Page 33 of Suite 7

“Right. Because the alternative is improvisation, and improvisation is —”

“Expensive,” he says. “Inefficient. And frequently embarrassing for everyone involved.”

Sloane glances between us. “Are we still talking about the mystery man?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I don’t know,” Kane says, at the same time.

I look at him.

He looks at me.

I should stop. I know I should stop. I’ve been here enough times to know that the Sinclair-Beckett Smackdown has a way of burning down whatever it touches, and right now there is a lot in the vicinity I cannot afford to lose.

But he’s sitting there being closed. Being controlled and unreadable and entirely too composed for a man who had his hands in my hair less than twelve hours ago.

“You know what your problem is?” I say pleasantly.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“You think that because you can see the structure of something, you understand it.” I wrap both hands around my drink. “You look at a thing — a building, a brief, a person — identify the load-bearing elements, and assume that’s the whole picture. But some things don’t have a blueprint, Kane. Some things you just have to—“ I pause, let the word land where I intend it to land— “feel.”

There’s a stillness that comes over him.

He knows exactly what I’m doing.

And he can’t say so.

His jaw tightens. His eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes the back of my neck warm, and for a moment, just a moment, the closed door opens a fraction and I see what’s behind it.

Last night. I see it in his eyes.

“Some things,” he says, “require both.”

The air between us is warm.

Sloane puts her mimosa glass down with a small, precise click.

“Kane.” Her voice is careful. Curious. “What are you doing?”

He pulls his gaze from mine with visible effort.

“Talking,” he says.

“That’s not talking.” She tilts her head and studies him. “You two are having the Sinclair-Beckett Smackdown.”

Neither of us says anything.

“Except—” She stops. Looks at me. Looks at him. Looks at the space between us that is doing something she doesn’t have a name for yet. Her brow furrows. “No. It’s not. Is it?”

“It’s a conversation,” Kane says.

“It’s — huh.” She shakes her head once, like she’s trying to reset. “It feels different.”

The word different drops into the silence and sits there.

“I should go,” Kane says. “I have drawings to finish.” He stands, picks up the takeout bag. His eyes find mine one last time. Flat. Careful. Giving me absolutely nothing. “Vera.”