Melody Anne's Billionaire Universe: One Sweet Summer (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Love by the Numbers Book 1)

by J. A. Coffey

  The words sounded so ugly, so cheap. A low blow, even for Carson.

  “Everyone in Seattle has a beard, Pops.” Kane raised an eyebrow at his father’s clean-shaven face. “Everyone who’s anyone.”

  Carson, excess energy apparently expended, sank back into his chair. He steepled his hands gracefully before speaking. “I’m so pleased to hear you’ve kept your sense of humor. And that you’re keeping tabs on what’s hip.” His father’s eyes shone like light playing on the edge of a razor.

  “Oh?” Kane crossed his arms. “Since when?”

  “Since I’ve decided to take a new approach with The Maverick. I’m serious about you taking on more responsibility around here.” His father swiveled from the laptop to face Kane. “Earning your keep, so to speak.”

  “Earning my keep? I still make a decent income, Pops. Mom begged me to move back.” How clueless was his father, anyways?

  He’d made a better-than-decent income from his stint as America’s Favorite Lawn Guy, and even better residuals from the advertisement and commercial spots. Those wouldn’t dry up for another six months, by his reckoning, which was more than enough time to latch his star onto a new venture. Something good, something authentic, something like…

  “You’re curating the summer show at The Maverick.” Carson leaned back in his chair.

  “What?” Had his hangover plugged his ears? “You want me to choose what gets displayed in the gallery?”

  “On a trial basis. Yes.” Carson nodded. “Sales are down. People just aren’t as interested in the classics and old originals. You seem to be in touch with what’s popular. I want you to tap into the upcoming generation of young adults. Millennials. Get them interested in The Maverick again.”

  Kane exhaled noisily. “Since when have you cared about what’s popular?” His father had always selected pieces for the gallery based on his personal preferences. It was a perk of being a Maverick; their shipping income meant that the gallery didn’t have to make a huge profit.

  Carson didn’t answer. “I want you to coordinate and handle the artists. Evaluate the applications. Make some decisions, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Seriously?” Kane exhaled noisily. If he’d been a gambler, he’d staked his bank account that his father would never give over control of his precious gallery. Not while he still considered Kane to be such a failure.

  “Absolutely. I want your input on the pieces to put in front of the jury.” His father clapped him on the back. “This is a chance for a new start, son. For both of us.”

  Kane’s lungs felt like they were being squeezed like a damp sponge. His father sounded so…proud of him. It was unreal.

  “Does this have anything to do with the press trying to track me down for interviews since I left the TV show?” Excitement warred with suspicion. The vultures had stalked him for weeks trying to get a front page picture. He wouldn’t put it past his father to cash in on the extra publicity if it meant bringing in a customer.

  Carson pierced him with an even look. “You have a great eye for color and balance, Kane. A certain je ne sais quoi. Your mother and I have always thought you had more potential than you utilize.”

  “That almost sounded like a compliment.” Kane dragged his hands through his hair, reeling a bit.

  To him, it had seemed pretty obvious that his father considered him little better than the hired help. He got his hands dirty. He was irresponsible. Unsettled and frivolous. Practically blue-collar. He wasn’t the guy you put in charge of your pride and joy art gallery.

  What was happening here?

  “Coordinate with Marta for space constraints and budget, but you should be familiar enough to get started. She’ll give you the files to get you up to speed.” Carson’s fingers drummed lightly on the edge of his desk while Kane struggled to find the words to respond.

  “If this…if this is what you really want.” Jeez. His heart pounded in his chest like a pendulum.

  His whole life he’d hated the stodgy, lifeless pieces represented by The Mav. In college, he’d fantasized about taking the gallery into a new direction. Something different, something fresh and trendy. He’d never dreamed he’d be offered the chance to resurrect the reputation of his family’s gallery. Not while his father still drew tobacco-laden breath.

  But here it was, happening. His hard-ass, heavy-handed father had just asked him to transform The Mav. Was this the start of a new career for him or at least a new start for him and his father? Carson handed him a file folder stuffed with applications and slides.

  “Here’s the current list of applications, Kane. See what you make of it. Over a hundred applicants to be vetted and not much time left. We need to notify them within the next two weeks to get the press lined up.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kane straightened his shoulders. Hope and enthusiasm, emotions he’d thought had been drowned out by alcohol and crushed expectations, surged inside him. He was willing to give this a shot if his parents were. “I won’t let you down. You’ll see.”

  “See that you don’t, Kane. We’re all counting on you.”

  When had his parents ever counted on him for anything? The words rang in his ears all the way out to the front displays. If this was some kind of trick to keep him from partying...

  But no, his father wouldn’t risk The Mav’s reputation on a whim. Carson must have thought over this long and hard before offering Kane a chance at it. He was still mulling this over when he nearly bumped into a curvy brunette toting a huge artist’s portfolio struggling to enter the gallery.

  Faded jean overalls hid her figure, and her hair was fashioned in a slapdash bun on top of her head. She wrestled with the weight of the glass and steel door, trying to keep her black portfolio balanced on her hip. She was short, frazzled, and completely unlike his usual dates.

  “Whoops, sorry ‘bout that. This thing is heavy.” She glanced up at him, her eyes an indescribable blend of greys and blues and browns that reminded him of the rocky beaches on the bay.

  He felt like someone had tossed him into Puget Sound face-first. A man could get lost in those eyes.

  “Let me get that for you.” Her head barely reached his chest. A hint of golden skin peeked out of the tight ivory shirt she wore under her smudged overalls. One of the buckles on her chest was undone, and the faded jean strap dangled down her back as she struggled with her portfolio.

  “Thanks,” she said breathlessly, as he propped the door for her. “I’m here to submit my work.” She straightened, still bobbling the large black case of slides.

  Kane let the door close behind them as she stepped inside. “For the summer show?”

  Her eyes widened a fraction. “Yes.”

  “I’ll take them.” He held out his hand expectantly.

  A frown formed between her brows. “You? I thought…” She shook her head. “Isn’t Mr. Maverick available?”

  No way was he handing this beauty over to deal with dear ol’ Dad. Besides, this was his job now.

  “He is. And he’s right here.” Kane extended his hand again, this time in introduction. “Kane Maverick, at your service.” He gave her his best smile.

  “Kane Maverick?” She didn’t budge. Her teeth worried a full bottom lip just made for kissing. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you the home and garden guy?”

  The smile dribbled off Kane’s face. The tips of his ears were probably smoking. “I am the guy in charge of selecting pieces for the summer show.” He crossed his arms.

  “Oh.” She turned her face to the plate glass windows as if considering her chances. A smudge of something, charcoal perhaps, marred the top of her cheek, and a parade of light freckles danced across the bridge of her nose.

  Even without a speck of make-up, she was easily the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. “I’d be happy to consider what you have to offer, Miss...?”

  “Thomas.” The curve of her breasts behind the bib of her crooked overalls expanded and contracted as she inhaled sharply. She thrust her portfolio out to h
im like a peace offering. “Annabelle Thomas. I’m a sculptor.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Annabelle. Let’s take a look.” Didn’t she know The Mav never took on 3-D work? Best to let her down graciously. Kane gestured to the black leather seats near the door and unzipped the black binder.

  “Call me Anna.” She jerked on her overall strap, fingers moving briskly to fasten it. Kane forced himself to focus on her portfolio and not the places her fingers were skimming. Probably pointless, but he’d do his due diligence. As he cracked open the black case to the first set of images, his mouth dropped open.

  Kane shook himself and shut his jaw with a snap.

  She was a master sculptor. Images of human and animal forms rendered out of metal and glass practically leapt off the page. A boy reposed under what might have been a haystack crafted from bronze and copper wires. A goose in a bonnet, complete with twisting neck, beak open in mid-hiss. A crowned frog resting on a lily pad with rusted cattails.

  “What do you think?” She fidgeted on the edge of the seat next to him.

  “Very poetic. A strong blend of the old and the new.” He flipped the next page. Oh, she was good. Very good. Her sculptures were more than just metal, he realized. She’d transformed old, rusted junk into nursery rhyme characters.

  “Nice work. I like it.” Like was an understatement. It was like nothing he’d ever seen.

  “Nice?” She repeated the word like it was an insult. “You like it?”

  She’d left some edges dulled, while others were polished, depending on the needs of the piece. Bits of rust or faded paint caught the light. Kane sat up straighter and peered at the portfolio page.

  Suddenly, he realized what drew him to her work—more than just her inspired execution of animals and portraits in three-dimensional form. It was the medium she used, a siren song of steel that tugged at his very soul.

  “Are those—” Couldn’t be. Kane blinked. Fenders, screws, even cigarette lighters. All transformed into amazingly lifelike sculptures. “Car parts?”

  “Vintage. Salvaged.” She nodded briskly. “My dad owns…er, owned a garage.”

  Genius. Geen-yus. She’d taken apart classic cars to create a fairy tale. Wow. He hadn’t vetted the other applicants yet, but he couldn’t imagine being more impressed than he was right now.

  Kane clamped the portfolio shut with a snap, tucking it under his arm. “Interesting.”

  He didn’t dare let her know how excited he was, not without knowing whether he could actually offer her a place in the show. His dad would be a tougher sell.

  “Just interesting?” She crossed her arms, emphasizing that luscious curve of creamy skin peeping at her neckline. “That’s your professional opinion?” Her tone indicated exactly what she thought of his estimation.

  “There are hundreds of artists from all over the Northwest region vying for a spot.” What a piece of work she was. All fire and flux. He wouldn’t mind seeing her in all kinds of action. “I’m sure you understand.”

  Her front teeth worried that bottom lip again. “I suppose.”

  His hefted the portfolio. “Is this is your entire body of work? Or you have other pieces?”

  “There’s another in my…ah…studio.” Her cheeks flushed prettily, staining her skin the color of rose petals. “It’s nearly complete.”

  “You nearby or are you from out of town?” What were the odds that a dream like Anna Thomas was in his neck of the woods?

  “Just a few blocks away, actually.”

  “Perfect. I’d like to drop by.” Boy, would he.

  “Is that necessary?” Her pert chin jutted forward. “I promise, these are my originals.”

  “Necessary? Oh, yes. Very.” This tiny dynamo of a woman was no mere sculptor. She was visionary. Unique. Both she and her work were…in a word…incredible. “We like to know as much as possible about individual artistic processes before offering representation. Helps the marketing team decide who to promote and how.”

  “If you say so.” She bit her bottom lip.

  “Are all your pieces this big?” Kane flipped to the back of the slides.

  She nodded again. “Life-sized or larger.”

  He swallowed a knot of disappointment. There was no way in hell his father would approve. Carson had always been against the idea of three-dimensional pieces, because they took up valuable square footage and were harder to sell. The space required for sculptures of this size would be challenging enough. Pieces like this required separation for viewers to truly appreciate the scope of her work.

  “Why don’t you give me the address of your studio?” He nodded to Marta who hovered behind the counter.

  “If I have to.” She seemed wary.

  “You do.” He tossed her a reassuring smile. “It’s part of the application. You can fill it out here.”

  She obviously hadn’t applied to many of the upscale galleries or she’d know this was part of the process. Kane liked that, liked the idea that she might be exclusively represented at his family’s gallery.

  Her shoulders slumped a little. “Sure, okay.” She dug a pencil out from behind her ear and scribbled a name and address on the clipboard as well as other pertinent questions with regards to her art career. He waited patiently until she was through.

  He glanced over her sketchy handwriting, flipping between forms.

  “Thomas’ Salvage?” Kane was pretty sure he’d been by there, once, looking for something to craft a custom outdoor patio table for a guy who liked cars. He made a mental note of the street address and tucked the info away for later. “Your studio is a junkyard?”

  “Of sorts.” That pert chin rose a notch. “My family owns a pull-and-pay salvage lot. It’s convenient for my work. There’s plenty of space and the right equipment and materials and...” Her mouth snapped shut as if she could chomp her words.

  “Sounds perfect.” He handed her application and portfolio to Marta and placed his hand on the small of Annabelle’s back to escort her out. “And it’s not too far from here. I’ll drop in sometime, okay?”

  “Fine.” She rubbed the back of her hand across her face, smearing the charcoal smudge into her freckled cheeks. Her boots clomped on the concrete as she exited.

  He followed her, not quite sure why. Was it the freckles and overalls? A far cry from the stiletto and stripper crowd he and his friends had been hanging with lately. Yet he couldn’t wait to see her again, some place away from the dark gallery interior.

  “Are you planning to walk me all the way to the bus stop?” she asked. Her eyes caught the early-afternoon light and threw sparks at him.

  He’d been trailing after her like a love-sick puppy.

  “Uh, no. Just getting something out of my car.” Kane ran his hand through his hair. He’d have to go back for the portfolio and application files for the show, dang it.

  She smiled but didn’t respond.

  “This is me.” He stopped at the side of his father’s Ferrari. “Later, Anna. I hope to s—”

  “Jeez, is that a 1968 Dino?” she exclaimed.

  “Sixty-nine.” Wow. His brows shot up in his forehead. “You know classic cars?”

  “Of course, of course,” she muttered, more to herself than to him, obviously enraptured. She bent lower, scarcely daring to breathe on the pristine original paint as she peeked inside the windows. “Nero leather seats,” she swooned.

  “Yeah. Only one of—”

  “Eight made in the whole world.” She straightened and her eyes dared him to refute. “I know.”

  A thousand words formed in his brain but didn’t get past his lips. “You’re… unusual, Annabelle. As is your work.” A frown began to pucker between her brows.

  “Let’s hope my work is unusual enough to get a spot in your summer show, Mr. Maverick.” She left with a half-wave, smelling faintly of motor oil and steel. Kane wet his lips, tasting the sizzle of fireworks on his tongue.

  What. A. Woman.

  His chest felt stuck in a vice grip. Kane
watched her clomp down the street to the bus stop and disappeared around the corner. She’d drawn him out of the gallery without thinking, like the Pied Piper. He turned back into The Mav to grab his things. Marta gave him a knowing smile as he left for the second time, with the unusual artist still electrifying his thoughts.

  Annabelle Thomas.

  Half of him was dying to see her handling a blow torch and a welding stick. The other half of him wanted to strip her out of those clunky boots and overalls and discover what was hiding underneath.

  He was still mulling over possibilities as he keyed the engine of the Dino and pulled away from the curb. What could he say to convince his father and the panel that The Mav could handle one or two of her free-standing sculptures? He could probably squeeze in at least one large and one of the smaller pieces and still have plenty of space for foot traffic.

  He already knew in his heart that her work could be the star of the show. The star of any show in this part of the country. It would draw appreciation from all social circles. The trendy, recycle-hungry hipsters. The older generations who appreciated fine automobiles. Even parents with young children, who’d be drawn to the light-hearted and oh-so-lifelike depictions of their favorite characters.

  She was brilliant…and he’d be a mastermind if he could bring her work into the summer show. How cool would that be? He was still imagining it when a white Buick in the oncoming traffic started wandering closer to the center line.

  “What the…hey!” Kane hollered. He pumped the clutch and downshifted, but the Buick kept right on coming.

  The blare of a horn and flash of reflected light struck him a second before he heard the scrape of metal on metal. Kane jerked the wheel to the right, as the battered white Buick swiped the front quarter panel of his father’s Ferrari.

  His heart smashed into his ribs and he over-corrected, swerving onto the shoulder of the street, narrowly missing the curb as he rolled to a stop. The Buick, built like a tank, just kept going. The driver sped up and zoomed around the corner before his heart stopped pounding. Before he could get a license tag. Before the adrenaline rush faded, and he could feel his hands and feet again.