I need to be alone.

The din of voices and the clatter of hundreds of footfalls on the marble floor of the Great Hall puts me in a panic. This monumental ask, and then knowing that Valerie is waiting for me to screw up, is making my hands shake.

I creep into the European Painting Wing, noiselessly shutting the door behind me. I take my time strolling through the empty halls, enjoying the smell of fresh paint, the peaceful solitude, and the rows of priceless art as my only companions. For the last few months, I’ve had it all to myself, but that would change the minute Heath Stratton slices through that red ribbon. At least it’s mine for the next sixty minutes.

Except I’m not alone. A man sits on the center bench that faces The Dead Christ with Angels by Edouard Manet.

“Hello?” I call out. The man doesn’t move. “Sir, can I ask what you’re doing here?” Still nothing, though I’m certain he can hear me. I clear my throat and pick up my pace. I’m close enough now to notice he’s dressed in a well-fitted tux…as in tailored…as in cha-ching.

My fingers begin tugging and twisting at my dress. I can already hear Todd yelling at me about wrinkles. Do I let the donor call the shots (another Marisa Cardinal Rule) or kick him out?

I go with my gut. I walk up to the bench and prepare my speech, this one artfully framed to gently suggest he return to the party just a few doors away.

“Good evening. I…” The words die in my throat as he turns to look at me. He’s handsome—like, breathtakingly, unfair to other men, handsome. Strong brow, cobalt-blue eyes, and a crop of chestnut-brown hair. A five o’clock shadow graces his square jaw giving him a roughness that, unfortunately for my love life, I tend to find attractive.

Handsome, confident, mysterious, and monied? Yes, please!

“Can I help you?” he asks, his deep voice setting fire to my imagination.

“I…” I can’t seem to finish a coherent thought with that piercing gaze on me.

“Then I’ll just be getting back to it,” he says dryly, turning back to the wall.

Without that spotlight trained on my face, I get my vocal chords back in action. “I’m sorry, but only museum employees are allowed in this wing until the ribbon cutting.” I expect him to get up and apologize, but he continues sitting there. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you the way back—”

“I know my way.”

I wait for him to get up. He doesn’t. Great, he’s one of those donors. “Sir, I must insist you return with me.”

“Why?”

“Because…um, because we’ve planned for a certain donor to be the first in this wing.”

“You work here, then?” He turns and drags his eyes up and down my body. I flush, my gown and French twist suddenly feeling a tad over the top. “Surprising.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not hideous-looking.”

“E-excuse me?” I stammer.

“It’s a compliment,” he says, shrugging. He stands up and strolls to the Manet. “This is a favorite of mine, probably in the whole collection.”

That reminds me who I’m talking to.

I close my gaping mouth and examine the painting. “It is an…interesting piece,” I settle on. I wanted to use “depressing”. The painting centers around the prostrate figure of Christ, mourned by two angels in various stages of grief. It’s painted boldly and vigorously, and with the light focused on Christ, it’s hard to drag your eyes away. But a “favorite of the collection”? Nope.

“When I look at this painting,” he says, “I don’t just see Christ’s pain and suffering, I feel it.”

I arch an eyebrow. Hot and an art connoisseur? Double yes.

“I’ve never looked at it that way,” I say, joining him to take a closer look. “I must have passed by it a dozen times.”

“I can relate to the pain and suffering,” he murmurs.

“What do you mean?”

He faces me. “I don’t want to be here tonight. I hate these things.”

I have to stop myself from squirming under his stare. “Why are you, then?”

He grows silent.

I’m not sure what to say, but I’ve always trusted my gut more than my head. “If makes you feel better, I’m in the same boat.”

“Really,” he replies, his voice dripping with disbelief.

“Well, not exactly, but similar.” I walk to the next painting, the Degas that always makes me smile.

“So what happened?” he asks, following.

“I didn’t know I was working tonight until 10am this morning.”

He snorts. “So you get to go to a party and wear a pretty dress. Big deal.”

I stop walking. “First of all, I don’t love stuff like this, and second, it took me hours to look like this. Hours I would rather have spent doing work.”

My cheeks go red as his eyes dip to my neck, then chest, and back up again. “I’d say it paid off,” he smirks.

I feel that spotlight on me again and try to dodge it. I look for the Cassatt I know is coming up on the right and head for it.

“It wasn’t just that I had to attend,” I say over my shoulder. “A huge prospect was given to me this morning that could make or break my career.”

“You’re in fundraising?”

I nod. “I’ve been with The Met since undergrad.”

He scoffs. “I thought you were supposed to diversify. That’s a long time in one place.”

We pause to appreciate the Cassatt, but I barely see it. “I don’t need to jump around to find my dream job. It’s right here.”

“I didn’t mean to offend,” he says, clearly not caring if he did. “I guess most girls would dream about working at one of the best museums in the world…”

Um, please tell me that he didn’t refer to me as “girl”?

“And right out of school…” He leaves the sentence dangling, but I know what he’s implying.

“I worked hard to get here,” I argue.

“You got lucky.”

“Luck,” I say, pointing my finger at him, “had nothing to do with it.”

“You probably knew someone or Daddy pulled some strings,” he scoffs. “Happens all the time.”

“I fought tooth and nail to get where I am today!”

He makes a noncommittal sound that sends me walking toward the door at the other end of the hall.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To the event,” I snap. “The one I’m supposed to be working.”

“Oh right, this prospect you’re so worried about. I doubt it’s a big deal,” he says, like I’m child.

I turn around. “It’s the biggest ask of my life.”

“Sure it is.” He turns to study a Gauguin to my right. “Look at his use of vermillion. His signature color, don’t you agree?”

The man is infuriating. “Twenty million,” I say, my hands going to my hips.

He glances up. “What is?”

“My ask. It’s for twenty million dollars.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “I stand corrected.”

My annoyance ebbs. I figure this is the closest I’m going to get to an apology. I join him by the Gauguin. “I came in here tonight to calm down,” I admit, “get my head in the right place.”

“So did I.” He stows his hands in his pockets, and for the first time tonight, smiles at me; a slow curl of the lips that warms his eyes and softens his features. My breath hitches at the sight.

“I know a lot of people here,” he goes on. “Maybe I could introduce you?”

I gape at him. This is a development officer’s dream. “You would?”

He gives a little shrug.

“Thank you!” I gush. “The man’s Heath Stratton.”

He gives a soft laugh. “You don’t say?”

“Do you know him?”

“Oh, yeah. We go way back.”

“Wonderful! Everyone’s told me he’s very kind and personable, as are his wife and son. Have you met them, too?”

“Sure, the whole family,” he says, waving his hand. “They’re all great; Archer, especially. You’ll never meet a more charming, handsome, driven man in your life.”

I furrow my brow. “Oh?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s a relief,” I say, letting out my breath.

The man frowns. “Why do you say that?”

“I heard he was…” I pause, remembering another of Marisa’s Golden Rules: don’t badmouth a donor, especially to a stranger. “Never mind,” I say quickly.

“I insist.”

Well, he is insisting. “I’ve never met him, so this may be completely untrue—”

“I understand,” he says, brushing my preface aside.

“I’ve heard he’s rather difficult,” I admit.

“Difficult.”

“Yeah, you know…demanding, pompous—”

He snorts. “Pompous?”

“—egotistical. A prickly guy all around.”

He narrows his eyes, and I grow a little nervous. “Like I said, I’ve never met him. But you have, and you seem to like him.”

His face is still a stony mask.

“Anyway, shall we go in?” I motion ahead of me and begin walking. He falls in step with me a moment later, still deep in thought. My nervous feeling grows. “So, what do you do—”

“You say you were told this?” he interrupts.

“Sorry?”

“Archer Stratton. You were told this about him?”

“Yes, from a co-worker, though it seems to be popular opinion,” I say. “So I don’t know anything about you. What line of work are you in?”

“Finance,” he snaps. “You’re telling me that you’ve formed your opinion about a man that you’ve never met based on some co-worker?”

“I…um—” I bite my bottom lip in shame. I’m beginning to see the validity of Marisa’s rules. “I’m so sorry if I offended you.”

“Quite.” He turns and stalks away from me.

Oh God. Pissing off a donor is a cardinal sin in this field. “Wait! Please wait…” I trail off as I realize I don’t know his name. “My deepest apologies for—”

Todd comes barreling through the door the man’s headed for. “Excuse me!” He says over his shoulder as the man jumps back and steadies himself on the wall. I watch helplessly as the donor slips through the door and out of sight.

Guess I’m checking out the classifieds this weekend.

“Quinn,” my assistant yells, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

I snap my head back as Todd pushes me forward. “What, what is it?” I ask, trying not to freak out that this would be my last day at the museum I love.

“Marisa’s been looking everywhere for you. Piper needs to talk to you. Something about a change in the program.”

“A change?” I ask, picking up my pace. We pass through the doors into the clatter of voices and melodic notes of a string quartet. “Any precise details?”

“I don’t know,” Todd admits, albeit grudgingly. “They don’t divulge much to assistants.”

We reach the Great Hall as the music concludes, signaling the start of the program. For the first time, I’m able to take in the splendor. Fragrant bouquets of flowers dot the room. Royal-blue drapery cascades down the walls, perfectly measured to graze the marble floor. Glimmering crystal chandeliers descend from the vaulted ceiling. Smartly dressed waitstaff swirl around the room serving immaculately plated hors d’oeuvres.

It’s magnificent, and I passed it up to end my career with a vexing donor.

I find my seat and turn my attention toward the stage as the crowd begins to clap. Director Opal Okuya smiles at us as she slides behind the podium.

“Honored guests and dedicated friends,” she begins in her soft voice, “it is my privilege to welcome you to the Stratton Wing Reveal. Tonight, we celebrate the unwavering commitment of one family, whose generosity touches all aspects of the museum. College scholarships, painting conservation, school group programming. They’ve done it all.”

Movement offstage catches my eye. Mallory, our event guru, is corralling a small group and lining them up near the stairs. I recognize my colleagues Peter and Loren, but can’t get a good angle on the gentleman to her left.

Then it hits me: that must be Heath Stratton! I squirm in my chair to get a better look, but a banner is blocking my view.

“The Innovator Medal is the museum’s highest honor, presented each year to an outstanding individual or organization that has gone above and beyond to help the museum succeed.”

I see Mallory whisper into her earpiece and then prod Peter forward. He starts up the steps, followed by Loren and my mystery man. I lean forward, hoping for a glimpse—

I gasp, my hand flying to my throat. Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD.

Opal gestures to the individuals joining her on stage. “Dr. Loren Gig, Curator of 19th Century European Painting, will be presenting this medal to our special guest.”

Loren walks over to a small table and picks up a gleaming gold medallion with a thick blue ribbon.

“Due to a sudden engagement, Heath could not join us tonight,” Opal explains. “But his son has graciously offered to accept this award on his family’s behalf.”

Loren joins Opal and Peter at the podium, and the three of them turn to meet the man striding stiffly across the stage.

“Please join me in congratulating our esteemed guest, Archer Stratton!”

Applause erupts around me as everyone sweeps to their feet, and the noise drowns out the roaring in my ears. I watch Archer hug Opal, shake Peter’s hand, and pause in front of Loren. He has to duck his head before she manages to slip the ribbon on. A few whistles and hoorahs! sound around me when he turns to face the audience as Opal, Peter, and Loren gather around him. Then the cameras begin to flash.

I glance around, notice I’m the only one still sitting, and scramble to my feet. I fight the urge to pinch myself, then give in—ow!

Yup. This is real.

Back on stage, Peter and Loren step back to let Opal and Archer have a few photos together. Opal’s smiling, saying something to Archer, while he stands there in a moody silence. As I stare at him, his gaze sweeps around the Great Hall…searching…hunting. My pulse quickens, but I tell myself there’s no way he’ll find me in this crowd.

But he does.

His eyes lock on mine, singling me out from the hundreds around me. The intensity conveyed through those blue orbs sends a shockwave through me. My breath catches. My cheeks flush. I try to look away, but I’m caught, frozen, like a deer in headlights. The corners of his lips inch up, bit by bit, to form a smug smile. It may look like he’s smiling for the cameras, but I know better.

This is officially the worst night of my life.