too?

“I like the…” he vaguely waved a hand at the foreground, “colors.”

My gaze flitted from his bright red hair to the poppy field. “So do I. The colors were the first thing I noticed.”

Like love at first sight.

Beyond that.

Rowen shuddered imperceptibly before rolling his shoulders and giving me an assessing sidelong glance. “If you’re such an art lover, why are you selling Mommy Dearest’s entire collection?”

I sat up straighter, determined to be as honest as possible, no matter the blow to my ego. “I need access to a large amount of funds.”

That got his attention. Rowen turned to fully face me, Poppy #5 forgotten. “Oh? Is Mr. Moneybags having money problems?”

I huffed, shaking my head as I held his gaze. “It doesn’t matter why I need the money, just that I do.”

Please don’t ask.

He gave me an incredulous look, and I didn’t blame him. From the outside looking in, I appeared to have immeasurable wealth at my fingertips, but both my parents had ensured I would be forever reliant on the terms of their generosity.

Aside from Mother’s conditional trust, my only source of income was the family business, which meant the majority of my funds were tied up in various real estate and hospitality deals, with too many shareholders involved to redistribute without notice. The constant buying and selling of Luxford Holdings properties had never interested me before—hence why I allowed others to handle it—but this blind obedience had come back to bite me. Not for the first time, I wished I’d paved my own way in life, back when I’d had the chance.