Sean returned just before three, stiff with the need to let loose on a punching bag. Or his brother’s face. What a shitty, worthless afternoon.

While a technician had scrutinized the wooden box, Sean had pointed out artifacts he recognized on the video file. Margo and Jace made turkey sandwiches for the group, then Jace loudly announced Sean’s veganism and produced a small salad with sardonic flourish. Although Margo studied Jace with something close to disgust, when she glanced Sean’s way, her expression mirrored that of most women who spent time around him in his four brothers’ presence: curiosity and pity.

Sean shouldn’t care. He’d never apologized for his sorry existence among his testosterone-overloaded brothers and had no intentions of starting now, but that kindhearted glance sure got old. And Margo hadn’t known he was a freak until Jace had once again messed everything up.

In the end, the bugging–tracking device was just a simple, exquisitely carved box from Afghanistan, now ruined. Sean had insisted on collecting the remnants to restore it, then suffered the indignity of their smirks and eye rolls.

By the time he walked into the quiet, temperature- and humidity-controlled interior that smelled of turpentine, paints—and Gretch—he was fed up with the FBI and anything to do with black market smuggling.

Fortunately, Gretch was on the phone. “Oh, Mr. Adyton, you’re such a flirt,” she said. Though she snapped her fingers to get Sean’s attention—seriously, had that ever worked on a guy?—he headed straight for the sanctuary of his lab. Turning in, he stopped short. His stool, his MP3 player, and his earbuds were all askew. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyeing the Picasso and tools. Untouched. Who’d been in here, rearranging his private property? He ground his teeth as he rolled the stool back into the proper position and gathered up his music. Thrusting in his buds, he pushed play, and Turiddu sang his first tenor note. Sean’s jaw sagged. The perp had messed with the MP3! Listened to the entirety of Sean’s favorite piece. Before the FBI fiasco, he’d purposely stopped the opera in that exact place so he could look forward to coming back to the Intermezzo.

“Sonofabitch!” He ripped out the buds and strode to the wet bath area. Dane, goggled, was bent over the container where distilled water solution was loosening the backing on a van Eyck.

“Hey, man,” Sean said, coming to a halt. “Were you in my cubicle?”

Dane glanced up. “I looked for you, but Hannah answered my question.”

Sean studied the Plexiglas partition that separated the wet bath area from the other restorer, Anna. He frowned. Should he ask her? People claimed he overreacted to others touching his things, but they were his. And his privacy was his. And today his dignity had taken a beating too. He cranked his neck until he heard a pop. Fuck it. He had too much work to finish. “Thanks.” Sean double-knocked on the partition and spun on his heel.

“Gretch was leaving when I got there, if that means anything,” Dane called.

Sean threw another rough “thanks” over his shoulder, although the hairs on his neck pricked. Gretch? How often did she snoop through his stuff? He’d never noticed it before, and he could easily identify even a half-centimeter shift of his possessions.

He slumped on the stool and glanced at his book bag under the desk. That hadn’t moved. He rifled through it and shoved half a protein bar in his mouth. He might look like a bitty-side-salad dweeb, but his metabolism burned like the sun. His low glucose level was probably feeding this seething irritation.

“I covered for you.”

He swiveled on the wheels.

Gretch rested an arm along the top of his cubicle, half her hourglass curves still hidden behind the gray polyester-blend siding. “Walter and Hannah have no clue you ditched work.”

His mouth was too stuffed to form words, so he leisurely kept chewing. She got off on men stumbling over themselves for her—flattering her, opening doors, no doubt carrying her groceries…and responding instantly.

If Jace crammed half a protein bar into his mouth, he’d give her a goofy grin, point a finger at his cheek, and chew faster. God forbid she should be kept waiting for Sean’s blathering gratitude at not telling the bosses he’d been late. Well, fuck that.

“You chew weird,” she remarked, and then he did speed up before she could pick him apart further. There were enough abnormal things about him without adding chewing to the freaking list.

He swallowed the half-eaten bolus, which was so large he swallowed a second time to clear his esophagus. Given the Heimlich maneuver or Gretch’s manicure, he’d be on the losing end of that decision. When the bulk of the protein bar safely passed his airway, Sean leaned an elbow behind him on the counter. It touched his MP3 player. “Why were you listening to my music?”

A rosy flush bloomed under her makeup. Crazy strange. Gretch didn’t get embarrassed. “I came to give you a message, but when you weren’t here, naturally I had to check and see if you listened to disco.”

“Naturally.” He poured contempt into the word and stared into her lying brown eyes. “However, there was no message. You knew I wasn’t here—you saw me leave with my brother.”

She blushed harder. It reminded him of Hannah. “What was that?” she asked abruptly, nodding to his player.

Her interest was uncharted territory. What was she setting him up for now? “A one-act opera composed by Pietro Muscagni in eighteen ninety-nine.”

“An opera? I didn’t hear any screeching voices.”

She was a cool drink of water, he’d give her that. Sean unwrapped the other half of his bar. “You heard the intermezzo. The opera’s equivalent to an intermission. It’s usually instrumental.”

“It was ethereal.”

He grunted, because again, he’d anticipated ridicule. And her description was apt. Who knew she could discern a magnificent intermezzo piece?

“Maybe, if it ever comes to town…” She splayed the back of her hand, studying her fingernails.

The ghost of the thick bolus stuck in his throat. Was she going to ask him out? Through buzzing ears, he faintly heard, “…you’ll give me a heads-up.”

He nodded like a yanked marionette. Sure. Give her the heads-up so she could ask Jace out, or that preppie shit from Saturday night. “Gotta work,” he said, but she stayed there, hypnotized by her nails. What was with her today? She hated being dismissed. At this point she should be halfway back to her desk, tossing a caustic remark over her shoulder.

“I was wondering if…after work you could…uh…” She cleared her throat, the flush now bright red. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She was going to ask him out after all. He stared hard at her mouth, willing the words to come. Go to dinner with me? Catch a movie? Play the whole opera?

She frowned at him like his face was saying something entirely different. Was he scowling? He tried to rearrange his features, but Gretch’s glossy lips formed a perfect arc of displeasure. “Oh, never mind. You’re such an oddball.”

Long after the judgmental clip-clip of her high heels faded, he stared at the spot where she’d stood. What had he done wrong?

* * *

Hours later, Sean rolled up his earbuds and tucked them into the smallest compartment of his drawer organizer. He stood and stretched his lats, appreciating the finished Picasso for a moment. This was why he’d gotten into the career. It was like the soot of the fire had never blackened this exquisite painting.

He carefully packaged the canvas and placed it in the finished cubbyhole, then carried back the piece-of-crap painting no longer slotted for a senior center. It was heavier than the Picasso and yellowed with age, although even that resembled a static saffron shade. Sean squinted at the sprawled signature on the canvas. Salvatore. Never heard of him. Tomorrow would be a bitch—there’d be no sense of accomplishment intricately restoring something to the same ugly state.

He logged into his computer, his stomach growling fiercely for more than the protein bar and the leftover quinoa he’d found in the break room refrigerator hours ago. Paging down to the bottom of the listed Wickham art, he checked the Picasso as completed, tallied the total hours, and emailed it to Walter. Sean made a mental note to hurry through the piece of shit tomorrow. Even restored, it wasn’t worth a dime, and Harrison Wickham wouldn’t appreciate a large restoration bill.

He skimmed the few emails in his inbox, mostly office memos from Hannah. One of her subject lines—Thank You—brought him up short, and he clicked it open.

I’m never sure where you and Gretch stand with each other, but I appreciate you agreeing to see her home tonight. If she mentioned just walking her to the El station, ignore her. Someone’s given her the creeps enough for her to swallow her pride and ask you for help. She needs it ALL the way to her front doorstep.

Have to use email, since she’s expecting me to say this in person and is guarding your hallway like a samurai warrior.

Thanks again, see you tomorrow. –H

The grumbling in his stomach turned to roiling as he glanced at his watch. A quarter to nine. Shit. Gretch had been gathering the courage to ask for his help, and because he couldn’t pull off a normal expression, she’d put herself in a potentially dangerous situation.

He concentrated on the moment out front today when Jace had been grinning, thumbs already typing her name. Gretch had arched her neck, touched her earring and said… 555— Sean screwed his eyes shut… 3014.

He snapped out of his trance and punched the numbers into the company phone, his heart pounding like a bass drum. Please let her be home safe. Nothing would sound better right now than some sarcastic comment about his audacity to call her this late. To call her at all.

But it didn’t even ring. The call went straight to voicemail.