Page 40 of The Voicemail

“What?” I ask, suddenly feeling very shy in front of him.

“You look beautiful,” he answers plainly.

There’s no flourish in the way he says it, and no shyness either. I’ve never met anyone so confidently forward. I pick up my earrings from the dresser and put them on because I need something to do with my hands. His eyes on me leave me shaky.

When we get to the gallery, the first thing I notice is that Claire has put the programs in the wrong place. They’re stacked on the entry table, which means every guest who stops to pick one up will block the doors within ten minutes. There are already people coming in from the rain, coats damp, perfume heavy in the warm air, voices bouncing off the white walls. I step away from Alex before he can say anything.

“Programs go on the center pedestal,” I tell Claire.

She blinks at me with bored indignation. “Mr. Bellamy said entry table.”

“Mr. Bellamy doesn’t think about traffic flow. Center pedestal.”

Her eyes flick past me to Alex. I ignore it.

“Claire,” I say.

She looks back at me.

“Move them.”

She does.

After that, there isn’t time to think about much else. A server tries to carry red wine past the textile installation, and I stop him before he gets six feet into the room. The lighting over the south wall is too harsh, so I find the tech and tell him to drop it ten percent. The Milan collector’s assistant calls to say his flight is delayed, so I set up the video preview in the office and tell Bellamy it was the backup plan we had ready.

Every so often, I see Alex watching me.

He stays near enough that I know he’s there and far enough that I can pretend he isn’t. Marco is by the front. Luca has two men near the service hall. They all blend better than I expected, though not perfectly. They still draw a few stares now and then.

Blessedly, Alex doesn’t interrupt me while I work. He just watches, in a way that leaves me unsettled and a little breathless. He watches while I steer Mrs. Hensley away from a trustee she hates. He watches while I talk down an artist convinced his charcoal study hangs half an inch too low. He watches while I dig a misplaced contract out of a folder Claire labeled Miscellaneous.

At one point, I walk past him with two champagne flutes in one hand and a donor’s misplaced scarf in the other.

“Enjoying watching me do my job?” I ask under my breath.

His eyes move over my face. “More than expected,” he murmurs.

His words nearly melt me, but I don’t let on. I just keep moving.

By nine, the gallery is full. Rain taps against the front windows, and the room smells like wet wool, expensive perfume, and champagne. My feet hurt. My face aches from smiling. Mr. Bellamy has used the phrase “tremendous turnout” three times, which means he’s pleased and wants everyone to think it was his doing.

I’m in the middle of explaining a loan agreement to a collector’s assistant when my phone buzzes against my hip. I ignore it. It buzzes again. My skin prickles.

I keep smiling until the assistant finishes her question and I answer. Then I excuse myself and step behind the partial wall near the staff corridor. My hand is already shaking when I pull out my phone.

Blue makes you look softer.

I look down at my dress before I can stop myself.

The gallery sounds fall away around me. All I can hear is my own breathing, too fast and too shallow. He can see me. He’s here, somewhere in this room.

I look up too quickly. The guests blur together for a second, dark suits and expensive dresses. No one stands out, but that’s the point, isn’t it? He’s been watching me for weeks. He knows how to disappear into a crowd.

“What’s wrong?” Alex asks as he comes to my side.

I didn’t hear him follow me. He must have come looking when I disappeared. I’d be annoyed if it weren’t for the text. Now I’m just grateful.

I hand him the phone and watch him read the message once. His face goes cold.