5. Wren

As the door of our suite at the Baccarat Hotel shut behind me, I watched Tom with a frown. I had expected the man who’d worked for over a year to convince the owners of Stonehenge to sell to be ecstatic. Rather than excitement, Tom had radiated nothing but broody frustration the entire drive back to the hotel. He’d alternated between cursing the flurries dotting the sky and glaring at Kline, the security we’d hired to travel with us back to Boston.

“My room. Please.” The grouch flung his hand out, gesturing at the closest doorway. Regardless of the please he’d added to the end of his sentence, the words were a command for poor Kline.

My stomach twisted painfully as I regarded the scowl Tom wore. What the hell was his issue? For a second back at the MET, when he’d hugged me, I’d sworn it wasn’t just my heart skipping a beat. Clearly, I was wrong.

“Thanks, Kline.” I smiled at him in an effort to make up for my suitemate’s piss-poor people skills.

Tom narrowed his eyes at me as he shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it carefully over the back of a dining room chair.

In less than thirty seconds, Kline returned empty-handed. “You sure you don’t want me to stay outside?”

Normally we kept security posted outside the suite when we were transporting a painting worth seven figures like Stonehenge , but Tom had been clear from the start: When moving the painting, security was welcome—he didn’t want to have to carry it and simultaneously fend someone off—but otherwise, he wanted them out of the way.

“No. You can leave.” Tom crossed his arms, his dress shirt pulling tight across his sculpted shoulders.

With a nod, Kline headed my way. “Let me know when you’ve made plans for the morning, with the snow and all.” His eyes cut to Tom, and he lowered his voice. “And if you need human dinner company.”

“Thanks.” Amused, I bit back a chuckle.

Kline and I had worked together on several jobs, mostly moving art for auction. He was a nice guy, his wife was great, and his kids were adorable. I knew because he loved to go on and on about them.

“Thanks, Mr. Brown.” Kline nodded at Tom and headed out the door.

The second the door shut, Tom spun on me. “What’s the deal with cartoon Rambo? Why do you work with him?”

The knot in my stomach tightened. “Huh?”

Huffing, he waved at the door, his glower deepening. Grumpy was one thing, but I’d never let someone—even Tom—treat any of the people we worked with poorly.

“Kline. The man has a name.” I stepped closer and regarded Tom silently, waiting. When he finally met my eye, I raised my chin. “We work with Kline and his company because he’s professional, trained, and incredibly discreet. He knows exactly who you are, yet even alone in a room, he respects your privacy and would never let anything leak to the public. So how about you play nice with our security and admit that you’re happy that everything has gone off without a hitch?”

“Satisfied.” He pressed his lips into a firm line that made even satisfied a stretch.

I bit back a scoff. “Satisfied?” I asked, successfully keeping my tone even despite the irritation simmering inside me.

He nodded, his face a stone mask. “Yes. I’m satisfied with the results.”

Of course. Happy was too strong an emotion for the man .

“Well, since you’re satisfied,” I said, barely keeping the snark out of my tone this time, “should I order room service?”

“No.” The single word was loud and clipped.

“No?”

We’d been in New York for hours and had yet to eat. I was starving. It had taken longer to get the painting than I’d planned, but it was worth the extra time to check and recheck every detail. The MET had their own authenticators on hand, but I’d taken the opportunity to watch their inspection and learn more about the details that mattered. It was an interesting process and a learning experience with the kind of quality I couldn’t get in any other place without crossing an ocean. Tom hadn’t seemed the least bit annoyed while we went through the paperwork. The second we got into the Escalade after, though, he’d donned his annoyance like a winter coat.

“We aren’t eating together.” Lifting his jacket off the chair, he turned and strode out of the room. With a click of the lock on his bedroom door, I was alone.

It was stupid, the way my heart pinched. His rejection didn’t matter. Many times, clients preferred to spend their evenings on their own. I’d never had as big a deal as today’s, but I’d fostered a ton of small ones. Hell, this was the first time I’d even shared a suite with a client. So it was ridiculous on my part to think that Tom would be interested in hanging out with me.

Even so, I couldn’t help the way my shoulders sagged as I slunk around the sofa and headed for the large sliding doors that opened onto the balcony. The flurries that had drifted around us on the drive back had turned into full-on snow, and huge white flakes dotted the dark sky. What was hardly a dusting had built up to almost a half inch of snow blanketing the city. Since I’d opted not to bring a coat on this trip, I didn’t open the door. Instead, I enjoyed the sparkling white skyline from the warm room.

The snow wasn’t a surprise. All week, the forecast had called for it. However, the last time I’d looked, it wasn’t supposed to really start until midday tomorrow. It had seemed like our early-morning flight would get us out in time to miss most of the weather delays. But it was really coming down .

I pulled up the weather app on my phone, and when it loaded, I groaned. The storm had picked up speed today, and now most of the snow was predicted to accumulate before six a.m. That made the likelihood of our seven-o’clock flight leaving on time awfully iffy. I hadn’t gotten any airline notifications yet, but getting stuck in New York with Stonehenge and Mr. I Don’t Like Sudden Changes in Plans was not my idea of a good time.

Deciding I’d rather be safe than sorry, I opened the United app next and requested a call from the airline. After a bit of begging, I was able to get our tickets transferred so we’d be in first class on the two-o’clock flight to Boston. Then, with a few keystrokes, I locked in a late checkout with the virtual concierge.

Twenty minutes later, the shower was no longer running, but I still hadn’t seen Tom. My stomach was growling so loudly I was surprised he couldn’t hear it through the wall. If it had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have waited around for him. I would have accepted Kline’s offer for dinner. He was probably eating alone, while I was standing around, pathetically hoping the surly man I’d accompanied all day would want to eat with me.

What the hell was I doing?

With a shake of my head, I unlocked my phone once again.

Me: Want to grab food?

Kline: At the bar next door already. I saved you a chair.

I scratched out a quick note and then left Tom to his own devices.