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We hadn’t.
“What’s the deal with the appraisal business?” he asked after a few bites of salad. “You serious?”
“Serious enough to turn in my resignation and order a stack of blank invoices.” I sipped. “I’ve got my credentials and know what I’m looking at. It’s just a matter of getting clients.”
“You want some leads?”
I arched a brow. “Are they good leads or pity leads?”
“Real leads,” he said. “A Coral Gables estate—old money, just lost their patriarch. They’re trying to catalog what’s real and what’s inherited nonsense.”
“And the second one?”
“A guy in Brickell. Mid-thirties, tech money, fully paranoid. Thinks every gallery’s trying to scam him. He needs appraisals before he’ll insure anything.”
I made a face. “So a headache.”
“Possibly,” he said. “But a well-paying one.”
I nodded slowly. “I’ll start with the estate. But I’ll take Brickell if I need a tax write-off for wine and therapy.”
He laughed, deep and honest, then poured more wine. “You’ll need an assistant if this scales,” he added. “And I’ll need one for the Germany trip. I’ve got forms, manifests, insurance documents—and Louisa’s out already.”
I stirred the risotto without answering right away.
That wasn’t flirtation. That was trust, and the part that surprised me? I wanted to say yes, not just because I could help, but because I wanted to be in the room. At the table. Doing the work.
I slid a glance toward him. “You sure you can afford my rates?”
Damian grinned. “Depends. Do they include midnight swims?”
I bumped his hip with mine and checked the timer. Ten more minutes.
Plenty of time to finish dinner.
And decide whether or not to keep pretending this wasn’t changing everything.
After we cleared the dishes—him drying, me washing, both of us pretending we hadn’t just discussed something other than fun and adventure—I made a quiet trip across the lawn to the main house. The porch lights were off. Gabrielle and Anthony’s bedroom window glowed faintly for a second, then blinked out.
Showtime.
I walked back barefoot, the grass cool between my toes, air thick with the scent of citrus and chlorine. The night was warm, still, slow in that way only Coconut Grove managed to be after midnight. I slid open the guesthouse door?—
And stopped.
Damian was already outside, barefoot and shirtless, standing at the edge of the pool like a damn Greek statue someone had tossed into 2025 and given a smug streak. His boxer-briefs were on the patio tile behind him—forgotten. Or maybe just discarded with intention.
The Sinclair smirk was locked and loaded. “Took you long enough.”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You always get naked unsupervised, or is this a special occasion?”
“I figured I’d get a head start. You're the one who promised a show.”
My eyes dragged over him deliberately—his chest, his stomach, the low-slung line of his hips that always made me feel like I was standing too close to the edge of something dangerous. Hewasn’t posing. He didn’t need to. The man had been born with swagger.
I stepped out into the moonlight and began unbuttoning my dress, slow and silent, enjoying the way his mouth parted slightly as it slipped off my shoulders and pooled at my feet.
“Should I have packed a swimsuit?” he asked, voice just a little rougher.