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Marlow

My head throbs, but my heart remains intact.

That’s Jackson’s doing.

He didn’t make demands. He showed me I had a choice.

My mom broke me last night. Today, without so much as a peep of a text and no calls at all, I’m choosing to put my energy elsewhere.

Stopping on the corner, Jackson takes hold of my upper arms and leans down so he’s eye level. “Get in there. Figure out what happened. Address it and don’t take any shit.”

“That’s quite the pep talk, coach. Take no shit. Got it.” I bite my lip to stay in character. If not, I’ll start laughing too hard. The release of laughter feels so good but feeling like a team with Jackson is an incomparable high.

Laughter rocks his shoulders briefly, then he digs deep. “I don’t need to tell you what to do. You’ve been training for this your whole life or at least since college,” he notes. “You’re here. All you have to do is show them who they’re messing with.”

“You’re very inspiring. Have you thought about hitting the motivational speaking circuit or starting a quotational meme business?”

“No, you keep me busy enough.”

“Ha,” I say, barking a laugh, which causes my smile to break free thanks to the silliness.

Incredibly, I was fired not twenty-four hours prior, but Jackson has managed to get me giggling like I have no cares in the world.

I kiss him quick, clap my hands, and then rub them together, ready to take on Amelia. “I’m ready. Put me in, coach.”

With a quick shoulder rub, he says, “You got this. Now go get ’em, tiger.”

I remember him saying that to me not so long ago. Everything worked out great after that . . . well, other than I got evicted from my apartment. But I got Jackson, so everything turned out better than I could have imagined.

Walking toward the gallery, I’m dressed to kill in one of my favorite outfits—pencil skirt, crisp white blouse, and my red-soled black patent leather platforms. I chose a bold red lipstick and the blackest mascara I have, keeping the rest of my makeup lighter.

We barely made it out the door once Jackson saw me.

He’s so damn good for my confidence.

We left under the premise of promises of playing secretary later in his office. I’ve been wanting to check out his desk anyway. Maybe he’ll give me an up close and personal view while bent over the top. My stomach tingles in anticipation.

Best sex of my life, and now I get it on the regular.

I must be doing something right.

But my mood sours when I approach the doors, riled up because I know I didn’t do anything that would warrant letting me go. To add insult to injury, I was fired in a text with no explanation whatsoever. So riled might be putting it mildly.

I’m actually surprised Amelia took the meeting.

She’s rarely at the gallery on the weekends, even if there’s an exhibit or showing.

She saunters in for the big names—artists, clients, celebrities wanting private showings—and then saunters right back out.

I scout the new talent while she steals the credit.

I glance back at Jackson, who’s standing exactly where I left him. He gives me a thumbs-up, and now I’m laughing again. He’s really taking this coach thing to the next level. I appreciate the dedication.

Straighten your face, Marlow. I take a deep breath and then pull the door open.

Inside, my heels click across the concrete floors announcing my arrival before I reach the back office.

I’m met on the gallery floor by jet-black hair upswept in a taut chignon in the back and a three-inch high swoop that falls to the side over her left ear, red-framed glasses with matching boots that feed out from under her shin-length military-style black jumpsuit.

This might be an intimidation tactic, but I feel good in my outfit, so I raise my chin. “Amelia.”

No smile or joy to see me, but that’s not new. It’s ironic how you can see things differently, sometimes for what they really are, when you come at a situation from a different perspective. Maybe this is just her opportunity to finally get rid of me.

A few people meander through the space, but for the most part, we’re alone in this corner of the building. She says, “I’m short on time. As you can see, I have no help today.” Interesting angle. Fire the employee and then complain you have no help.

I can work with this. “Why was I fired?”

“You stood up our biggest client.”

“The client showed up at my home, which made for an uncomfortable situation. He further admitted that the business was not the point of the meeting. Why would I go to a meeting with someone who had no intention of discussing business?”

“Since when do you care?”

The shot at my integrity lands firmly where intended, my pride.

That only drives me harder. “You know I care about the gallery, the art, my job. I work hard, sometimes at all hours to make sure a show goes off without a hitch. That doesn’t begin opening night.

That begins months, sometimes years prior, when I not only find the talent but also pull the collection together. ”

“You always did have a big sense of self-importance, Ms. Marché. This is not Los Angeles. This is New York, the epicenter of the world. Who controls the art world in this city? I do. Not you.”

Since this is going nowhere, I debate on how to move forward.

Appealing to her softer side is not an option.

She’s harsh in her appearance all the way to the depths of her soul.

But thinking back on what she said, she expected me to go on that date.

Sure, I set the wheels in motion and set up the meeting, but she was thrilled to hear I was going.

And she’s never thrilled about anything concerning me.

“There’s something I just can’t figure out.

Maybe you can fill in the blanks.” She tucks her hands in her pockets like she’s invincible, a slight sneer rolling down the bridge of her nose at me.

Her limits are being tested. I’ve not seen it much, but this situation has the makings of a scene that neither of us wants to be a part of.

She says, “I don’t think we need to discuss this any further.”

“Did you tell Mr. Casteleone where I’m staying? The address and the apartment?”

Her gaze lengthens over my shoulder to a customer who’s touching the white walls. It’s annoying when they do it, but it happens all the time and is easily cleaned after the fact.

“Amelia, I think you had a hand in this. I had just changed the address in my file the day before. You are the only one here with access to that information.”

Her hard gaze darts to me. “What was the harm in getting a ride to the restaurant?” A hand so nonchalantly sways out. “You had an opportunity to seal deals for his other collections, and you blew it.”

“I have a boyfriend?—”

“It’s too bad you let that stand in your way.

” She removes her glasses and taps the arm against her chin.

As if all the potential she saw in me has been lost because I got a personal life, she hums in quick disgust. “My mind’s made up.

I can’t work with someone who so callously disregards something I care about so deeply. ”

A surge of anger rushes my veins. “And what is that exactly? It’s not the gallery.

You’re rarely around, and when you are, it’s to pretend you’re running this place.

” I realize how calm and even my tone remains.

That gives me the strength to tell my truth.

“I run it. If I leave, so do a lot of the artists.” I don’t even know what I am saying, much less if some of the artists I’ve built relationships with would follow me to some other gallery.

“You’ve always been disobedient. I can’t have mutiny from my crew, or this ship won’t sail.

I’ll mail your final paycheck. Lola has paperwork for you to sign.

I’ll make notes of this exit interview for your file .

. . just in case. Also, if anyone calls for a recommendation, I want to have my facts straight. ”

“Who hurt you so badly that you’re taking it out on the rest of the world?” I don’t catch myself before using another line from Jackson. But if the shoe fits.

“Everyone, darling.” I recognize the anger. I’ve harbored the same for so long, but I’ve been given the choice to change my approach and the direction of my life. Maybe she needs the same.

“It doesn’t have to be like this. We can turn this around.”

She turns on her heels but stops not three steps away. “Your father’s criminal misdeeds have cast a shadow of secondhand embarrassment on the gallery. You are never going to get my job no matter what you do or your connections.”

The lowball shot to the gut is somehow not entirely unexpected, but it still hurts.

“Trust me, Amelia, I’ve been blindsided as well.

If you feel the need to hold his actions against me, do it.

But let me remind you that you had no issue when he was buying fifty-thousand-dollar art pieces like it was a fire sale. ”

It’s tempting to leave in a blaze of glory after burning the place down—metaphorically speaking.

I’m just not sure that I’ll feel better after doing it because the reality is, she’s never been a great boss or a team player, but somehow, I’ve been oblivious to the fact that she was harboring so much hatred toward me.

As much as I feel the urge to dissect our relationship for the past four years, that will take some time to work through, which is not now while standing in front of her.

“Money’s money, honey.” Her guard falls, her body seeming to find comfort between us as if we’re good friends.

Mine remains firmly intact. She says, “I suggest you focus more on your career than a boyfriend, Marlow. You’ve been given a gift with that face but looks fade, so you better hone your other skills.

“Another word of advice,” she adds as if she’s doing me a favor, and I’m not still reeling from the last comment.

“You should have slept with Casteleone. You’d be running his gallery in Madrid by now.

” Her expression lightens as if she’s not full of rage toward me.

“Instead,” she says, shrugging and raising a self-assured styled eyebrow.

“You have a boyfriend while I have a new investor in the gallery.”

“Guess honing your skills paid off.”

“They always do, my dear.” She walks away like someone actually summoned her. They didn’t. She just needs the last word.

Normally, that would be me, but this conversation is already in the gutter. How much lower can we go? It’s just best if I leave as well.

Lola gingerly approaches, sympathy woven into her features and holding a large envelope for me. “I’m sorry, Marlow.”

“Don’t worry. I get it. You’re only doing your job.” I want to tell her to watch her back, but suddenly burning bridges doesn’t sound so appealing. I’ll sell more bags, which can get me by until I figure out my next step. I take the envelope.

She says, “You can drop by or mail it back. I’ll make up some excuse instead of holding you here to fill it out.”

“I appreciate that.” Sighing, I look around once more. This gallery has been a second home for years, and now I’m losing it, just like the apartment. I hear things come in threes. I think I’m on my fifth or sixth hit. A break would be nice.

We come together and hug. I say, “Thank you and stay in touch.”

“Keep me posted with what you get up to. I know you’re going to do great things.”

“Thanks.”

When she returns to her desk, I take the scenic route and walk the gallery one final time before pushing into the sunshine of this unseasonably warm January day.

Jackson has moved closer to the corner of the building out of the way of foot traffic. Staring down at the phone in his hands, he doesn’t see me yet, which gives me a chance to study him.

I once heard Rad say Jackson was six-three.

He used to be lankier. Athletic with lean muscle.

He’s gotten bulkier in all the right places with broad shoulders and hard bicep muscles.

Strong and long legs. I don’t know why I find it so hot how his body engulfs me.

It must be the desire for the knight in shining armor fantasy.

I don’t need it in real life, though he’s been exactly that.

I’ll happily take it in the bedroom, though . . . every single inch.

He didn’t shave, which I don’t mind anymore.

By the way he rubs his hand over the side of his jaw, it seems to bother him.

It’s funny how much he’s changed over the years.

Sometimes, I still get a glimpse of that beer and flip-flop guy I’ve known since college.

But lately, in the past year or so, he’s changing—becoming more serious, maturing maybe, stressed from work.

It’s not like I miss the hard time he used to give me regarding my taste for champagne or the men I would date, not that that matters anymore, but the little remarks about me being only concerned with myself .

. . wait . . . dammit . I thought I had changed.

Although I’ve been knocked down all these pegs, the errors of my ways weren’t as prevalent to me.

As for the man who’s been standing on a street corner waiting for me for no other reason than to make sure I’m all right, I don’t think I’ve ever known how to love until he showed me, still showing me every day through his actions, words, and praise, the way we navigate any conflict.

That’s how couples become great. They work through life’s troubles together.

So whatever has him scowling at his phone, I want to be there for him and fix it, just like he’s been here for me.

He looks up and sees me, a smile following automatically. I grin because I can. I survived what I thought would be a challenge. Amelia made it easy for me to leave, even if she didn’t intend to.

I hold the orange folder in the air and waggle it. He says, “You’re still fired?”

“Sure, if she wants to call it that.”

His large hands slide around my waist and settle on my lower back. “What do you call it?”

“A move in the right direction.” I lift to kiss him. His lips are warm from the sunshine despite the slight chill in the air. When I lower back down, I say, “Thanks for waiting.”

“Always.” He takes the envelope to carry for me and to free my hand to hold it before we start walking down the street. He says, “You’ve had quite the start to the new year.”

“No one can ever say I don’t go big.”

“That’s my girl.”

He’s right.

I am his girl and so completely under his spell.