“Sinclair,” he said with a note of surprise in his voice. “You’re late. I had you pegged as more punctual.”
“And I had you pegged for someone with staff to answer doors,” she shot back, ignoring how good he looked undone. “But here we are, defying expectations.”
“Here we are indeed.” He stepped aside with a mock-gallant sweep. “Come in. Let’s see what family scandals we can uncover tonight.”
“This is a one-time thing,” Harper said as she stepped past him. “I can’t beseen coming and going from your house. We need better meeting spots.”
“Noted,” he said simply.
Harper stopped abruptly just inside the entryway, her attention captured by the monstrosity before her.
“Oh my God,” she muttered.
Just inside the entrance, looming like some deranged sentry, stood an oversized Cheshire Cat statue. Grinning. Gleaming. Judging. Possibly cursed.
She turned to him, brows raised. “Seriously?”
“He’s a conversation starter,” Sebastian replied, entirely too pleased with himself.
“Or a conversation-ender.” She gestured at the statue’s manic grin. “It looks like it’s plotting my demise.”
He chuckled. “Only if you’re boring. He has high standards.”
Sebastian led her from the foyer into the lounge. The interior was aggressively curated with floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, abstract art that looked vaguely expensive. And yet, tucked into the corners, books tumbling off shelves, a jacket slung over a Barcelona chair, an empty espresso cup abandoned like a clue in a mystery novel.
“You really live like this?” she asked, turning in a slow circle.
“Like what? In a house?” He raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Like you’re five minutes away from an Architectural Digest photo shoot at all times.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “Some people have motivational posters and beanbag chairs. I have contemporary art and surprisingly comfortable Bauhaus furniture.”
She dropped into one of the angular chairs. It was sleek, low and definitely expensive. To her annoyance, it was also absurdly comfortable.
“It’s just very… you,” she muttered.
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment of the highest order.”
“Of course you are.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of a cork popping a moment later. When he returned, he handed her a glass ofred wine that smelled far too good for a casual Tuesday conspiracy session.
She accepted it without comment. She wasn’t here to compliment his taste in wine.
They settled in across from each other. Her on the chair, legs tucked under; him on the couch, sprawled like he paid rent in charm alone and opened the files.
For the next two hours, they worked.
Sarah’s data was a labyrinth of spreadsheets, transaction logs, scanned internal memos from the Hawthorne Foundation. Harper, at first laser-focused and all business, found herself increasingly reliant on Sebastian’s insights. He noticed patterns she missed, caught discrepancies in phrasing, and translated the more opaque language of aristocratic backroom dealing with a fluency born of unfortunate proximity.
She hated how helpful he was.
Not that she’d admit it. Especially not now, when he was leaning forward, brow furrowed, shirt slightly rumpled, wine untouched on the side table.
“See this?” he said, tapping a highlighted transaction. “It’s the third time that consulting firm shows up under a different shell name.”
She leaned over to look, their shoulders almost touching.