Page 10 of Paw Inspiring (Paranormal Dating Agency #86)
NINE
M eara snatched the business card back. “Can we please?—”
“And speaking of restaurants,” Frenchy continued, practically bouncing with glee, “that man looks like he eats lightning bolts for breakfast and washes them down with pure testosterone. I bet he does one-armed push-ups while signing corporate contracts. His printer probably runs on pure intimidation.”
“Are you done?”
“Not even close. Did you notice his hands? The way they practically spanned your entire waist? I bet he opens pickle jars by glaring at them. Safes probably unlock themselves when he walks by, purely out of respect.”
Despite herself, Meara laughed. “Now you’re just making things up.”
“I’m providing colorful commentary on what might be the hottest meet-cute I’ve ever witnessed. And honey, I’ve witnessed plenty.” He peered at the business card. “CEO, huh? So he’s not just a snack, he’s the whole damn meal plan.”
“This isn’t—we just bumped into each other.”
“Bumped? Sweetheart, that was about as accidental as Gerri’s matchmaking. Speaking of which...” Frenchy glanced toward the doors where Gerri and Betsy stood wearing identical expressions of satisfaction. “I’m starting to suspect this whole champagne collision might have had some divine intervention.”
Meara’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” Frenchy’s innocent expression fooled no one. “Just that our favorite matchmaker has been looking rather smug ever since Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Dangerous walked in. And your grandmother’s practically glowing.”
“They wouldn’t?—”
“They absolutely would. And thank god they did, because watching you two eyeball each other like lovestruck timber wolves was the highlight of my evening.” He paused. “Though I’m a little hurt you didn’t immediately offer him to my collection of rejected suitors.”
“He’s not—I mean, I didn’t?—”
“Complete sentences, darling. Use them.” Frenchy grinned. “Though I completely understand being struck speechless. That voice of his? Pure gravel wrapped in silk. He probably narrates audiobooks in his spare time. For encyclopedia entries about natural disasters.”
Meara pressed her cool champagne glass to her flushed cheeks. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m spectacular. And you’re smitten. Don’t think I didn’t notice you clutching that business card like it’s the last golden ticket to the Chocolate Factory.”
She glanced down, realizing she had indeed been gripping the card rather tightly. The embossed letters had left tiny indents in her fingers.
“Face it, honey.” Frenchy draped an arm around her shoulders. “You just had a moment. A big, muscly, ‘I could probably deadlift a Ferrari’ moment. The only question is what are you going to do about it?”
Before Meara could answer, a commotion near the doors drew their attention. Artek stood with his friend—Trey?—talking to a distinguished older man. Even from across the terrace, his commanding presence drew every eye. As if sensing her gaze, he glanced over, that intense hazel stare finding her instantly.
“Oh my god.” Frenchy squeezed her arm. “He’s doing the smoldering thing again. Quick, flip your hair!”
“I am not flipping my hair.” But Meara couldn’t look away from those eyes. Something primal and electric crackled between them, defying the space and crowds separating their bodies.
“Fine, don’t flip. But at least admit this gala just got a lot more interesting than an appetizer tray.”
For once, Meara had no argument. She traced the edges of Artek’s card again, remembering the heat of his hands on her waist, the wild glint in his eyes, the way he’d said her name like it contained secrets only he could unlock.
“That’s what I thought.” Frenchy’s voice softened. “Now, let’s go show off that dress some more. Give Mr. Security God something to think about while he’s bench pressing municipal vehicles tomorrow morning.”
Meara laughed, letting him guide her. But she couldn’t resist one last glance at Artek—only to find him still watching her, his expression promising this wouldn’t be their last encounter.
Her heart skipped. Maybe Betsy and Gerri had been right after all.
The scent of fresh roses mingled with expensive perfume as Manhattan’s elite circled Meara’s gallery like well-dressed sharks. Camera flashes popped while critics huddled near her newest series, their whispered observations mixing with the classical music Frenchy had selected—”Because nothing says ‘buy expensive art’ like dead Austrian composers.”
Crystal clinked against crystal as waiters wove through the crowd bearing champagne and tiny appetizers that resembled modern art themselves. The gallery hummed with success, but Meara’s attention kept drifting to the corner where Betsy sat in a plush armchair, her silver hair glowing under the track lighting. Ora, the new nurse, hovered nearby with practiced discretion, watching Betsy’s breathing. When had her grandmother’s vibrant presence dimmed so quickly? Just last week at the gala, she’d been plotting matchmaking schemes, and now...
“Code red!” Frenchy materialized at her elbow, interrupting her worried thoughts. “The New York Times critic is eyeing your ocean series like it personally offended his mother, and—oh my god, guess who’s about to make this evening exponentially more interesting?”
“The ghost of Andy Warhol?”
“Better.” Frenchy’s green eyes sparkled with unholy glee. “Remember that walking sin from Gerri’s gala? The one who looked at you like you were the last glass of water in the Sahara?”