The Forbidden Throb Chapter 87

Emma's POV:

Eve had insisted on driving me to my hotel herself, waving away my protests about taking a taxi.

During the twenty-minute drive from the airport, she'd given me a preview of the project—her enthusiasm infectious.

"Get a good night's sleep," she'd said when dropping me off at the Old Port hotel. "Tomorrow we start early. Exhibition prep waits for no one."

I'd meant to review my notes that evening, to prepare myself properly. Instead, I'd barely made it through unpacking before exhaustion pulled me under.

The next morning, I arrived at the Portland Convention Center at 8:30 sharp, following the address Eve had sent.

The building loomed ahead—modern glass and steel reflecting the overcast sky.

I pushed through the double doors marked "Exhibition Hall B," my messenger bag heavy with notebooks and the carefully wrapped box of lobster chocolates.

The space opened before me like a backstage reveal.

Metal scaffolding structures rose from the polished concrete floor, their industrial frames supporting adjustable track lighting that hung from ceiling-mounted trusses.

In the center, a main display platform stood completed, its clean lines promising elegance once the instruments arrived.

Eve stood near an electric lift platform. Her hair fell on her shoulders as she gestured with a laser level, directing two workers to adjust the platform's horizontal alignment.

"Left side, up two millimeters," she called out, her voice carrying that effortless authority I'd noticed yesterday. "Check the bubble again."

Scattered across the floor were at least fifteen wooden crates, their lids nailed shut.

I could make out "Fragile - Instruments de Musique" stenciled on the sides in black letters, along with French customs stamps and shipping labels.

The sheer professionalism of it all—the scale, the precision, the international logistics—made my stomach flutter with nervous excitement.

Eve turned, catching sight of me. Her face brightened with a genuine smile. "Emma! Right on time."

She said something to her assistant—a young woman with a red ponytail who nodded and continued supervising the workers—then walked toward me, heels clicking rhythmically.

"Good morning, Ms. Miller." I managed what I hoped was a professional smile.

"Eve, please." She gestured toward a corner of the exhibition hall where someone had set up a couple of metal folding chairs. "Let's sit for a moment before we dive into chaos. I brought breakfast."

We settled into the chairs, which felt oddly intimate in this vast industrial space.

Eve reached into her bag. The bag's contents were immaculately organized.

From the top layer, she pulled out a paper bag that still radiated warmth. The smell of butter and almonds made my stomach growl embarrassingly.

"Eat first." Eve handed me a perfectly golden almond croissant wrapped in wax paper, then produced two Starbucks cups. "You'll need energy today."

"Thank you." I accepted both gratefully, then remembered the gift in my bag. "Oh, and I brought you something."

I pulled out the carefully wrapped box, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "It's not much—just some local Boston chocolates. Lobster-shaped, very touristy, but I thought..."

Eve's expression softened as she took the box, turning it over to examine the distinctive packaging from Harbor Sweets. "These are actually my favorites. How did you know?"

"I didn't," I admitted. "Just got lucky, I guess."

"Well, thank you. Truly." She set the box carefully in her bag, then took a sip of her coffee. "Now, let's talk about tomorrow's schedule."

She pulled out her iPad, and I retrieved my notebook, balancing the croissant awkwardly.

"We're picking up the French delegation at 3 PM from the airport," Eve began, her tone shifting back to business. "Direct flight from Paris via New York—two luthiers, a curator, and two translators."

I nodded, writing quickly.

"There's also an unexpected meeting tomorrow morning." Eve's expression shifted slightly, something flickering across her features too quickly to read. "A French client whose violin was damaged due to improper storage by the local warehouse. There's a dispute between both parties, and I need to resolve this issue tomorrow."

"Of course." I wrote it down, then looked up at her. "Would you like me to bring my camera equipment? Sometimes having documentation on record can be... persuasive."

Eve's eyebrows rose slightly, and something like approval flickered in her eyes.

"That's exactly the kind of thinking I was hoping for. This is why I knew I made the right choice. "

The praise made my cheeks warm, but I tried to keep my expression professional.

Eve's smile held a hint of satisfaction. "Now, let's get you oriented with what we're actually displaying."

---

The wooden crates felt solid under my hands as I knelt beside them, crowbar in grip.

Eve had handed me a detailed exhibition diagram—a beautifully rendered layout showing exactly which instruments would be placed where, complete with catalog numbers and historical notes.

"Start with crate seven," Eve instructed, pointing to one marked with blue tape. "Those are the baroque violins. Handle them like they're made of eggshells, because honestly, they might as well be."

I cross-referenced the tags with Eve's diagram, checking off each instrument.

My pen moved quickly across my notebook: *flamed maple back (tiger-striped wood on the back plate), ebony fingerboard (the black wood under the strings), varnish composition (the protective coating that gives the instrument its color)...*

An hour later, I'd worked through seven crates. My lower back ached from crouching, and I'd developed a thin sheen of sweat despite the hall's cool temperature.

---

By 4:30 PM, the basic layout was complete.

Eve declared it time to call it a day, and I gratefully collected my things.

"You did excellent work today," Eve said, gathering her own belongings. "Let me take you to dinner. There's a great seafood place near the waterfront—my treat."

"Oh, you don't have to—"

"I insist." Her tone was firm but warm. "You've more than earned it. Besides, we should discuss tomorrow's vendor meeting strategy."

I smiled, touched by the gesture. "Then thank you. I'd love to."

We pushed through the Convention Center's glass doors and stopped short. The sky had turned the color of bruised plums, and rain fell in sheets.

"Oh, wonderful," Eve muttered, surveying the weather.

I shifted my weight, listening to the drumming rain and the low murmur of frustrated conversations around us. I turned to ask Eve about the restaurant—

And froze.

About ten feet behind us, partially obscured by the crowd, stood a man.

He looked young, with a lean build that the soaked black hoodie clung to. The hood was pulled up, shadowing most of his face, but I could see his eyes.

They were fixed on Eve with an intensity that made my skin crawl.