A Kiss For Three

chapter 6

“Ms. Lowell,” my intercom purred, “your two o’clock—”

“Cancel them,” a voice said from my doorway—his voice, pitched an octave higher and dripping with fake silk.

I looked up. Adrian Cole stood there in a chestnut bob wig and oversized sunglasses, one hand on his hip, the other clutching a vintage clutch he’d definitely stolen from a stylist. He sashayed three steps in and dropped into my client chair.

“I’d like certainty about my husband,” he intoned in a breathy imitation of Serena. Then, spinning to a new character without breathing, he hiked the wig, pursed his mouth, and murmured, “Artists thrive with boundaries,” doing Camille so precisely I almost applauded.

“You’re going to hell,” I said, deadpan. “And I’ll invoice you for the ticket.”

He nudged the wig askew and pointed at me. “And you—” he pinched his voice tighter “—sell proof, not comfort.” He cracked, laughing, and I did too—against my will, against my policy.

“Ms. Lowell?” my assistant cut in again, the intercom suddenly knife-sharp. “Heads up—Camille Astor just stepped out of the elevator.”

Adrian’s eyes went wide. “Oh nope.” He slid off the chair and—folded himself under my desk, knees and a thousand-dollar shoe crowding my ankles.

“Stay,” I hissed.

“I’m a ficus,” he whispered.

A knock. I straightened, smoothed my face to ice. “Come in.”

Camille entered like a verdict in ivory. “I thought we had an agreement,” she said, shutting the door softly.

“We do,” I replied, cool as tile.

“Then where’s the progress?” Calm tone, sharp eyes. “You’ve had more than enough time.”

“I never promised speed,” I said. “I promised proof. Proof takes time.”

Under the desk, Adrian’s shoulder bumped my shin. I did not flinch. Camille’s gaze scraped the room. For a split second, the wig on my coatrack seemed to be breathing.

“I don’t like waiting,” she said.

“Then go home,” I answered, voice flat. “This isn’t a bet. It’s a case. Careful moves, guaranteed outcomes. That costs time and effort.”

Silence balanced on a pin. Adrian’s hand brushed my ankle; I pinched his wrist—hard. He stifled a yelp that sounded like a chair creaking. Camille’s lips curved without warmth.

“I’ll pay you three times your original fee if you finish soon.”

Desperation looks tasteful on her; that’s almost a compliment. “Why the hurry?” I asked.

A flicker—panic, quickly painted over. “That’s none of your business.”

Brittle hangs differently than silk. I tapped my pen, once.

“Fine. I’ll do everything possible.”

She held my stare one beat longer, then turned and left, her perfume lingering like a threat. The latch clicked. I blew a breath out through my nose. Under the desk, the ficus snorted and crawled out.

“That,” Adrian said, dusting his knee, “was the best theater I’ve seen off-Broadway.”

“You almost got us both killed.”

He perched on the corner of my desk, then decided that wasn’t dramatic enough and scooted up properly, feet planted on my chair’s crossbar like a teenager. “Speaking of theater—what if we make some compromat for Serena? Purely as a gift.”

“Tempting,” I said dryly.

He leaned forward and wrapped me in a quick hug—nothing suggestive, just contact. The fabric of his suit was the expensive kind that feels like patience. When he let go, he stayed close enough that the heat of him filled the inches between us. His mouth ticked, like he knew exactly what proximity does.

I am cynical with the world; with him, the thermostat shifts. It’s annoying.

“Adrian,” I warned, though I didn’t pull back. My fingers grazed his lapel, reading the weave; my body remembered how this goes, what comes next, how easy it would be to kiss and turn the night into leverage. His breath touched my cheek; I was already calculating angles—and then he grinned like a criminal and tapped my nose with one finger.

“Relax. I actually came to invite you to baseball with me and Nico. Best seats. Pretzels the size of your regrets.”

I blinked, the spell cracking cleanly. “You dressed as my clients to invite me to a ballgame.”

“I dressed as your clients because it made you laugh.” He tugged off the wig, hair springing back. “And because we like playing with you—even if they’re roles. Come on. Say yes.”

I pretended to consider, because power is posture. “I don’t do sports.”

“You do observation,” he countered. “Baseball is an observation with snacks.”

He took my hand—briefly, politely—and hopped off the desk. Those three seconds of contact were enough for my pulse to misbehave. I hate my pulse.

“Fine,” I said. “Text me the time.”

“Already did,” he said, flashing his phone. “Also: your assistant thinks I’m a courier.”

“She thinks you’re trouble.”

“Smart woman.” He flicked the wig onto my coatrack like a ring toss and scored. “Bye, Iris.”

He went, leaving the air softer than when he’d arrived. I told myself the warmth was irritation cooling. It wasn’t entirely.

Minutes later, Camille’s text buzzed: Confirm next steps.

I typed the same two words I’d send a stranger: On it.

I felt nothing for her, except a professional admiration for the triple fee and an operative’s suspicion about the hurry.

Another buzz.

Nico: He dragged you into baseball, didn’t he? Wear something that forgives ketchup. Also, bring that laugh.

He doesn’t waste words. When he chooses them, they land. I caught myself smiling, small and unprofessional.

An hour bled out in paperwork. The city leaned its shoulder against my windows. When the building settled into evening creaks, the door clipped open again.

“Forgot my dignity,” Adrian said, reaching for the wig and putting it back on backwards. He glanced in the dark glass, saw himself, and snorted. “Okay, dignity was a strong word.”

“You left your restraint, too,” I said.

“Restraint’s for board meetings.” He took two steps back to me, the office suddenly close again. “Look, if you ever want actual kompromat, we can pose something that leaves Serena speechless and your camera satisfied. You sitting on your desk, me looking repentant, dramatic lighting—”

“Stop,” I said, but I didn’t move away when he slid an arm around my waist and tugged me lightly forward, enough to bracket me against the edge. Heat and fabric. He smelled like cedar and a decision I hadn’t made yet.

It would be easy. Tilt my chin, close the distance, rewrite the chapter. It’s my trade: make a moment, own the proof. I leaned—just enough that it became an intention—and he laughed, soft, and stepped back like a gentleman yanking me away from traffic.

“See?” he said. “You wanted kompromat; I wanted consent. Both of us win by not being idiots.”

“You’re infuriating,” I said. It came out warmer than intended.

“You’re terrifying,” he said, delighted. “Ballpark tomorrow. Nico’s buying. I’m heckling. You’re… being human. Try it once.”