You hated long parties. Especially when Neal Caffrey was in the spotlight — as always. He was talking to everyone: collectors, curators, gallery owners... and now, to a brunette in a red dress who laughed like she’d had three glasses of champagne and was flirting with the waiter on the side.

You didn’t want to be bothered. You were above that. But the way she kept touching his arm every time she laughed? That crossed the line of “casual.”

Neal glanced at you from across the room and smiled. You returned the gesture with a smile that probably would’ve scared even the FBI. When he finally walked over, you’d already settled into your most “I’m fine” pose.

“She’s just an art curator,” Neal said before you even opened your mouth, as if reading your thoughts. “And for the record, she talks way too much.”

“Oh, perfect. A gorgeous, elegant woman who also won’t shut up. Your ideal type,” you said, sipping your drink without taking your eyes off him.

“Are you jealous?”

You laughed, humorlessly. “Me? No. Just admiring the live performance of your new fan club."