Page 125 of Suite 7

Me: Wouldn’t you like to know.

Gerald: Black. You’re wearing black.

Me: How did you know?

Gerald: Because you always wear black when you need armor.

Me: Maybe I like black.

Gerald: Maybe. Or maybe you’re as nervous as I am.

Me: You? Nervous?

Gerald: Terrified. Of seeing you and not being able to touch you.

My breath catches.

Gerald: Of watching other men look at you and not being able to tell them you’re mine.

Me: Am I? Yours?

Gerald: Yes.

One word. I read it three times.

Me: Prove it.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Gerald: Careful what you ask for.

Sloane picks me up at six-thirty, talking nonstop about quarterly projections and difficult clients and how Lisa is definitely going to love Kane. She says Lisa’s name three times before we hit the bridge. I drink my water and say nothing.

“You’re quiet.” She glances at me at a red light. “Everything okay?”

“Just tired. Long week.”

“Well, perk up! Tonight there is an open bar, a gorgeous venue, and we get to watch my brother potentially meet his future wife, what’s not to love?”

Future wife.

I force a smile. “Can’t wait.”

The gallery is all floor-to-ceiling windows, the Chicago skyline beyond the river, architectural models lit like sculpture.

A jazz quartet plays something low in the corner. The whole room smells of white wine and warm stone. Clean lines everywhere. Expensive simplicity. Kane’s aesthetic made physical.

I scan the crowd and find him immediately.

He’s near a scale model of what looks like a museum, talking to an older couple. Charcoal suit. Burgundy tie. Every inch the successful architect.

Our eyes meet across the room.

The impact lands — heat and want and the memory of his hands in my hair. He holds my gaze while nodding at whatever the couple is saying. His gaze feels like a warning. A promise.

Behave.

“There’s Lisa!” Sloane tugs me forward.