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KNOX

Dear God… It’s barely the third day of this event, and I amalready tired of this shit.

I’m sick of these rich assholes who can barely acknowledge the staff, tired of their boring elitist talk and their fucking obnoxious laughs.

And I am not exaggerating… two hours ago, this woman laughed, and I swear I thought Yzma was behind me.

Scared the living hell out of me.

But… as much as I despise this crowd, I can’t deny that I love working here, especially because this job gives me the perfect excuse to be by Cillian’s side.

In the name of “work,” I can stare at him all I want, talk to him whenever I like, and even touch him while pretending I’m moving him out of someone’s way.

And I must say, there have been a lot of people in his way… or at least that’s what I told Logan.

“Cillian!” An older woman in a silver dress stops near a sculpture and makes a snobby hand gesture. “The curation this evening is magnifique, mon chéri. The whole exhibition feels so intense, so… raw. Your grandfather would’ve loved it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Beaumont. Grandfather always said art should make people feel exposed and vulnerable.”

“Oh, mon chéri, you know only a Degas can make this woman feel vulnerable.”

Cillian leans in and smirks. “Which is why I brought one for you.”

“Oh, mon Dieu!” she gasps. I don’t know what the hell a Degas is, but the old lady claps and lets Cil lead the way.

And now we are off to the western wing for the eleventh time today, but I don’t mind because he looks so happy when he talks about art, and I am in awe of how good he is at this.

Hell, even a group of fancy Russians asked for his opinion on every damn piece they looked at.

I scan the room as soon as we walk in and catch at least three different guests ogling Cil, and even though it makes me want to punch them in the face, I can’t blame them.

Cillian looks stunning.

He always does, but today… fuck.

Absolutely gorgeous.

Today he’s wearing blue trousers that make his ass look divine and a lavender shirt.

His hair is pulled back in a ponytail with a few strands falling over his face, making my fingers tingle, dying to tuck them behind his ear.

No, Knox.

You can’t touch him.

I think of ways I could pretend I’m doing it because it’s my job and not a need, but I can’t find one.

It’s not like his face is in danger, and if I don’t tuck those strands behind his ear, he’ll die.

Or… maybe I can say he had a spider.

Mmm…

That actually sounds like a good plan—no… wait. Are there even spiders on this fucking island?

I haven’t seen one.

I’ve seen mosquitoes, though…