Chapter 2

Isla was on her knees on the fourteenth floor, unpacking the last crate of framed prints, when her phone rang.

She almost didn't answer.

Her hands were full and her hair was in her face and she had seventeen things left to do before the afternoon walkthrough with the building's events coordinator.

She answered anyway.

"Isla." It was Marcus, her boss at Hartwell Creative. His voice had that particular energy it got when something unexpected had happened — not bad unexpected. The other kind. "Are you sitting down?"

"I'm on the floor actually."

"Close enough." A pause. "Cole Global just contacted us. They want to extend the installation contract. Three more months. Full rate."

Isla sat back on her heels. "Sorry?"

"Three months, Isla. Full rate. They want additional work done — expanded installation across two more floors apparently. The request came directly from the executive office."

She looked around the fourteenth floor gallery space.

At the work she'd spent four days carefully hanging, spacing and perfecting. "Did they say why?"

"Does it matter?" Marcus laughed. "This is Cole Global. This is the kind of contract that changes what we are as a firm. Whatever you're doing in that building — keep doing it."

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

She hadn't done anything.

She'd hung artwork and avoided eye contact and apologised to a door frame yesterday like a complete idiot.

"Okay," she said slowly. "Okay. Three months."

"Three months." The smile in his voice was audible. "Well done, Isla."

He ended the call.

She sat on the floor of the fourteenth floor of Cole Global Industries and looked at her phone and thought about the elevator yesterday.

About the cold grey eyes meeting hers for exactly one second through a narrowing gap.

She shook her head.

Coincidence. Obviously.

She pushed herself to her feet, tucked her phone into her back pocket and picked up the next framed print.

She had work to do.

She was still working three hours later when she heard footsteps that didn't belong to anyone on her team.

She knew because everyone on her team wore soft soles. These were leather. Deliberate. The kind of footsteps that expected the floor to answer them.

She turned.

Zachary Cole stood at the entrance to the gallery space with his hands in his pockets, looking at the work on the walls the way people looked at things they were genuinely assessing rather than politely acknowledging.

Isla straightened. Her heart did something inconvenient.

He hadn't noticed her yet — or if he had, he gave no indication.

His eyes moved from panel to panel, unhurried, expression unreadable.

She cleared her throat.

He looked at her.

Something moved across his face — brief, barely there. Gone before she could name it.

"The spacing on the third panel is off," he said.

She blinked. Looked at the panel; then looked back at him. "It's intentional. The asymmetry creates visual tension that draws the eye across the whole wall rather than stopping at individual pieces."

He said nothing for a moment.

"Who approved the concept?"

"I did."

"You designed this?"

"I designed all of it." She kept her voice even. "Is there a problem with the installation, Mr.—"

"Cole." His eyes were back on the wall. "Zachary Cole."

"Mr. Cole," she started.

"The asymmetry works." He said it simply, still looking at the wall. Then he looked at her. "What's your name?"

She almost said you already know it. Something in his eyes made her think he did.

"Isla Simmons."

He nodded once. Like he was filing it away. Then he looked at the wall one more time and turned and walked out without another word.

Isla stood very still for a moment.

Then she turned back to her work and told herself very firmly that her hands were not shaking.

She was packing up at six when her phone buzzed. An email from the building's events coordinator.

Ms. Simmons — Mr. Cole has requested a brief meeting tomorrow morning at nine to discuss the expanded installation scope. His office. Fortieth floor.

Isla read it twice.

Then she looked up at the ceiling and exhaled slowly.

His office.

She typed back a confirmation before she could think too hard about it and gathered her things and headed for the elevator.

The regular one this time.

She was not making that mistake again.

What she didn't know — couldn't have known — was that upstairs on the fortieth floor, Zachary Cole was at his desk reading the confirmation email from her with something that on any other man's face might have looked like satisfaction.

He closed his laptop.

Nine a.m.

He had exactly fourteen hours to decide how much of himself he was willing to show her.

He already knew the answer.

Not enough to keep her. Just enough to make her stay.