Page 103 of None Of Your Business

“What do you want me to do, salute?”

“A hug wouldn’t kill you.”

It just might, Rowan. It just fucking might.

I reach for her and pull her into my chest.

She freezes for a second before her arms wrap around my waist.

“See?” she murmurs against my chest. “Not dead.”

It’s not the first time this fear has hit me—the realization of how seamlessly she fits in my arms.

Every instinct in my body screams at me to keep touching her. To cup her face. To slide my thumb over her bottom lip and find out exactly what she tastes like.

My heart is fucking pounding against my ribs.

I swallow past the tightness in my throat and force my hands into my pockets where they belong.

“Best of luck on Friday,” I say, stepping back. “Not that you need it.”

She stops on the threshold, offering a quiet smile that reaches her eyes. “Thanks, Hudson.”

Then she’s gone.

I clench my fists, drag a palm hard down my face, and breathe through it, trying to get my pulse back under control.

Any other man would have fucking kissed her.

When I finally drop my hand, two plastic eyes on my desk are staring directly up at me.

“Shut up, Stanley.”

Thirty

The gallery is packed to capacity, overlapping conversations rolling into a steady roar. The lighting is bright and focused, hitting every frame on the wall.

This is what Rowan wanted.

A packed show. Buyers. Collectors. People standing in front of her work and seeing it.

I walk the perimeter of the room, cutting through groups of strangers. I haven’t seen any of these pieces finished, but I recognize her style.

The wall plaque reads: Distance Studies.

There’s no one-way mirror or recognizable furniture, but I know what I’m looking at.

One person leans forward, the other turns away. Two sit side by side but face opposite directions. Another pair looks almost connected until you notice their hands never quite touch.

Rowan translated months of watching the group into this.

She kept her word. No clear faces, no defining features, nothing that could identify anyone. Still, I recognize pieces of them. The slump of a shoulder, a crossed ankle, a hand gripping the side of a chair.

But the longer I look, the more obvious it is that isn’t really the point.

She painted the space between people. Everything they’re trying to say and everything they can’t.

Red dots sit on four of the tags.