MAXWELL’S POV
"Driver," I said, pressing the intercom button in the back of the limousine. "Change of plans. We aren't going to Le Bernardin. Take us to Chelsea. West 24th Street."
"Chelsea?" Andrea asked, turning in her seat to look at me. Still clutching her sketchbook tightly against her chest, her knuckles were entirely white from the grip. "I thought we were getting lunch. I'm starving."
"We will eat," I assured her, settling comfortably back into the leather seat while adjusting my suit jacket. Feeling the lingering phantom warmth of her body against mine from the elevator was highly distracting. "But first, we are making a stop."
"What's in Chelsea?" she asked.
"Art galleries," I said. "Hundreds of them. It's the district."
"I know it's the district," she said, sounding distin
