Some things you keep. Some things were never yours.
Eighteen months after her father's death, Margot Whitcomb has one sale standing between his auction house and the end of it.
Then the headline lot — a Cartier brooch worth seven figures — comes back flagged as possibly stolen. And her father's initials are on the file.
Adrian Keane works for the insurer. He is careful, exacting, impossible to hurry, and the only person alive who can tell Margot what her father actually knew in 2009. He is also required to report every answer to someone else.
So they build a rule. He tells her when something exists, even when he can't tell her what it is.
It holds for two weeks.
What Margot finds in the file is not a crime. It's worse — a decent man with one more question to ask, a payroll due Friday, and a reason to stop. What she finds in Adrian is the first person in a year who refuses to make anything easier than it is.
Neither of them can afford this. He would have to disclose it. She would have to explain it to a client whose brooch may not be hers.
They do it anyway.
A slow-burn, closed-door contemporary romance about two careful people, one unresolved object, and the difference between keeping something and keeping it unchanged.