by Staci Hart
What she needed was confidence, if not in herself, then in her abilities. Take Bianca, for instance. When she’d walked into my office for her interview two years ago, I’d known she would get the job done. She was an alpha, a shark, determined and driven. The intern, in her ill-fitting jeans and baggy sweater, didn’t look like she could decide whether she wanted egg salad or chicken for lunch, never mind standing up to the board of directors to pitch an exhibition.
I set the papers on my desk and took my seat, opening up my laptop. The exhibition was just a few months away, and all the pieces were collecting, connecting, clicking together as they always did. There was still so much to do—publications to write for key pieces, the catalog for the exhibition to complete, fundraisers to plan. Shipments to schedule, meetings to attend, panels to sit on, press releases to submit.
And I was in my element.
This exhibition had been a dream of mine since college, one marked as too ambitious. Impossible. No one secured so many well-known pieces for the same exhibit—Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, Da Vinci’s Last Supper and Vitruvian Man, Raphael’s Madonna in the Meadow. No one could get Michelangelo’s David.
Nothing motivated me more than being told no.
The acquisition list was impressive, and more importantly, I’d checked the box on every single piece I wanted. Except for one.
David.
It was the centerpiece for the exhibition, titled Firenze: The Heart of the Renaissance. My passion had been born of my own education at Harvard and the year I’d spent studying in Florence. Obtaining David was crucial, a keystone. A dream. And I had chased down every dream I’d ever had with the determination of a man possessed.
The hang-up in securing David wasn’t as complex as one might think—it was the fairly simple matter of being stonewalled by the director. Not only had I been barred from firming up a meeting, given his busy schedule, but my messages had been either ignored or answered weeks or months later with nothing but deflection. And getting the statue wasn’t unheard of—David occasionally toured. In fact, in my father’s days as curator of this very department, he’d brought the behemoth statue to The Met.
I was honest enough to own the truth: topping his exhibition was the sharpest spur in my side.
Bianca walked into my office, her lips flat and eyes narrowed. She didn’t bother closing my door before launching into her grievances.
“Seriously, Court, we have too much to do right now for this level of babysitting.”
“Exactly—we have too much to do. We can use the extra set of hands, and you’re the best assistant in this department. I have enough respect for the professors at NYU who recommended her to fulfill our end of the bargain. She needs to learn. Even if that lesson is that she’s not cut out for the job.”
That earned a small smirk.
“You need help, Bianca. I’m still waiting for you to submit the rest of your research for the exhibition catalog. She can help with that.”
Her smile faded. “I don’t have time to rework whatever she can’t handle.”
I leveled my gaze. “She didn’t get this far by slacking on research. It’s the most menial task you can give her, and it’ll free you up to oversee the fundraiser dinner.”
“It’s just—”
I stood, palms on my desk, fixing her with a look. “Have I made myself clear?”
Her mouth, which still seemed to hold whatever she’d been about to say, closed, and those words were swallowed. Her lips set. “Perfectly.” She drew a slow, controlled breath and let it out, relaxing her face on the exhale. “It’s just that I don’t like to be slowed down or yoked to someone who can’t pull their weight.”
“Maybe she’ll prove us wrong.”
A small, dry laugh escaped her.
I smiled in echo. “Send her to the stacks out of the way, and please, try to be nice.”
“No promises.”
I took my seat as she moved toward my desk, not missing the widening swing of her hips or the charge in the room as her smile softened. She sat on the edge of my desk, her slender waist twisting and long fingers braced on the surface as she met my eyes. Her pose reminded me of a pinup girl, artful and purposeful, its design intended to suggest, to imply, to invite.
“Want to have lunch?” she asked innocently enough.
“You should befriend your intern,” I answered, not at all interested in what was really on offer.
“We’re never going to be friends, and you know it. Come on,” she said. “We can go over the shipment schedule and work on our itinerary for Florence.” The undercurrent of the city’s name held the insinuation that we’d be there for anything but convincing Bartolino to give me the goddamn statue.
“I have plans.” Plans being to spend the afternoon working on my publication on Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. Alone.
A flash of disappointment crossed her brow. “You’re determined to torture me with the intern, aren’t you?”
“Maybe a little.”
“I could eat lunch alone and have better conversation. I’m not even sure if she can compose sentences longer than six words, never mind discuss anything worthwhile.”
“Guess you’re going to have to get creative.” I turned to my computer, opening my research and effectively dismissing her.
She sighed, slipping off my desk and leaving without trying to garner any more of my attention.
It wasn’t that Bianca wasn’t attractive—she was, as well as intelligent and driven. But she was also transparent, her intentions crystal clear from the moment I’d first seen her. Which was exactly why she was safe. I knew where she stood and what she wanted; I was an acquisition to her, not a man, not a person. I was a Lyons, heir to a fortune generations old. I was the curator of a prestigious department of an esteemed establishment, one that had become my legacy and had been my father’s before me.
But Bianca judged things just as my father did—solely based on what she could see. If you held us up to each other, we made sense, looked right, had the same interests and goals. On paper, we fit.
But if I’d learned one lesson in life, it was that everything came with a price, and Bianca’s was broadcast at a frequency impossible to miss. And regardless of what she might try, I wasn’t interested and never would be.
Because I never made the same mistake twice.
2
Probably, Sorta, Maybe
Rin
The sun had almost set by the time I dragged myself up the front steps of our brownstone, the day stretched out behind me as long as my shadow.
Bianca had flitted in and out of the office all day, stopping only to occasionally glare at me, and I’d made it a point to keep my eyes trained on the books about Masaccio split open on my desk. The task hadn’t been difficult; he was one of my favorite painters. I’d found myself lost in his works, in the depths of his landscapes, in the brilliance of his lighting technique and luminescence of the gold leaf, enthralled by his talent. Even though he’d given baby Jesus abs in Sant’Anna Metterza.
Otherwise, Bianca had largely ignored me. And, mercifully, I hadn’t seen Dr. Lyons again.
The blaze in his eyes, in his words, had haunted me long after he walked out of the room. What little trust I’d had in my abilities were singed to ash by his scathing, vocal lack of faith in me. He was so sure of himself that even I believed he was right. That I was out of my league. That I was an imposter.
Are you sure you’re up to the task?
I could still hear his voice, the rumbling timbre smooth and silky and dangerous as a jungle cat. I’d answered yes, and as scared as I’d been, I’d meant it. I just needed to prove it.
I sighed as I slipped my key in the door and unlocked it to the sounds of Beyoncé and a smell that could only mean one thing: taco night.
I followed my nose into the kitchen, dumping my bag next to the kitchen island, my eyes locked on the gargantuan bowl of guacamole in front of Amelia, who smiled when she saw me.
The
music was too loud to talk. Val was giving a full performance in front of the stove, wooden spoon in her hand as she sang along with “Run the World (Girls),” stomping around the kitchen, her curly, dark hair flying as she nailed every word, every line. Her hips were magic, the curve wide and sensual, and every time the beat picked up, she would pop her booty with force that defied gravity. And she was so enthusiastic and joyful, even Katherine—who rarely showed joy for anything beyond assigning late fees at the New York Public Library—wiggled her shoulders in her seat next to Amelia at the bar.
Just like that, my shitty day was momentarily forgotten. When the last chorus played, Val propped her hands on her knees and twerked like she was in a music video to a chorus of cheering. She bowed when it was over, smile on her face and chest heaving, before turning down the music and stepping to the frying pan sizzling with ground beef.
“You’re home!” Amelia said with a smile, leaning into me for a side hug, pressing her tiny body into my much larger one. “How was your day?”
I sighed through my nose, reaching for a chip. “Terrible.” I scooped out a teetering heap of guacamole and shoved it in my mouth.
Her angelic face fell. “Oh no.”
“What happened?” Katherine asked.
“Well,” I started once I swallowed, picking up another chip so I wouldn’t have to look at anyone, “I’m pretty sure my bosses hate me and that I’ve chosen the wrong career path. Yay for student loans.”
Katherine’s face darkened, her eyes glinting. “That can’t be true. You’re impossible to hate.”
A small laugh puffed out of me, and I chased a chunk of tomato around the guacamole bowl with my chip. “Not true. I was in the way all day, which really takes talent when you’re confined to a desk. You should have seen Bianca’s face when she saw me. Like I was just an alpaca in a tuxedo, standing in front of a curator at The Met, asking her to love me.”
Val laughed. “Well, you do have that long, graceful neck. Like Audrey Hepburn.”
“I don’t think anyone would consider anything about alpacas graceful.” I popped the chip into my mouth.
“Why do you think she hates you?” Amelia asked, her big blue eyes soft and wide and sad.
“Besides the fact that she didn’t smile, never addressed me directly, and scowled at me at every opportunity?” Her pale cheeks flushed, and I sighed. Again. “I guess I’m not sure what I expected. For it to be like college. A place where intellect is shared. An institution of learning and education, which I suppose it is for the patrons, just not for me. It’s not what I thought it would be, that’s all, and I’ve got to adjust my expectations. And maybe dress up a little.”
One of Katherine’s brows rose. “I didn’t realize you had anything to dress up in.”
“I don’t. That’s the worst part—I have nothing to wear. Bianca was in heels and this power outfit, and I was…well, look at me.” I gestured to the length of my body, at my comfortable albeit frumpish outfit, my shoes practical and worn, my hair flat and boring and hanging a little in my face. I pushed it back, as if the motion could wipe away my insecurities. “But it was more than just the clothes. They’re both type-A go-getters. They’re the kind of people who are driven and goal-oriented.”
“You’re driven and goal-oriented about school,” Katherine offered.
“Yeah, but they’re the kind who sit in the front of the class and graduate magna cum laude—”
“You sit in the front of the class and graduated magna cum laude—” she interjected.
I gave her a look. “—And still manage to look like supermodels, have friends, and land a job straight out of school.”
She didn’t have an answer to that.
“School is black and white with boundaries and definitions and a grading system. This feels…well, it feels like there are no rules. I could do exactly what I’m supposed to and still fail. I don’t know if I’ll ever impress them. They’ll just keep looking down at me and shaking their heads with that awful look on their faces.”
“Disdain?” Val asked.
“Worse. Disappointment.”
“No one’s looking down at you,” Amelia joked.
“The curator was. The man is a giant. A gorgeous, horrible giant in a suit and a scowl.” I thought about grabbing another chip, but my mouth had gone dry. “He was…terrifying.”
Amelia’s eyes widened, and Val made a surprised face, one hand on her hip, the other absently stirring the meat. “Does he have tentacle hands?” she teased. “Or maybe fangs? Ooh, is he a shape-shifter? Do you think he imprinted on you?”
Katherine rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to stop reading paranormal.”
Val gasped in mock affront. “Never. Blasphemer.”
I answered, half to myself, the vision of him called fresh to my mind, “He’s so intense, he sucked all the air from the room the second he looked at me. Powerful, like in a past life he was a king or conqueror. And he was not impressed with me.” My heart sank. I was used to rejection, but not from my educators—the one place I had excelled in all ways was school. I mean, I wrote research papers for fun. I read art history books on vacation.
“He doesn’t even know you,” Katherine said indignantly. “Just go in there and do a good job and earn their respect.”
I nodded, moving for a chip after all even though the last thing I wanted to do was eat. “Yeah. Okay.”
“I mean it,” she insisted. “Rin, look at me.”
My chin lifted, my gaze meeting hers.
“You are brilliant, devoted, and passionate—not only about art, but about your career and education. Just do your best. Because your hard work will shine through regardless of what they think of you.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Because it is. It’s that simple. You’re there for a few months to fulfill a requirement for your doctorate, and you’ve gained access to one of the best libraries and archives in the world to help you with your dissertation. Plus, the experience will look fantastic on your résumé. It’s all going to work out. You just have to believe in yourself.”
Val pointed her wooden spoon at me. “You should wear your lipstick.”
Amelia oohed. “Good idea.”
My cheeks flamed at the mention of the scandalous tube of lipstick I’d been carrying around in my backpack for weeks, ever since we all walked out of that godforsaken makeup store with tiny black-and-white-striped bags that cost far too much to fill.
“We did make a pact,” Val added.
One of my brows rose. “Why, have you worn yours?”
She made a face and went back to the taco meat. “That’s not the point.”
“And why not? I wasn’t the only one who got a makeover that day.”
Amelia sighed. “I get it. That lipstick is scary.”
“Not as scary as the eyeliner,” Katherine added.
“Listen,” Val started, “if you want to blame someone, blame our waitress at The Tippler. Every week, we go there for happy hour, and every week, she tells us that lipstick could change our lives. We just have to be brave enough to wear it. Rin, you’ve had that little tube of Boss Bitch in your bag for weeks.”
“Since you dragged us to Sephora,” Katherine added, not without a little accusation directed at Val, who studiously ignored her.
“So don’t tell me you don’t secretly want to wear it.”
“I can’t wear it, Val. It makes my lips stand out too much, makes me stand out too much. People stare enough without me calling any extra attention to myself.”
“I don’t feel like people look at you that much,” Amelia said.
“Oh, but they do. I can almost hear their thoughts, and they go in this order: Whoa, she’s tall. Weird, she’s Asian. How did that happen?”
Val sighed. “I get that. I feel like people look at me and think, Damn, her ass is wide.”
Amelia shook her head. “They look at me and think, How could one person be so colorless? And then they talk to me and
I literally can’t eek out a single word. Then, they think, Okay, she’s actually a ghost.”
Katherine shrugged. “I’m pretty sure most people are afraid of me. It doesn’t bother me. In fact, it’s easier than when they try to talk to me.” She shuddered.
“That’s true—they are afraid of you,” Val said on a laugh. “But that’s just because they don’t know you’re a big old softy.”
“Only for you.”
“So,” Val turned her attention back on me, “he’s scary, but maybe that’s just his face or something.”
“His face is the least of my problems, which…” I paused. “Actually, I think that’s my number one problem. Maybe if he were old or balding, his disapproval would be easier to endure. But the fact that he looks like he does makes it a million times harder. It’s like having a Greek god send you to Hades for sacrificing the wrong kind of goat. I’m doomed. I’ll probably fail miserably for the first time in my life.” The thought sent my heart hurtling into my stomach.
“Also impossible,” Katherine said matter-of-factly. “You won’t let yourself fail. It’s not in your genetic makeup.”
I shook my head. “I love the history of art, and I love learning about it. I love being connected to people over the span of hundreds of years through a single painting or statue or sketch. But is that enough?”
Katherine’s eyes were bright with her hope and faith. “I absolutely believe it is. The alternative is to give up. Do you think you could really quit, Rin?”
I tried to imagine myself resigning from this internship I’d worked so hard to get, thought about the professors who had put their hands on their hearts and said they believed in me. “No. I can’t quit.”