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I hurry to my desk and press the intercom button. “On my way,” I tell her, kicking my bag under my desk. So much for breakfast.
Hurrying down the short hallway behind the main gallery, I pull up short in front of her office door and open it without knocking. “What’s up, Miran…”
She’s not alone and the person she’s with causes the words to dry up in my mouth. I swallow, trying to force my throat to work properly. “I mean, what can I do for you, Ms. McIntyre?” In the six months I’ve worked here, Miranda and I have developed a good relationship. So good that I’d almost consider her a friend. We’re on a first name basis, but never in front of clients. Or artists.
“Cari, I’d like to introduce you to Everett Chase,” Miranda says, biting her lip to keep from laughing at me. “Chase, this is Cari Faraday, my personal assistant.”
Everett Chase.
Everett. Fucking. Chase.
Suddenly, I’m feeling light-headed.
The man lounging in the chair in front of Miranda’s desk stands slowly, offering me a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cari.” He made no attempt to hide the amused smile on his face.
Take his hand, Cari and try not to mess this up.
I take his hand and give it a firm shake. I hate those women who shake hands like their wrists are broken. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Chase,” I say, thoroughly impressed with myself. I not fangirling. I’m forming rational, complete sentences. I almost sound like a normal person. “I’m a huge fan or your work.”
Okay, I’m fangirling a little bit. He’s gorgeous. Eyes that are almost too blue to be real. Reddish brown hair that curls around the collar of his expensive dress shirt, a pair of paint-splattered jeans and battered work boots that cost more than my car rounding out the casual wealth of his appearance. More than just gorgeous, he happens to be arguably the best contemporary artist in Boston. Certainly, its most famous.
I’m a painter too. The words force their way to the tip of my tongue and I have to grit my teeth to keep them from tumbling out. I’m not a painter. I don’t want to be. I want to own my own gallery someday, like Miranda. Painting is just a hobby. That’s all.
Chase’s smile turns. He’s not amused anymore. Now he’s wondering if I’m full of shit, just trying to fluff his ego. “Oh? A fan?” Still holding my hand, he turns it over, studying my paint stained cuticles. Bright blue eyes assess everything about me. I suddenly wish I was dressed in something a little less stuffy than black dress slacks and my white silk blouse. As if he’s confirmed something, he looks up at me through thick, dark lashes. “Which of my paintings is your favorite?”
“Full Moon on Flowing Water,” I say without hesitation. I’m sure he’s heard it a thousand times. How great he is. How talented. All from brainless bimbos who see nothing more than a walking wallet with a pretty face to match. I’m embarrassed. Want to jerk my hand away from his but I don’t. I just stand there and wait for the ridicule.
He shoots Miranda a quick look before letting go of my hand. “Points for originality,” he says, reclaiming his seat. “But it’s not my best work,” he says, challenging me.
“Technically, no,” I concede, clasping my hands behind my back to hide the fact that they’re clenched into fists. “But your use of light and texture are amazing. I saw it a few years ago, when your personal collection was on loan to The Institute of Contemporary Art.” I’m gushing, I know that, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Instead, I seem intent on making it even worse. “When I looked at it, I felt like I was dreaming and awake at the same time. It was a… transformative experience.” I sound ridiculous. Heat floods across my chest, collecting in the spot just below my collarbone. I turn away from Everett Chase’s assessing gaze and focus on my boss. “Was there something you needed, Ms. McIntyre?” I say, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity.
“Yes,” Miranda nods her head, fiddling with some papers on her desk before giving me a cool smile. “Can you please confirm today’s appointments.”
Her request gives me pause. “Of course.” What’s going on? She’s meeting with Everett Chase before opening hours and to top it off, calls me into her office to tell me to do something she knows I do every day without prompting. Completely confused, I give my head a short nod before making myself look at Miranda’s guest. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Chase.”
“It’s just Chase—no mister.” he says, smirking at my formality. “And you’re wrong. The pleasure was all mine, Cari.”
I split a small smile between the two of them before turning and making my escape.
Thirteen
Patrick
I noticed Cari’s lunch on the counter about fifteen minutes after she blew out the door. Any other day I’d take a picture of it with my cell and send it to her and she’d text me back, calling herself a space-cadet or some shit like that. Then I’d go out of my way to take it to her, just so I can see her smile. But that was before she stood outside the shower and listened to me come while I was thinking about her.
Quit being such a twat. She doesn’t know you were thinking about her. It’s only weird because you’re making it weird. Now man the fuck up and take Cari her goddamn lunch.
Swiping it off the counter, I set my coffee cup in the sink on my way out the door. The gallery is on my way to the jobsite where Declan and I are meeting prospective clients. Blueprints tucked under my arm, I use my free hand to dig my cell phone out of my pocket while I jog down the stairs. Who says guys can’t multitask?
“Call Declan,” I say and a second later, the phone is ringing. I always like to make it to the job site at least thirty minutes before a meeting but this time I’ll be lucky if I’m not late. Thankfully, I get Declan’s voicemail. “Hey, Cari forgot her lunch again so I’m gonna be a few minutes later than usual.” Tucking my phone between my ear and shoulder, I fish out my truck keys and pop the lock on the diamond-plate toolbox in its bed so I can dump everything but Cari’s lunch bag inside. “Tell the Beemans I’m on my way and they’re gonna love their plans.” Slamming the lid, I kill my cell and circle the truck. Climbing in, I toss it into the cup holder and start the car, hoping like hell Declan doesn’t call me back. I can just hear him—Let her starve a few times. Maybe then she’d stop forgetting her lunch.
Usually, I just shrug it off with an it’s no big deal because I don’t want him or anyone to know that I’m not taking Cari her lunch because I’m afraid she’ll starve. I’m taking it to her because, even after what happened this morning, I’ll take any opportunity to see her I can get.
Because I’m a pathetic loser.
I make it to the gallery a few minutes before ten and park next to her car. These days she can afford a better car—the gallery commissions are padding her income nicely—but she’s still driving the car she brought with her from Ohio. It’s a complete rust bucket but it suits her and thanks to Tess, runs like a top.
I realize what I’m doing. I’m stalling. The thought of looking her in the eye after what she heard this morning has me jamming my key back into the ignition, ready to drive away. But I don’t because I know the longer it takes me to look her in the eye, the harder it’ll be for me to actually do it. I force myself out of the truck and up the stairs.