“God,” she muttered. “It’s like financial Russian nesting dolls.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “You say that like it’s not impressive.”
“It’s disgusting,” she shot back. “But yes. Also, unfortunately, very clever.”
Their eyes met, briefly. Too long.
Harper pulled back, refocusing on the screen.
“Let’s keep going,” she said. “I want something solid before this turns into another dead lead.”
Sebastian leaned in, his arm brushing hers as he peered at the screen. The scent of something subtle, expensive, unmistakably him, curled closer.
“Right. Yes.” His voice dropped, low and focused. He pointed to a line on the screen.
“Charles used this one for ‘consulting fees’ to certain influential friends in Parliament. Cross-reference the payment dates with key committee votes, you’ll see it.” He tapped another entry. “And this one. It’s newer. I suspecthe’s been channeling funds there for more speculative offshore ventures, the kind that wouldn’t look great on the Foundation’s official books.”
Harper exhaled, rubbing her temples. Her bun, valiantly hanging on since noon, finally gave up. A few strands slipping loose like even her hair was done with this day. With a frustrated sigh, she pulled out the pins and let her hair fall past her shoulders in a loose, golden wave. She shook it out once, then started to gather it back up.
When she glanced up, Sebastian was staring.
Something unguarded, almost surprised flickered across his face before he caught himself.
“What?” she asked, hands stilled mid-motion.
He shrugged. “Nothing. I just realized I’ve only ever seen your hair up.”
A pause. Then, with that same infuriating, offhand directness, “You should wear it down more often.”
Heat rose to her cheeks before she could stop it. She looked away, fingers resuming their work. The new bun wasn’t as tight, not as severe. Not that she was going to analyze that.
“I like to keep it up. It’s more practical for work,” she said briskly.
“Right. Of course.” But his eyes lingered for a beat too long before he forced them back to the screen.
They fell into silence again, but it was no longer the easy, productive rhythm of before. Something had shifted, softened around the edges.
Still, Sebastian pressed on. His mind worked quickly and Harper had t admit that he was sharp, sometimes scarily so. He made the tangle of Charles Hawthorne’s crimes feel almost legible.
Almost.
And Harper, despite herself, was starting to see him differently.
Harper rubbed her eyes and muttered, “This is giving me a headache.”
“Yeah, it’s relentless,” Sebastian said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Stay there.”
Before she could ask why, he vanished into the kitchen. She heard the faint sound of a cabinet opening, then the clink of glass.
He returned a moment later with a glass of water in one handand a small plate of shortbread on the other. “Basic field triage,” he said, setting both on the coffee table. “Hydration and sugar.”
She blinked at him.
“The biscuits are stolen from Alexander’s stash, so they’re technically royal contraband. Use wisely.”
Harper took the glass of water. “Okay, I didn’t have ‘Viscount of Scandal plays charming host’ on my bingo card tonight.”
“I’m just full of surprises.” He flopped back onto the couch, tossing a cushion behind his head. “Besides, we could both use a break before we go cross-eyed staring at spreadsheets.”