Page 112 of Modern Romance June 2025 1-4

I would like to pretend that nothing occurred that night in the office, but I know better. I know better, and more—I know that he experienced the same thing that I did.

Maybe even in the same way. Our eyes met. I couldn’t breathe. He was there.

He knew.

Much as I want to pretend, it’s always there, shimmering in the space between us. I’d like to deny that—and have, in fact, denied it to myself repeatedly—but I can’t quite manage it on this plane where there are no ringing phones to distract me, or Tess just down the hall.

I watch him pull out that slim, metallic laptop of his. I pull out mine.

Then, for some while, as the plane soars high into the sky and leaves New York far behind, there’s nothing but the sound of the air and the engines and thetap tap tapof our keys as we type away on our respective laptops. It’s almost peaceful…until I remember where I am.

And who’s with me.

It’s like I keep jerking myself back from the edge of some daydream where I’m imagining he really is Luc Garnier and this is our life, jetting about to solve mysteries together—

My God.I am astounded at myself.You need to pull it together, kid.

I return to my work with a vengeance.

And I can’t tell if she is acting on a signal from Luc when one of his staff members appears some while later, but if so, I miss it. She glides up to our seating area with silver trays on each arm, each one filled with the sort of five-star delicacies that are not usually on offer on any flight I’ve been on.

Even in recent years when I’ve treated myself to more comfortable air travel—as a business expense—it has never been anything like this.

The finest linens and cutlery that would not be out of place in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Plates of fine cheeses and meats, the fruit so fresh it looks almost tropical, a soup and a salad that are inviting and smell delicious—no plastic or processed or microwaved food to be seen.

A glance at Luc makes it clear that none of this is new to him. This is only more evidence to suggest that whoever he really is, he is so used to such niceties that they barely register. Once again, I am left to wonder what rung of the social ladder could possibly lead to such unconscious elegance without stripping away the ability to function. I find myself thinking about a prince I once worked for who was unable to dress himself without assistance.

That is not this man, I am certain.

His tray is set before him and he nods his thanks. His gaze sweeps to me as a matching tray is set beside me, and then he returns his attention to his laptop.

I finish the email I’m writing, summing up case findings and recommendations of next steps for a client, and send it off. Then I sit there, looking from the tray filled with crystal and gold-plated treats set before me to Luc himself.

Every day I look for more information about who this man really is. And every day, I come up empty. I’ve had a similar run of bad luck when it comes to the woman he seeks.

And it occurs to me then, as I watch him type, that I have absolutely no reason to believe that what he told me about that woman is true.

He might not be looking for a woman at all. He might not be looking for anyone. How can I possibly tell?

Following an urge I’m not sure I entirely understand—but I think, deep down, that it’s a gut feeling or even a hunch, and in my line of business as well as in life the smart move is to follow those—I open up the camera option on my laptop and take a picture of him. We are sitting opposite each other. I can get his full features in the shot, almost full on.

I take three.

More than enough for facial recognition, I tell myself.

In an abundance of caution, I email the pictures to myself. Then delete the outgoing email before I shut down the program entirely.

Just a little safety measure or two. Just in case.

In case ofwhat,I don’t know.

“You are looking at me as if I am a piece of veal,” he tells me in that low voice of his that sounds wry to me, though his expression remains unreadable.

I wonder, briefly, if he knows that I took a picture of him—and more than one at that—but I quickly shake that off. Somehow I have the feeling that if he did know, he would not be sitting there so calmly.

Because I know that this man does not want pictures of himself. Not in my hands. Not anywhere.

And the momentthatthought penetrates, I realize further that this is likely the reason that he is so interested in the masked ball we’ll be attending.

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