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I paste on my perfect society smile, the one my mother spent years helping me perfect, and try to sidle past him while keeping my back to the wall. “Beautiful wedding, wasn’t it?”
He stops walking. “Interesting technique you’ve got there.” His voice holds a note of amusement that makes my cheeks heat. “Is this some new kind of walking meditation?”
“I’m just”—I gesture vaguely with one hand while pressing myself closer to the wall—“appreciating the wallpaper.”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “The wallpaper.”
“Mm-hmm.” I’m not even sure there is wallpaper. For all I know, the wall’s painted. “It’s very . . . architectural.”
“Right.” He takes a step closer, and I automatically try to retreat, only to remember I’m already against the wall. “You know, in my line of work, when someone’s acting this suspicious, it usually means they’re hiding something.”
I resist the urge to touch my hair, a nervous tell I’ve been trying to break for years. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m simply examining the hotel’s design choices. For future reference.”
“Future reference,” he repeats, in that maddeningly calm way of his.
“Yes. I might . . .” I frantically search for a plausible reason. “. . . need to upgrade my studio’s soundproofing.”
His lips twitch. “With wallpaper.”
“It’s very thick wallpaper,” I say with all the dignity I can muster while plastered against a wall.
He takes another step closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, something expensive and masculine that I try to tell myself I absolutely do not like. “Sarah seemed to have fun today, despite the late arrival.”
The mention of Sarah momentarily distracts me from Operation Wall Fusion. “She did. Thank you for helping arrange the last-minute flight changes.”
“Luna would have been devastated if Sarah missed it entirely.” His eyes do that thing where they seem to see straight through me. “Though I’m curious about the last-minute change.” His tone is casual, but his eyes miss nothing. “Seems unlike you to alter plans where Luna and Sarah are concerned.”
I lift my chin slightly. “Sometimes co-parenting involves schedule adjustments.”
“True,” he agrees, and the quietly assessing look on his face makes me wonder if he’s filing this information away in that mental catalog I’m sure he keeps of everyone’s behavior.
“I should really . . .” I try to slide sideways, but he doesn’t move.
“You should really what?”
“Go check on Sarah.”
“Sarah’s currently teaching Luna and three other kids how to do the Macarena. They’re fine.”
Of course, he knows exactly where our daughters are. He probably has the room mapped out with threat assessments and escape routes. It’s what he does, keeps tabs on everyone and everything. Luna once told Sarah that her daddy has “special codes” for every situation, from Starbucks runs to playground visits. Every outing has its own security protocol, complete with check-in requirements and pre-approved safe zones. The man treats a trip to Central Park like it’s a military operation, though Luna’s found ways to turn her father’s security obsession into her own private game.
“Well, then I should . . .” I take a step, trying to keep my back against the wall.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Amelia.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you walking like you’re in a heist movie?”
“I’m not,” I start to protest, then catch his expression. He’s not buying any of it, and I’m running out of wall. I close my eyes briefly and whisper, “I had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” His voice sharpens with concern.
“A wardrobe malfunction. Of the feminine variety.” My face burns. “On my dress. My pink dress. That my mother insisted I wear instead of the perfectly good black one I had planned.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by something that looks suspiciously like a suppressed smile.
“It’s not funny,” I hiss.