“We have no idea, and that’s the problem.” Paige sighs. “There’s no pattern to the thefts—no time of day or MO similarities, the paintings themselves are all from different time periods and artists and countries of origin, and he hasn’t left a shred of real evidence. It’s baffling.”

“Like a puzzle.”

“Except this one seems unsolvable, and I am not going to become one of those characters in a TV drama who gives up her life and her sanity—not to mention her figure—to stare at some case she can’t crack.” Paige grins.

“But don’t you like the chase?” I know she does, or she at least loves chasing all the men she sets her eyes on.

“Yeah, I love the chase, but I also love to get the guy, too. Do you know how awesome it is to catch a snooty investor filing a false claim, or bust someone for fraud?” Paige’s eyes light up.

I laugh. “You’re like insurance fraud Dirty Harry.”

“Damn straight!” She grins. “But this thief is just too good, and the cops aren’t good enough. The leads are played out, the trail’s going cold, and I’m getting bored.” She sips her tea. “I wish they would give me something else to work on.”

The waiter brings our food and it smells delicious. I dig in as Paige says, “You know what’s not boring?” I groan. “That’s right—you bumping nasties with the hottie billionaire. Give me the scoop, woman!”

I swallow a mouthful of heavenly hollandaise sauce. “There isn’t a lot to tell, really. I’ve told him I want to keep things professional, and he’s been respecting that.”

“Professional only? Please.” Paige eyes me with skepticism. “You can suddenly be just coworkers? How’s that working out for you?”

“He’s my boss, Paige. I want to earn his respect, not blow this opportunity to advance my career.”

“It’s the blowing that helps you keep the job, girl,” she jokes.

“Haha.” I roll my eyes. “Seriously. This matters to me. I want to do this right.” I feel a little like a stick in the mud, but Paige knows how hard I’ve worked to get here, what hurdles I’ve had to clear for this opportunity.

“I get it, Grace, I do.”

I take another sip of my tea, pleasantly surprised to find that I like it, and have to keep from spitting it out when Paige says, “But dear God, that ass!”

We burst into giggles and it feels like the old days, like we’re sitting in our pajamas eating popcorn and watching Netflix. “It is definitely distracting,” I admit. “I’m trying to do a good job, stay focused on the work…but I’ve never met a man like him before.”

“You mean sexy, rich, and charming as all hell?”

“Exactly!” I think of him encouraging my painting and telling me the passion will come again, him getting me to my apartment when jet-lag knocked me out. “And sweet and kind and generous…”

“Uh, oh,” Paige says, reaching across the table to press the back of her hand against my forehead. “Someone’s got it bad.”

I swat her hand away. “It’s not a fever. It’s an inappropriate crush. Remember that Anthropology TA you dated?”

“Carl.” She makes a grossed out face and I laugh.

“Carl!”

“It was three dates,” she says.

I grimace. “His feet left black marks on our carpet.”

She points at me. “What about Roman?”

“Oh, God,” I say, covering my face with my hands, ashamed.

“Didn’t he ask to have a threesome on your first date?”

“Yeah, with you.”

Paige laughs. “That’s right!”

“He was so surprised I said no.” We both crack up and it’s a wonder they don’t ask us to leave, we’re being so loud.

“I missed this,” Paige says when we’ve giggled ourselves silly and out of breath. “It’s so great to see you in person.”

“Me too. So much. I can’t wait to see you more now.”

“Tru dat,” she says and we burst into another fit of laughter.

Paige goes back to work after lunch, and I take a stroll around the neighborhood, just taking it all in. Then I see an email on my phone from Maisie: still managing to be efficient, even from across an ocean. Here are the student portfolios. I can’t wait to dig in.

I’m standing in front of a gorgeous park—a green expanse like a golf course with a small pond in the center—and I decide that a lovely pastoral setting like this might ease the pressure of my choice a little. Maybe. At the very least, it will be pretty, and I can never turn down something beautiful.

I follow a dirt path down to the pond. Mothers push strollers and elderly women walk tiny dogs past cute white metal benches and little trees growing pink and orange flowers. I sit on a bench and pull my tablet from my bag to better see the art. I angle the screen so it’s shaded by trees above and get to work.

There are 250 graduating seniors and I can choose just ten final projects. Ten students whose careers are going to potentially be catapulted into the stratosphere. This is a life-changing award, and I feel like I’m in no position to be dealing out people’s fates. Just a few weeks ago, I was in their shoes, applying for an internship with fierce competition and hoping that the selection committee would see my talents, hoping that I could show them what I was worth.

My phone pings. St. Clair writes, How’re your sea legs? You up for dinner tonight?

I smile as I type back, Yes! Though my legs make no promises. I hit send before I realize how suggestive that sounds. Crap! Was that too much, past the line of cute flirty and into desperate bar slut-y?

Pick you up at 8. He adds a winky face emoticon and I know it’s silly and so middle-school, but I do a little twirl holding my phone to my chest even though I’m in public. And in England, where public emotion is generally frowned upon.

I don’t care. I can’t wait.

CHAPTER 7

St. Clair opens the car door for me and I step out onto a busy street, pulsing with lights and chatter and after-work drinkers. “Welcome to Soho,” he says. I stand sort of shell-shocked for a minute as my eyes adjust to the barrage of color. “Don’t worry, the restaurant won’t be this bright.”

He leads me past a club pumping out dance music and several bars full of lively people, laughing and enjoying themselves. It doesn’t feel like St. Clair’s type of scene, but several people call out to him from bar patios, and women wave at him and give me the once-over.

“You’re a popular guy.”

He shrugs. “I used to be.”

I wonder how much he used to party, if he still does. Paige and Chelsea have both referred to him being a playboy—am I just another plaything? Will this worry ever go away?

We turn down an alley and the noise suddenly decreases several decibels. A simple brick façade with a metal door and the name Tony’s in white lights are all that indicate there’s anything here at all, but once we’re inside, I immediately see the appeal.

Subtle elegance abounds; now this is more St. Clair’s—at least the St. Clair I know—style. Long white tablecloths are draped over small tables lit intimately with candles. Wooden beams polished to a shine hang above us in the vaulted ceiling and the walls are tastefully decorated with large black and white photos of London through the years.

“Best steak in town,” he says just as the maître d’ comes over. We’re seated in a corner booth, a cozy and private table. We slide into the leather seat and end up closer than planned, but neither of us moves away.

“The ’83 Cote du Rhone, please,” St. Clair says to the host, ordering us a bottle of wine that I don’t even want to contemplate the cost of.

“Very good, Mr. St. Clair,” our host says approvingly, hurrying away to get the bottle.

“Everyone knows you here,” I note again.

He shrugs as he lays his napkin on his lap. “I was born here.”

“When did you move to the States?” I ask, wondering why he would leave. “Don’t you miss it here?”