Chapter 25 #3
Her laugh came out thinner now—tight, brittle around the edges—and the weak protests she murmured were more for appearances than genuine resistance.
Still, she dragged her heels just enough to signal she wasn’t ready to abandon the prize she’d been pursuing.
Max didn’t tighten his grip or raise his voice, but the quiet, unyielding authority in his manner left her with no real choice.
People moved aside instinctively as they passed, not because Max shoved through the crowd, but because his presence made it clear that standing in his way was unwise.
Just before they melted into the sea of mingling guests, Max looked over his shoulder.
His gaze locked on Rylan’s with surgical precision.
The slow lift of one brow was deliberate, carrying more weight than words ever could.
It wasn’t just acknowledgment—it was a quiet warning. You owe me. And I will collect.
“That man deserves to be canonized,” Rylan muttered, a reluctant smirk tugging at his mouth as soon as he stood next to Natalie again.
Natalie arched a brow, still processing. “He didn’t seem entirely thrilled about dealing with the woman.”
“Oh, he wasn’t,” Rylan replied dryly, his gaze flicking back to where Max now leaned against the bar, the clingy woman standing just a touch too stiff beside him.
“Janice is a…,” he paused, as if trying to find the right word, then ended with, “She can be a challenge.” He then shook his head and turned away from the now-departing couple.
“He’ll make me pay for this later. Max doesn’t let debts go unpaid. ”
Natalie followed his gaze, watching Max manage the exchange with an almost unnerving ease—each gesture purposeful, each smile measured.
There was nothing hurried, nothing wasted.
But beneath that smooth exterior, she caught a flicker in his eyes—something cold and unspoken—that hinted he was a man it would be unwise to cross.
She turned back to Rylan. “That woman was… something.”
“Max can handle her. He’s had practice with obnoxious women.” Rylan’s voice lowered slightly as he tilted his head. “I thought he was seeing someone serious in Seattle. I heard it didn’t end well.”
“What happened?” Natalie asked before she could stop herself.
Rylan’s jaw flexed. “I’m not exactly sure. Max isn’t the confiding sort.” The finality in his tone shut the door on the subject, and Natalie let it drop, though a curious pang of sympathy for Max settled in her chest.
“Come on,” Rylan said, his warm hand finding the small of her back again, guiding her toward the auction room. “Let’s go see how much money these people are willing to burn.”
As they walked, Natalie glanced over her shoulder. Max stood at the bar, angled slightly toward Janice, his expression unreadable. He was saying something she couldn’t hear, and Janice—still smiling—shifted just enough to put another inch between them.
Rylan’s voice was low when he spoke again. “Don’t worry about Max. He’s very good at what he does.” Natalie looked up at him, startled by the quiet weight in his words. “But even he,” Rylan added, eyes lingering on Max, “doesn’t walk away from some things completely unscathed.”
The heaviness in his tone made her want to ask more, to understand the kind of hurt that could leave a man like Max with shadows in his eyes.
But something in Rylan’s expression told her now wasn’t the time.
Whatever those scars were, they belonged to Max—and he guarded them as fiercely as he guarded everything else.
Instead, she nodded—a quiet acknowledgment of his insight—and let her curiosity about Max slip away as they continued walking. But as they moved, something in Rylan’s demeanor shifted.
His hand lingered at the small of her back, the heat of his touch radiating through the thin fabric of her dress. It wasn’t just contact—it was steady, assured, almost possessive. He wasn’t merely guiding her; he was grounding her. Claiming a shared space between them without uttering a word.
The gallery around them blurred, the soft hum of conversation and warm lighting dissolving into the background until there was only him.
His hand. His presence. The quiet authority in the way he walked beside her, the subtle flex of his fingers against her spine like a silent reminder that he was there—and that he wasn’t letting go.
“Most people are heading into the auction room,” he murmured, his voice low enough that she felt it more than heard it.
It took her a beat to process his words. She blinked, forcing her gaze away from the floor in front of her and noticing the flow of guests moving toward a set of double doors. “Right,” she said, though the word came out gruff, distracted.
Rylan didn’t move his hand, and Natalie’s pulse jumped at the realization of how badly she wanted it to stay there.
The intensity of her own reaction startled her.
A simple touch shouldn’t unravel her like this, and yet here she was—hyperaware of the warm press of his palm, the steady strength behind it.
Her mind betrayed her, trading thoughts of the auction for something far more dangerous.
She pictured his hand sliding from her back to her waist, drawing her closer until their shoulders brushed.
She imagined him leaning down, his lips grazing hers, the entire gallery melting away into silence as the tension between them snapped and gave way to something fierce and consuming.
By the time they reached the auction room, she was fighting the ridiculous urge to stop walking and suggest they go somewhere—anywhere—private. Somewhere they could test the boundaries of this pull between them.
She bit down gently on her lip, ordering herself to remember why they were here. Friendship, she reminded herself firmly. This was about friendship.
But when they stepped through the doors and his hand finally left her back, the loss was immediate and sharp, like someone had just cut a thread she hadn’t realized was keeping her steady.
She followed him to their seats, telling herself it was for the best, even as her skin still burned from where his touch had been.
She was a fool. She didn’t want a relationship—not really. But did she want Rylan? Did she want several hours…days…in his bed?
Her gaze drifted to him. His jaw was set, his expression cool, but she remembered the warmth of his palm and the way his stance had shifted, subtly shielding her from the crowd earlier.
Friends, she lectured herself. Friendship was safer. Smarter.
She forced her eyes forward, pretending not to notice the phantom heat at her back. Sighing, she decided that friendship was right. Good. Perfect.
So why did she suddenly feel like she was suffocating in her own logic?
They walked side by side into the rows of chairs, her mind stubbornly shoving thoughts of kissing, touching, and any other Rylan-related distractions into the farthest corner possible.
Natalie had been to plenty of auctions before, but never one like this.
The air practically pulsed with money and ambition.
At other events, she’d been the silent professional, scouting for pieces her clients wanted to build a room around.
Here, it was different—the prices whispered in hushed conversations were astronomical.
The atmosphere was intoxicating, and Natalie couldn’t help but be swept up in the energy.
Rylan picked up his numbered paddle and guided her toward a row at the very back.
“Why are we sitting back here?” she whispered, her curiosity tinged with anticipation as the room filled around them.
He leaned closer, his breath brushing the sensitive curve of her ear. “Some people prefer to sit in the front in order to see the art better. I prefer the back so I can study the competition.”
Natalie’s lips curved faintly at his strategic response, though she wasn’t entirely sure she grasped the full scope of his approach.
Her expertise was in curating luxurious, sophisticated interiors for Philadelphia’s elite—seamlessly blending high-end art with bespoke furnishings.
While she was no stranger to valuable pieces, her world didn’t usually involve the cutthroat adrenaline of a live art auction.
Still, there was something about the charged energy in the air—and Rylan’s quiet focus—that made her pulse quicken with anticipation.
The auctioneer began with several lesser-known works, their soft, impressionistic charm echoing the great masters.
Bids started modestly but climbed in steady, competitive increments.
Natalie found herself quietly aghast at the final prices—sums that could buy an entire home in one of Philadelphia’s most exclusive neighborhoods.
Then came the flower painting. Natalie’s breath hitched. Delicate yet vibrant, the brushwork seemed to defy gravity, a tangle of colors blooming in impossible harmony. She sat up straighter, her attention locking on the auctioneer as paddles shot up around the room.
The bidding was fast and relentless. The air seemed to thrum with each call of a higher number. Just as it appeared one buyer might secure the piece, Rylan’s voice cut through the din—calm, deep, commanding. His bid jumped the price by a staggering margin.
The room went still. The auctioneer’s gavel came down with a sharp crack. “Sold!”
Natalie turned toward him, eyes wide. “I didn’t think that painting spoke to you,” she whispered, her voice tinged with awe.
“It didn’t,” he said smoothly, his gaze fixed ahead.
She blinked at him, confused—until he added, almost offhand, “It reminded me of you.”
Her jaw slackened, her pulse stuttering. She opened her mouth to reply but no words came. Rylan had already shifted his focus back to the front of the room, as if the admission had cost him nothing—while she sat there feeling like he’d stolen her breath.
The next few paintings passed in a blur. Then the one that had first caught Rylan’s attention was unveiled, and the atmosphere shifted.