Chapter 29 TWENTY-NINE
The rest of the night was weird.
Every time Lennox tried to have a conversation with someone, Callum materialized beside her like he had some kind of radar. A venture capitalist asked about her volunteer work? Callum's hand tightened on her waist and he steered them toward another group. A tech CEO mentioned he'd heard she had a background in finance? Callum interrupted with some comment about needing to speak with the gallery owner.
It was suffocating and confusing and made absolutely no sense.
He'd barely spoken to her in days. Had been cold and distant and buried in work, treating her like a roommate he tolerated out of necessity. And now suddenly he was acting like... like what? A jealous husband?
Except they weren't really married. Not in any way that mattered.
Isaiah appeared again around ten, champagne in hand and that easy smile back in place. "Found you again. I wanted to show you the Basquiat in the back room, if you're interested. It's not part of the main exhibition but it's incredible."
"I'd love to see it," Lennox started to say.
"Actually," Callum cut in smoothly, "we were just about to leave."
She looked at him. "We were?"
"Yes." His voice left no room for argument. "Early start tomorrow."
Isaiah's smile dimmed slightly but he recovered fast. "Right, of course. Well, maybe another time." He pulled out his phone. "I could text you when we get new pieces in. If you're interested in learning more about contemporary art."
"That would be great..."
"My wife isn't available," Callum said. His voice was ice, final and sharp.
Isaiah blinked. "I just meant..."
"I know what you meant." Callum's hand moved from Lennox's waist to the small of her back, possessive and unmistakable. "Have a good evening."
He guided her away before she could respond, before she could say anything. Her face burned with embarrassment and confusion and something else she couldn't name.
"What the hell was that?" she hissed once they were out of earshot.
"What was what?"
"You were incredibly rude to him. He was just being nice."
"He was hitting on you."
"He was talking about art!"
"Right." Callum's jaw tightened. "Because married women get asked for their phone numbers all the time for purely professional reasons."
"So what if he was? Why do you care?"
He didn't answer. Just kept walking toward the exit, his hand still burning against her back through the silk dress.
They said goodbye to Patricia, made their excuses to a few more people, and finally escaped into the night air. The paparazzi had mostly dispersed but a few cameras still flashed as Marcus opened the car door.
Lennox slid into the backseat, Callum following right after. The door closed with a solid thunk that somehow made the space feel even smaller.
Marcus pulled into traffic. The city lights streaked past the windows. Neither of them spoke.
The silence was suffocating. Not the comfortable kind they'd managed a few times before, but heavy and tense, filled with things neither of them would say. Yet. Lennox stared out her window, hyper-aware of Callum beside her. The heat of his body. The way his hands were clenched on his knees. How he hadn't moved an inch away from her even though there was plenty of room in the backseat.
Her heart was doing that stupid racing thing again. The kiss at the gallery entrance kept replaying in her mind, how he'd touched her jaw, how thorough it had been. How she'd forgotten they were performing for cameras and just... felt it.
She could feel him looking at her. Not constantly, just quick glances he probably thought she didn't notice. Each one made her skin prickle with awareness.
The leather seat suddenly felt too small. Like the few inches between them were both too much and not enough at the same time.
She shifted slightly, her bare arm brushing against his jacket. He went rigid.
God, what was happening? A week ago they'd been... not friends exactly, but something. Leaving notes, having actual conversations. Now everything felt charged and dangerous, like one wrong move would shatter whatever fragile thing existed between them.
The drive felt endless and too short all at once.
Marcus pulled up to their building. Callum got out first, not waiting for Marcus to open her door, and offered his hand to help her out. His palm was warm, his grip firm. She tried not to think about how that hand had felt on her jaw earlier, tilting her face up for a kiss that still made her stomach flip.
They crossed the lobby in silence. The night doorman nodded as they passed. The elevator doors opened immediately, like even the building knew they needed to get away from each other or toward each other or whatever the hell this was.
She stepped inside. He followed.
The doors closed.
The elevator hummed upward. Forty-two floors. Usually took less than a minute. Tonight it felt like hours.
Callum stood beside her, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. She could see his reflection in the polished doors, all sharp angles and tension. Could see herself too, still in that emerald dress that had made his eyes darken, hair starting to come loose from its careful styling.
They looked like strangers. Or maybe people who knew each other too well.
The elevator climbed. Twenty-third floor. Twenty-eighth. Thirty-fifth.
Her pulse was loud in her ears. She didn't know why she felt nervous, why her hands were shaking slightly. Nothing was happening. They were just going home after an event, like they'd done before.
Except it didn't feel like before.
Fortieth floor. Forty-first.
Callum shifted slightly, and she caught the movement in the reflection. His hands unclenched then clenched again. His jaw worked like he was biting back words.
Forty-second floor.
The elevator slowed. Started to stop.
The doors began to open.
Callum didn't move. Didn't step forward to let her exit first like he usually did. Just stood there, every line of his body tense, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Then he spoke, voice low and rough in a way that made something tighten in her chest.
"We need to talk."