The week passed in a strange rhythm of avoidance and proximity.
Mornings, they'd share coffee. Brief conversations about schedules, the weather, safe topics that didn't require them to address the thing simmering between them.
Days, Nora learned the gallery. Rebecca was a patient teacher, Zara was relentlessly nosy but helpful, and the work itself was exactly what Nora needed—demanding enough to occupy her mind, creative enough to feed her soul.
Evenings, she'd come home to find Adrian already there or arriving shortly after. They'd orbit each other through the house—passing in hallways, sharing the kitchen for dinner, occasionally ending up in the library with books and wine and careful distance.
But the distance was shrinking.
Little things. His hand on her lower back guiding her through a doorway. Her fingers brushing his when they both reached for the same wine bottle. The way he'd started asking about her day and actually listening to the answer.
The way she'd catch him watching her paint, standing in the sunroom doorway like he couldn't help himself.
They were trying. Both of them. To figure out what this could be without destroying everything else in the process.
It was progress.
Fragile, terrifying progress.
Friday night arrived with an exhibition opening at the Hartley.
Nora had spent three days helping Rebecca prepare—hanging pieces, writing wall text, coordinating with the caterer, managing the artist's last-minute panic about placement. It was chaos and stress and she'd loved every second of it.
Now, standing in her bedroom at six o'clock, staring at her closet, she was panicking.
Opening night. Her first. Rebecca had mentioned that donors would be there, collectors, critics. People who mattered in the art world. People who'd judge not just the exhibition but everyone associated with it.
Including the brand new junior curator who had no idea what she was doing.
Her phone buzzed. Zara.
Wear the black dress. The one with the back. Trust me.
Nora pulled out the dress in question—black silk, fitted bodice, flowing skirt, and a back that dipped low enough to be sophisticated without being scandalous. She'd bought it for a gallery opening at Berkeley and worn it exactly once.
It felt like armor.
She showered, did her makeup carefully (smoky eyes, nude lip, the tutorial she'd watched seventeen times on YouTube), dried her hair into soft waves, and slipped into the dress.
The mirror reflected someone who looked confident. Professional. Like she belonged in this world.
Fake it till you make it.
Her phone buzzed again. Different number this time.
Adrian: Good luck tonight. You're going to be amazing.
Her heart did something complicated in her chest.
She typed back: Thank you. Wish me luck.
You don't need luck. But good luck anyway.
She smiled at her phone like an idiot, then grabbed her bag and headed downstairs.
And stopped short.
Adrian stood in the foyer, keys in hand, clearly on his way out. He wore a dark suit—navy this time, perfectly tailored, with a crisp white shirt and no tie. Dressed for something.
He looked up when he heard her on the stairs.
His eyes widened. Tracked down—the dress, the heels, the way her hair fell over one shoulder—then back up to her face with an expression that made her forget how to breathe.
"You look—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "Beautiful. You look beautiful."
"Thank you." She descended the rest of the stairs, hyperaware of his gaze following her movement. "You're dressed up. Big meeting?"
"Something like that."
"On a Friday night?"
"Dinner with a client. Tokyo. They're only in town for tonight."
Right. Work. Because Adrian was always working.
"Well, don't let me keep you," Nora said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She'd known he wouldn't come to the opening. He'd mentioned nothing about it all week. And why would he? It was her thing, her job, nothing to do with him.
Still. She'd kind of hoped.
"Nora—"
"It's fine. Really. I know you're busy. I'll just—" She gestured toward the door. "I should get going anyway. Can't be late to my first opening."
She moved past him toward the door.
His hand caught her wrist. Gentle. Electric.
"I cancelled the dinner," he said quietly.
She turned. "What?"
"The Tokyo client. I rescheduled for tomorrow lunch. Told them something came up."
"Why would you—"
"Because it's your first opening night. And I wanted—" He released her wrist, shoved his hands in his pockets. "I thought you might want someone there. For moral support."
Nora's throat went tight. "You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"Adrian, if you have work—"
"I want to come. If—if that's okay. If it won't make you uncomfortable."
Uncomfortable wasn't the word. Nervous, maybe. Hyperaware, definitely. Terrified she'd spend the whole night watching him instead of doing her job, absolutely.
But uncomfortable? No.
"I'd like that," she said softly. "I'd really like that."
Something in his expression eased. "Okay. Good. Let me grab my jacket."
He disappeared upstairs. Returned two minutes later with a suit jacket that completed the ensemble and made him look like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread on successful devastatingly attractive men who ruin your life.
"Ready?" he asked.
No. She'd never be ready for this—for him showing up when she needed him, for him canceling work to support her, for the way he was looking at her like she mattered more than Tokyo clients and billion-dollar deals.
"Ready," she lied.
He opened the door, let her precede him, followed her to his car.
The drive to the gallery was quiet. Not awkward, just—weighted. With anticipation and nerves and the awareness that they'd be in public together for the first time since that night in the car.
Playing roles. Guardian's business partner and guardian's ward. Nothing more.
The lie was getting harder to maintain.
The gallery was already crowded when they arrived.
Soft lighting, jazz playing through hidden speakers, waiters circulating with wine and hors d'oeuvres, clusters of well-dressed people examining the art with varying degrees of genuine interest.
Rebecca spotted Nora immediately, waved her over with obvious relief.
"Thank god. The artist is having a meltdown about the lighting on piece seven, and we have a potential buyer for the centerpiece but she wants to discuss provenance, and—" She noticed Adrian. Stopped mid-sentence. "Oh. Hello."
"Rebecca Hartley, this is Adrian Cross. He's a friend of my guardian's." The introduction felt inadequate but necessary. "Adrian, Rebecca owns the gallery."
They shook hands. Rebecca's appraising gaze took in Adrian's expensive suit, his confident posture, the way he stood just slightly closer to Nora than strictly necessary.
"Adrian Cross," Rebecca repeated. "Cross Enterprises?"
"That's me."
"I've read about your acquisition of the Bergman Collection last year. Impressive."
"I have advisors who know what they're doing."
"And good taste, apparently." She glanced at Nora. "I'll need you to talk to the buyer about piece four. She's the brunette by the far wall. Be charming but firm on the price—we're not negotiating tonight."
"On it."
Rebecca disappeared into the crowd. Adrian turned to Nora.
"You should work," he said. "I'll just—look around. Blend in."
"You don't blend in."
"No?"
"You look like you could buy this whole gallery with pocket change. People are already staring."
"Let them stare. You have a job to do. Go be brilliant."
He squeezed her hand—quick, hidden by their bodies—and released her.
Nora took a breath and dove into the crowd.
The next hour was a blur.
She talked to the potential buyer (charming, firm, no negotiation—the woman agreed to think about it). Calmed the artist down about the lighting (it was fine, he was just nervous). Directed people to the bathroom, the coat check, the bar. Answered questions about pieces, about the artist, about the gallery's consignment policy.
She was good at this. The realization hit somewhere around conversation five—she was actually good at this. Talking about art, reading people, knowing when to push and when to step back.
Rebecca caught her eye from across the room and gave her an approving nod.
Nora felt ten feet tall.
She was so focused on work that she almost forgot Adrian was there.
Almost.
She felt him before she saw him. That awareness that prickled along her spine whenever he was near.
He stood near piece seven—the one the artist had been worried about—studying it with genuine attention. A small crowd had gathered around him, drawn by the magnetism he couldn't help but project.
Nora drifted closer, curious.
"The use of negative space is what makes it work," Adrian was saying to an older woman in pearls. "See how the empty canvas draws your eye to the color when it finally appears? That's intentional. The artist is making you wait for it. Earn it."
The woman nodded thoughtfully. "I hadn't considered that."
"Most people don't. They want everything given immediately. But the best art makes you work for understanding."
He looked up. Saw Nora watching. Something shifted in his expression—softer, almost vulnerable.
The woman followed his gaze, smiled knowingly, and drifted away.
"You're good at that," Nora said, moving to stand beside him.
"At what?"
"Talking about art. For someone who claims not to know anything about it."
"I know what I like. That's enough."
"Is it?" She gestured to the piece he'd been analyzing. "Because that sounded like someone who's spent a lot of time looking at art."
His mouth quirked. "Victor drags me to these things occasionally. You pick things up."
"Uh-huh."
They stood there, side by side, both pretending to study the painting while acutely aware of each other.
"You're doing great tonight," Adrian said quietly. "In case no one's told you."
"Rebecca seems pleased."
"Everyone's pleased. You're a natural at this."
"I'm faking most of it."
"That's what confidence is. Faking it until it's real."
She glanced at him. "You fake confidence?"
"Every day of my life."
The honesty in his voice made her chest ache.
"Nora!" Zara appeared at her elbow, slightly breathless. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's a situation with the caterer and Rebecca's with a donor and I'm in over my head."
"Go," Adrian said. "I'm fine."
Nora squeezed his arm—brief, probably too familiar for public—and followed Zara toward the back.
The catering situation took twenty minutes to resolve (they'd run out of white wine, emergency order placed with a nearby shop, crisis averted).
When Nora emerged from the back office, the crowd had grown. More people, more voices, more energy.
She scanned for Adrian. Found him near the entrance, talking to—
Her stomach dropped.
A man stood with Adrian. Younger, maybe late twenties, with the kind of calculated casual that came from money and art school. Dark hair artfully messy, designer everything trying to look like he hadn't tried.
Julian Ross. Local artist. Moderately successful. And currently monopolizing Adrian's attention while looking around the gallery like he owned it.
Nora started toward them, then stopped.
Julian's attention had shifted. To her.
He smiled. Predatory. Interested.
And headed her direction.
"You must be the new curator Rebecca's been raving about," he said, extending his hand. "Julian Ross."
"Nora Hayes. Nice to meet you."
"The pleasure's mine. This is a solid show. Good eye for emerging talent."
"Thank you, but this was all Rebecca. I'm just helping."
"Don't sell yourself short. I can tell which pieces you advocated for." He gestured to a abstract landscape nearby. "This one, for instance. Underpriced, by the way. Someone's going to snatch it up tonight."
"We're hoping."
"I could introduce you to some collectors. If you're interested. Always good to build your network early."
It was a genuine offer. Probably. But something about the way he was looking at her—assessing, calculating—made her uneasy.
"That's very kind," she said carefully. "I'm still learning the ropes, but I appreciate it."
"How about drinks after? We could discuss the landscape of contemporary collecting over something stronger than this gallery wine."
And there it was.
Nora opened her mouth to politely decline.
"She has plans."
Adrian materialized at her elbow, one hand finding the small of her back. Possessive. Burning through the silk of her dress.
Julian's eyebrows rose. "Oh. I didn't realize—"
"Now you do," Adrian said. His voice was pleasant. His eyes were not.
The air between the three of them crackled with tension.
"Right. Well." Julian smiled tightly. "Good to meet you, Nora. Adrian. Always a pleasure."
He disappeared into the crowd.
Nora turned on Adrian. "What was that?"
"What was what?"
"The territorial display. The hand on my back. The—" She lowered her voice. "We're in public, Adrian. People can see."
"I know."
"Then what are you doing?"
His hand was still on her back. Palm spread wide, thumb tracing small circles that probably looked casual but felt anything but.
"Keeping you from making a mistake," he said quietly.
"Accepting drinks from a colleague is a mistake?"
"Accepting drinks from him is."
"You don't even know him."
"I know the type. I've been him. Successful artist, charming, knows exactly what to say to get what he wants. And he wants you."
"So?"
"So you deserve better than someone who looks at you like a conquest."
"And how do you look at me, Adrian?"
The question from the car. Back again. Still unanswered.
His hand tightened fractionally on her back. "Like you're the most extraordinary thing I've ever seen and I have no right to touch you."
The words hit her like a physical blow.
"You're touching me now," she managed.
"I know. I should stop."
"Are you going to?"
"No."
People were starting to notice. She could feel eyes on them, curiosity building. Rebecca would have questions. Zara would have a field day.
Nora didn't care.
"We should—" She gestured vaguely toward somewhere more private.
"Yeah. We should."
But neither of them moved.
The moment stretched. Taut. Electric.
Then Zara's voice cut through: "Nora! Rebecca needs you. Buyer for the centerpiece is ready to negotiate."
Reality crashed back in.
Adrian stepped back. His hand left her back. The loss felt like cold water.
"Go," he said. "Work. I'll—I'll wait."
"Adrian—"
"It's fine. Go be brilliant."
She went.
But she could feel his eyes on her the entire time.
Watching. Wanting.
Barely holding on.
The negotiation took thirty minutes and all of Nora's concentration.
The buyer was sharp, knowledgeable, willing to pay asking price but wanted authentication documentation and a meeting with the artist. Nora coordinated everything, got Rebecca's approval, made the sale.
Her first major sale.
Rebecca hugged her. "You're a natural. Truly."
By the time Nora emerged, the crowd had thinned. People filtering out, the evening winding down. She scanned for Adrian.
Found him by the entrance. Checking his phone. Looking like he was counting seconds until he could leave.
"Hey," she said, approaching.
He looked up. Smiled. Tired but genuine. "Hey. Big sale?"
"Huge. Rebecca's thrilled."
"As she should be. You're impressive when you negotiate."
"You were watching?"
"From a distance. Didn't want to interfere."
"But you couldn't help watching."
"No. I couldn't."
The honesty was becoming a habit between them. Dangerous. Addictive.
"I'm about done here," Nora said. "Another hour of cleanup and—"
"I can wait."
"You don't have to. I can Uber home."
"I want to wait."
Something in his voice made her look at him closer. He seemed—tense. Wound tight. Like he'd spent the last two hours fighting something internal and losing.
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll be quick."
She wasn't quick.
Cleanup took ninety minutes. Breaking down displays, coordinating with the caterer, discussing the evening with Rebecca (who had notes, always notes), saying goodbye to the artist.
By the time she emerged, it was past midnight.
Adrian was outside, leaning against his car, scrolling through his phone.
He looked up when the door opened. Pocketed his phone. "Ready?"
"Finally. Sorry that took so long."
"It's fine."
They got in the car. Adrian started the engine but didn't put it in gear. Just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead.
"Adrian? You okay?"
"That guy. Julian. He was right, wasn't he?"
"About what?"
"About you being underpriced. Undervalued. You deserve more than this starter position at a small gallery."
"I'm exactly where I want to be."
"For now. But you'll outgrow it. You'll want more. Need more."
"Where is this coming from?"
He finally looked at her. His eyes were dark. Conflicted. "I watched you tonight. Talking to collectors, negotiating that sale, explaining art to people who knew less than you pretended they did. You were—radiant. In your element. And I realized—you're going to be extraordinary. You're going to go places I can't follow."
"That's not—"
"And guys like Julian are going to see it. Are going to want you. Age-appropriate, successful, part of your world in ways I'll never be."
Understanding dawned. "You're jealous."
"Furiously."
The admission hung in the air.
"He means nothing to me," Nora said quietly.
"Maybe not now. But someday—"
"Stop." She twisted in her seat to face him fully. "Stop projecting some future where I leave you for someone else. Stop deciding what I want without asking me."
"What do you want?"
"You. I want you. How many times do I have to say it?"
"Even though I'm wrong for you?"
"You're not wrong for me."
"I'm twelve years older. I come with baggage that would sink a cargo ship. I've killed people, Nora. I have nightmares. I—"
"I don't care."
"You should."
"But I don't." She reached across the console, took his hand. "I don't care about the age gap. I don't care about your past. I care about the man who brings me sandwiches when I'm nervous. Who shows up to my opening night even though it means canceling work. Who looks at me like I'm something precious instead of something to protect." She squeezed his hand. "That's who I want. Not Julian. Not some age-appropriate artist who looks good on paper. You."
His throat worked. "Nora—"
"Take me home, Adrian."
"Okay."
He put the car in gear. Drove through empty San Francisco streets while tension built between them like a living thing.
They made it home in fifteen minutes.
Made it into the foyer.
Made it as far as the base of the stairs before Nora stopped.
"Adrian."
He turned. "Yeah?"
"Earlier. When you had your hand on my back. You said you weren't going to stop touching me."
"I shouldn't have said that."
"But you meant it."
"Yes."
She climbed one stair. Put them at eye level. "So don't stop."
His control shattered.
One second he was standing at the base of the stairs. The next, his hand was in her hair, his mouth was on hers, and he was kissing her like he'd been drowning and she was air.
Nora melted into him. Fisted his jacket. Kissed him back with everything she'd been holding in all night—the want, the need, the relief that he'd finally stopped running.
He walked her backward until she hit the wall. His body pressed against hers, solid and warm and perfect. His hands were everywhere—her face, her waist, threading through her hair.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, he pressed his forehead to hers.
"This is wrong," he whispered.
"I don't care."
"Victor—"
"Isn't here."
They kissed again. Desperate. Consuming. Years of wanting poured into the slide of mouths and tangle of tongues.
Nora's hands found the buttons of his shirt. Started working them open.
Adrian caught her wrists. Gentle but firm.
"Wait," he breathed.
"Why?"
"Because if we do this—if we cross this line—there's no going back."
"I don't want to go back."
"Nora, I'm serious. Once we—once I—" He stopped. Struggled for words. "I won't be able to pretend anymore. Won't be able to keep my distance. You'll be mine and I'll be yours and Victor will find out and everything will fall apart."
"Or everything will be fine."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you."
His hands were still around her wrists. His body still pressed against hers. But his eyes were tortured.
"I can't lose you," he said quietly. "Or Victor. If I have to choose—"
"You don't have to choose. Not tonight."
"But eventually—"
"Eventually we'll figure it out. Together." She leaned up, kissed him softly. "But right now? Right now, I need you to stop thinking and just feel."
His resistance crumbled.
"God," he breathed. "You're going to destroy me."
"Then let me."
He kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he was memorizing the taste of her, the feel, the way she fit against him.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. Decided.
"Upstairs," he said. "Not here. Not against a wall like—you deserve better."
"I don't need better. I need you."
"Then you'll have me. But I'm doing this right."
He took her hand and led her up the stairs.
And Nora followed, heart hammering, knowing they were crossing a line they could never uncross.
Knowing she didn't care.
Knowing that whatever came next—consequences, complications, Victor's reaction—it would be worth it.
Because this? This was real.
And real was all she'd ever wanted.