He rubs his thumb across my palm. “Give it time. When you’re ready, the muse will return. Trust me.”

I swallow back the tears of emotion suddenly welling in my throat. “Thanks.”

His phone buzzes, ruining the moment. He checks the screen. “I’ll be right back,” he says, stepping out into the hallway.

I clean up our lunch scraps and put them in the trash near the guard, who barely looks at me. I guess St. Clair really does do this all the time. I wander the hall studying the art, the color and shadow. I study the rabbit’s nose up close—it really is incredible—and realize how much I want to get back into my own art. I’ve missed it. I need it, I think.

Artistic expression is a part of who I am, and I’m glad St. Clair is reminding me of that.

The next morning I’m on the phone waiting to speak to the manager of a reclusive artist for an appointment that I’ve been trying to get for days and Maisie is chattering nonstop about some robbery.

“They don’t know who did it, or how. It’s all very mysterious,” Maisie says, dropping a pile of papers on my desk. I nod absently, thinking about how much I want an exclusive deal with this artist. “It’s all over the papers, especially after the Carringer’s fiasco.”

“There does seem to be a spree, doesn’t there?” I say, wondering why there’s this sudden interest in art from the criminal community.

“It’s like Ocean’s Eleven!” Maisie giggles just as the manager comes back on the line. “Miss Bennett?”

“Yes, I’m here,” I say. Maisie gives me a thumbs-up and leaves.

A few minutes later I’m knocking on St. Clair’s office door, excited to tell him about the appointment I just made with the reclusive artist that is going to knock his socks off. “We’ll get to visit his studio next week,” I tell him happily. “He hardly ever allows collectors to see his work in progress, I think this could be a great relationship for you.”

St. Clair seems distracted, putting papers into his briefcase. “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. I’m leaving for London tomorrow and I’ll be gone for a month.”

A month?

“Oh.” I can’t imagine a month without seeing him, but I try to act like it’s no big deal. “Okay, well, can I get you to sign those release forms for the new purchase and approve the—”

“I don’t know if that will work either.” There’s a strange smile playing on his lips.

“Okay...” Confusion freezes me where I stand. What’s going on? “Why not?”

For a terrible moment, I wonder if he’s decided to fire me, after all. Then St. Clair’s grin widens. “Because you’ll be coming with me.”

CHAPTER 5

After a whirlwind week packing and making arrangements, I still can’t believe it when we touchdown and I step off the plane in London. I’m in Europe!

I’m so excited I’m almost bouncing on my toes as we maneuver through the crowds at Heathrow and get swooped up by St. Clair’s car and driver. Charles sits calmly in the seat next to me, checking his phone as I rubberneck at all the tourist attractions I’ve only read about.

“Look, there’s Big Ben!” I say as we drive by the famous tower. “And Westminster Abbey!”

St. Clair smiles, amused. “Be glad Londoners can’t see or hear you right now. You’d be ribbed mercilessly for being so American.”

I laugh. “Sorry. I tried to play it cool all the way here, couldn’t you tell? It’s not every day I fly first class.”

Try, never.

“Real cool,” he grins, teasing. “The whole plane heard you squeal when they brought out afternoon tea.”

“But it was scones and clotted cream, on real china!” I protest. “I know, I’m not sophisticated, I’ve just never traveled abroad before. I’ve wanted to for so long.” I gaze out the windows at all the old brick, the stone fountains full of sculptures, the actual cobblestone roads, the river Thames and its ancient waters. “There’s so much history here.”

“It’s a great city,” he agrees. “And you’ll have plenty of time to explore it.”

“I don’t know. My boss is pretty strict.”

“Don’t worry.” He grins. “I’ll make sure that jerk doesn’t work you too hard.”

We stop at a signal in front of Buckingham Palace, its grand façade stretching for blocks. “Wow, the palace guards really do stand still as statues. Is it true that if you go bother them, they still can’t move or talk?”

St. Clair laughs.

“What?” I say, stiffening.

He says, “It’s been so long since I came here with a fresh pair of eyes like yours.”

We enter Notting Hill—which I recognize from the Julia Roberts movie—and I’m oohing and ahhing over the cute colorful buildings when we stop in front of one. I can’t wipe the huge smile off my face, but I try not to be presumptuous. “Do we have business here, Mr. St. Clair?”

He gets out of the car and I do the same, stepping out into the street. There’s a cute café with outdoor tables, artists riding by on bicycles, little boutiques, and a great buzz, just like in the movie.

“This is your home away from home.” He gestures to the bright blue stucco buildings in front of us, with flower boxes in the windows, and a cat peering at us from the front steps.

I gasp. “Really?”

St. Clair grins, his dimples throwing me off balance. God, he is gorgeous. “Number 3 on the left.” He hands me a brass key. “It’s a friend of a friend’s who’s out of town. I thought the apartment and the neighborhood would suit you. This way, you have your own space, to really get to know the city.”

“Thank you,” I gush. I hug him, I can’t help it, and he hesitates and then embraces me fully, our bodies pressing together. I inhale his aftershave, slide my hands along his muscular shoulders, feel the heat rise in my chest and begin to sink lower, so I let him go.

“How are you holding up?” he asks. “You should take it easy for a while, get some rest before the jet-lag hits you.”

“I’m fine.” I look at the cute front stoops, the cherry trees, and the colorful café awnings. “I’m more than fine. I’m in London!” I spread my arms wide. “Let’s get started.”

“Okay, okay, Energizer Bunny.” St. Clair laughs. “I’m texting you an address where you can meet me in a few hours.” He gestures to the driver, who lifts my suitcase from the trunk and carries it up the stairs to the front door. “Go inside and get settled, and I’ll see you later.”

He turns to get back in the car. “Charles?” I say, my voice stopping him. “Really, thank you,” I tell him again. “This is incredible.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, getting into the back seat. “We are still here for business.” He winks and shuts the door.

Inside, the apartment is an artist’s dream. It’s light and airy, open and full of homey touches like soft blankets on the comfy couch, a tea selection fanned out on a pretty plate, and a wall lined with lighted cabinets housing little statues and decorative vases.

The bedroom has a queen bed with a fluffy comforter, and a small desk in the corner with an ink jar and quill pen. I quickly unpack my things in the small closet and go through to the bathroom. There’s an actual claw-foot white porcelain tub and a jar of lavender bath salts, and I can’t wait to draw a bath and have long relaxing soak.

Even though St. Clair warned me about jet-lag, I don’t want to waste another moment indoors. I decide to go out and experience the culture. I stroll down the tree-lined streets, past vintage clothing stores with beautiful displays of dresses and shoes, and quaint cafes with metal folding chairs out front. It feels like a fairy tale. I actually live here! Even if it’s only temporary, it’s a dream I never imagined coming true. Mom, I hope you can see this.

A few hours later, freshened up and clothes changed, half a baguette and an apple in my stomach, I’m standing inside London College of Art waiting for St. Clair to come out of a meeting with the professors of the college. A display of student art installations sits in the center of the room, and it’s fun to look at what creativity the students are allowed to develop. I remember how much easier it was to take risks when there were safety nets and no real-world repercussions, and I miss the feeling of flying, of being so inspired you just jump and trust that where you land is where you’re supposed to be.