Page 6 of Suite 7

I should leave it there.

Instead I lean in, close enough that this could be a fight or something else entirely. “Convince me. Prove you feel something that isn’t filed under structural integrity.”

He looks at me for a long moment.

“Careful what you’re asking for.”

Before I can respond, the bedroom door opens.

We both step back simultaneously — him toward the window, me toward the couch. The space between us expands.

Neither of us looks at the other.

Sloane appears and takes one look at us and her expression shifts from curious to exasperated in a heartbeat. She shakes her head slowly.

“You know, I timed that at under five minutes. You two are getting more efficient.”

I find my voice, though it comes out more defensive than intended. “What’s he even doing here?”

“Oh.” Sloane’s hand flies to her mouth. “God, I completely forgot to mention. Kane and I are going to the museum. They opened that new Renaissance exhibition. The one with the Caravaggio on loan?”

She brightens, hoping enthusiasm will smooth over the awkwardness. “You should come with us! It’ll be fun.”

I snort before I can stop myself, looking at Kane. “Right, because nothing says ‘fun afternoon’ like him insisting we view every painting chronologically while I want to actually enjoy myself.”

Kane’s eyes lock on mine, cool and measuring, while Sloane laughs — head back, unguarded.

“Okay, okay, I surrender. Clearly a terrible idea.” She grabs her bag from the chair, slinging it over her shoulder, then turns to Kane with an apologetic smile. “Come on, we’re late.”

She pauses, looking back at me with softer eyes. “Tomorrow though. Sunday. Eleven?”

“Eleven.”

“Love you.” Then, to Kane, over her shoulder: “Let’s go before round two of the Sinclair-Beckett Smackdown begins.”

Kane moves toward the door without looking at me. “Vera.”

Just my name. Acknowledgment and dismissal in two syllables.

“Sinclair.”

The door closes.

I drain my water bottle at the counter, pressing the cold side against my wrist until my breathing levels out.

His cologne lingers. Woodsy, expensive, entirely too distracting.

Careful what you’re asking for.

The words won’t stop.

I grab my bag.

That man is insufferable.

I head for the door, refusing to think about storm-gray eyes, or the stillness after I asked him that question, or why my breathing still hasn’t fully settled.

Wednesday morning, my phone buzzes with an email that stops my heart.