Thursday’s museum opening is easier than the gala.
Or maybe I’m just getting better at this.
Victor’s drills apparently worked, because when Adrian puts his hand on my back walking through the entrance, I don’t tense. When he leans down to say something in my ear, I tilt toward him naturally. When a photographer catches us near the Rodin exhibit, we’re already standing close enough that it looks effortless.
“You’re doing well,” Adrian murmurs as we move through the crowd.
“Victor would be proud.”
“Victor texted me six times during the drive here. He’s tracking our social media coverage in real time.”
“That man needs a hobby.”
“He says this is his hobby.”
I look up at him. “That’s deeply concerning.”
“I know. I’ve been trying to get him to take vacations for years.” He steers me to
