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“It was.”

“Did you hate it?”

Ross looks at me then.

“No,” he says. “That’s the complicated part.”

I hold his gaze. For the first time, the Kensington name looks less like something he wears and more like something he carries.

The missing folder is in the smaller archive room behind the main library, where the shelving narrows and the worktables are crowded with open boxes.

“I think it’s up there,” I say, pointing toward the second shelf.

Ross steps in behind me. “Which one?”

“The grey file with the red tab.”

I reach up just as he does and our hands brush. Neither of us moves immediately. The contact is barely anything, the side of his fingers against mine, but heat moves through me so quickly that my breath catches before I can stop it. Ross’s eyes shift to my face and I pull my hand back first.

“You can get it.”

“That seems sensible,” he says.

His voice is steady, but something in it has changed. He reaches past me for the folder, and the movement brings him close enough that his chest nearly brushes my shoulder. His scent surrounds me again, clean cedar and something warmer beneath it, and I become painfully aware of how little space there is between us.

I step aside and catch the edge of a low equipment case with my heel. Ross’s hand lands lightly at the small of my back. It’s instinctive, meant only to steady me. That doesn’t stop the touch from burning through the thin fabric of my dress.

“You all right?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say too quickly.

His hand remains there for one second longer, then he removes it.

“Good.”

I take the folder from him and turn toward the table.

“This should have the earlier notes.”

Ross follows me back into the main library as if nothing happened. I do the same. Neither of us is convincing.

Nearly an hour later, I’m reviewing the newly located notes when a woman enters the library with the quiet assurance of someone who has never once needed to announce herself.

Ross looks up first.

“Mother.”

So this is Eleanor Kensington.

She crosses the room toward us, elegant without appearing formal, her attention moving briefly over the tables before settling on her son.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Eleanor says.

“Sebastian told me I’d probably find you here.”

Ross’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. I look down at my notes before he catches me noticing. Eleanor turns to me next.

“You must be Blaire.”