Chapter 3
three
PRESENT DAY
KATE
Iswipe the snowflakes off my graphic silk bomber jacket as I walk into the lobby of The Chicago Legacy Art Museum.
Clicking across the floor in my pointy boots, I attempt to shake off Levi’s weird text.
Hunger twists dangerously in my stomach, but I forgot all about stopping at the juice bar at Pulse because of my run in with him.
I sigh, knowing the only option that’s open this early is the coffee bar stationed just inside the museum cafeteria. It’s a bummer they don’t serve anything more substantial than drinks, but hopefully it will be enough to take the edge off.
One of my favorite baristas, Rohan, is working today.
His ebony cheeks are plump beneath his trendy tortoiseshell glasses, and I have a hard time believing he’s twenty-one like he claims. His three inch fade on top has been twisted into tight black coils.
I catch his eye as I join the few museum staff lined up in front of his station.
He grins, waving me to the side as he finishes scribbling a name on a cup.
“Already got yours, babe.” He winks as he blatantly stalls the line, reaching behind the counter. He produces an iced matcha latte with my name already on it. “Maybe now you’ll let me take you out?”
“Still too old for you, Rohan,” I laugh. “Oh, don’t give me that look.”
His pout vanishes in an instant, a flirty smile sliding into place. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’. I mean, have you seen you?”
I tip my head. “You are a persistent little thing, aren’t you?”
He grins as I hand him a ten dollar bill and walk away. He really is such a sweet guy. If I weren’t almost thirty, I really would consider letting him take me out. I savor the chilled, earthy liquid as it puddles against my tongue.
“Same time tomorrow, babe?” he calls.
I spin on my heel and walk backward into the lobby with a wink. “You know I can’t resist my matcha lattes.”
Rohan’s cheeks puff out when he laughs.
I’m still chuckling as I make my way up the twisting ramp of The Spiral. My fingers skim along the shimmering limestone walls. They’re only about four feet tall, offering a gorgeous view of the marble lobby and arched ceilings.
The Spiral is a work of art all on its own. Prismatic winter sunlight dances across the walls, and I crane my neck to see the glittering skylight three stories above refracting the light.
I step off The Spiral, taking a right on the second floor.
Sipping my latte, I stroll to the Employee Only access door.
The drink slides down my throat and into my very hollow stomach.
I grit my teeth and pray that if I drain the rest of my latte, I’ll be able to be on my best behavior, sans calories.
“Thank goodness you’re here!” I’ve barely stepped inside the curation wing when Amantha, my best friend, yanks me into her new office.
“Office” is a generous term, since it’s basically an old supply closet with a skinny window, but I’ll never tell her that.
We both were thrilled when she got promoted to Junior Curator five months ago.
I skid across the threshold before she prods me toward a chair and slams the door. My knees bang into her desk in the tiny space, but there’s not enough room for me to scoot back. Her curly-haired fiancé stands beside her.
“Hey, Val,” I say.
“Hi, Kate.” He gives me a small smile, bright against his olive skin. His dark brown eyes twinkle, as though he’s enjoying some inside joke I’m not privy to. He looks crisp in his impeccably tailored expensive black suit as he lingers by Amantha’s chair.
Val Russo is one of the two Senior Curators at the museum. I’m an assistant curator for the other one, Blythe Barlow.
Amantha plops into her chair and spreads her arms wide before gripping the desk. She huffs a dishwater-blonde wave out of her gray eyes and pins me with them.
“Kate.”
“Amantha.” I draw her name out like a question. Her eyes are shining, and she’s fidgeting in the way that tells me she’s excited but nervous. I pull off my snow-dampened beanie and gloves.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“We picked a wedding date.” She does a weird happy dance, wiggling back and forth in her chair.
I shriek, standing and knocking Val out of the way so I can hug her. He graciously flattens himself against the tiny wall with a chuckle until I return to my seat.
“When?” I demand.
“May first. I know, it’s insane to rush a wedding with my first exhibition coming up, but”—she tugs Val down and smooshes her porcelain cheek against his stubbled one—“he just couldn’t wait any longer.”
“We,” Val amends, face still squished around his smile. “We couldn’t wait any longer.”
“True. Anthony and I can’t wait for us to finally be a family,” she says.
My eyes are hot, brimming with sudden happiness that my friend and her son are finally getting their happily ever after.
Val’s dark brown eyes twinkle as he gazes at Amantha. “And I don’t want to wait either, Angel.”
“Awww, Russo.” She ruffles his dark curls. “You’re such a softie.”
I watch this exchange with a mixture of amusement and nausea.
Hearing Val Russo call someone “Angel” is something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to.
Before Amantha came along, he was all chiseled jawline, Tom Ford, and harsh words.
But Amantha puddled him in a matter of months, and now he’s nothing but a six-foot-three teddy bear.
“Kate. I’m going to need lots of help planning this wedding. Say no if you need to, but would you be my maid of honor?”
Warmth flutters in my heart. “I’d be honored.”
Amantha smiles like a ray of sunshine, and I swear the room feels brighter. This is a perfect example of why I love my best friend.
While she reminds me so much of Liza, Amantha also has a darker side that I find hilarious. Some of the snarkiest comments I’ve had the pleasure of hearing come from her. Relatable enough to my devil-may-care ways while also keeping me in check.
“You’re my favorite person in the whole world!” Amantha says.
“Hey,” Val teases with a pout. “That was my award.”
I cut in. “No, yours was the Most Likely To Piss Everyone Off award.”
Amantha cackles, and I smirk.
Val rolls his eyes. “Fine. You be her favorite person, and I’ll be her irresistible husband.”
“Gross.” I stand and gather my things. “I’ll see you guys at the morning meeting in”—I check the time—“eleven minutes.”
“Kay,” Amantha says. “Russo, can you help me check on my Amsterdam pieces I need to transport for my exhibition? I was told not to get them shipped yet, but I’d like to make sure everything is in order before I get the go ahead.”
Val responds with a sneaky smile, and suddenly it feels like they’re talking in code about making out or something. I am not going to stick around to see if I’m right.
I pry the door open, and it scrapes against the side of the chair. Slipping through the crack, I’m halfway down the hall before my feet turn to cement. The break room window is at the end of the hall, but it’s close enough for me to glimpse the haunting grin that insists on following me everywhere.
None other than Brandon Roberts rakes a hand through his chin-length black waves.
The somewhat-hollowed, chiseled planes of his face are proof that natural selection exists and that perfect genetic bone structure clearly won’t be doled out to everybody.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, unleashing his deep-set dimples on the new intern.
In some twisted cosmic joke, Val accidentally hired my college fling as his assistant six months ago.
Six months! I’ve seen Brandon five times a week for half a year and still haven’t buried his body on the Chicago riverbank.
I deserve a medal.
As I watch him, the familiar hollow pit I’ve grown accustomed to over the past six years fits perfectly back into my stomach. I’m not stupid enough to call it longing—that would be crazy. I ignore the ache and fortify my walls. After all, he was the one who screwed everything up between us, not me.
And why do unreliable men have to be so darn attractive?!
My gaze swings to the intern he’s talking to. Poor girl. She’s barely pushing twenty-one, maybe twenty-two.
She leans close and playfully swats at his shoulder. See? The helpless girl has had to resort to violence to get him to leave her alone.
Call it my savior complex, but I march down the hall and toss my hair over my shoulder as I sweep into the room.
“This is a workplace, Brandon,” I say without sparing him a glance. “Not a fraternity house.”
The coffee pot is simmering with a fresh batch, so I pluck a cup off the stack and fill it.
I turn to the intern, whose bright blonde ponytail and false lashes freeze in place. Shifting sideways in her knock-off Jimmy Choos, she’s at a loss for words.
I give her an out.
“I’m so sorry he was bothering you,” I say. “Don’t let him waste any more of your time. I’m sure you have a busy day ahead!” I gesture to the door with a smile, then proceed to drain my coffee cup.
Her brown eyes flick between the two of us before she decides to slink out of the room.
Smart girl.
“Possessive, are we?” Brandon turns, leaning his sleek charcoal dress pants against the counter behind him.
His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, like the grown boy-man couldn’t be bothered to put on a tie.
I ignore the thorny rose tattoo inching up the tanned skin of his neck and try to forget that I know it extends across his collarbone and down his shoulder.
He’s aged incredibly well in the way that only men do, and that thought turns sour in my mind.
While he still oozes dangerous charm, it’s been refined somehow—like beer turned into top-shelf bourbon.
The dark stubble he used to sport is now freshly shaved every day.
I scowl. As if that square jaw of his needs any more attention.
“Don’t worry. Jealousy looks hot on you,” he says.
“Shut up,” I snap.
Brandon pauses, leveling me with a hesitant look. “Kate, have you eaten today?”