Why am I like this? I don’t even know this young woman, and I’ve already got a running list of experiences I want to have with her, and not all of them center around what I’d like to do with her in my bed. I need to get my head straight.
“Your father is a good man. I don’t know what I’d do without him,” I tell her. That should do it. Bring her dad into it.
She smiles, but it seems a little strained. “He’ll be happy to hear that. I know he likes working for you. He wouldn’t have even suggested me interning for you if he didn’t.”
“Protective dad, huh?” I ask, and she nods with a smile.
“Sometimes,” she says, and there’s that strained smile again. I wonder if she and Bruce get along as well as he’d led me to believe.
“Can you tell me a bit about your educational background and fields of interest?” I ask, glancing over the resume and transcripts she’s provided, and which I had waiting on my desk for this meeting with her.
She launches into a rundown of her focused areas of study, which, I'm happy to find, match up with some of my own interests. She’s gotten exemplary grades, and she’s already spent some time volunteering in art museums here in NYC, which speaks to her drive and passion for this kind of work.
After she finishes, I nod. “This volunteer work at the Met… was that part of a school assignment?”
She shakes her head. “No. I started volunteering there my junior year of high school. At first, I worked in the museum gift shop and the coat check, but over time, they started trusting me to be a gallery docent, which was a lot of fun.”
“So, this was something you did on your own?” I affirm.
“Yes. All of my friends wondered why in the world I would choose to spend my weekends and school vacations in an art museum,” she says with a laugh, and I like her a little more.
“Well, I don’t see anything weird about that.”.
“Let me guess. You did the same thing,” she says.
“Obviously. They didn’t know what they were missing. Nothing quite like answering the same question about your least favorite piece of art in the gallery for the forty-third time in a day.”
She laughs, then, a real laugh, and I was right—it’s perfect. Loud, clear, and she has a dimple on one cheek when she smiles wide.
I glance down at her paperwork again. I need to get myself together here. This woman is distracting as hell, and I don’t have time to be distracted. Or the desire to be distracted, for that matter. I’d told myself after Danneel died that there would never be another woman who turned me on even half as much as she had. But now… now my carnal instincts are betraying me.
If I didn’t have such a nice view of Poppy’s legs, avoiding distraction might be easier. Her legs are crossed, and the skirt she’s wearing has ridden up her thighs, just a little. So what was a fairly proper, just above knee-length, skirt when she was standing, now gives me a nice view of a smooth, lush expanse of thigh, which only makes me think more about what’s between those thighs.
I take a deep breath, and we spend more time going over her coursework, and she asks a few questions about the gallery.
“Did you always know you wanted your own gallery, or did you want to go into preservation or curation?” she asks.
No one ever asks questions like that. My admiration for Poppy rises a little more every time she speaks, and her personality paired with her beauty is a lethal combination.
“I always knew I wanted a gallery. There’s a certain satisfaction in curating as well, and I did some of that early in my career, but owning a place like this, being able to offer a personal touch to both the artist and my clients… that’s a thrill. And you can’t get more intimate, in terms of art curation, than providing a space like this and getting to experience the art up close, getting to know the artists and help bring their visions to life.”
Why the hell am I talking so much? This is her interview, not mine.
She nods. “That’s kind of what I was thinking, too.”
“So, you want your own gallery someday?”
She shrugs. “Right now, I think I’d be very happy as a curator. But who knows? Maybe that will change eventually.”
I nod. It’s a reminder of how young she is, despite her confidence and feistiness. I had no idea what the hell I wanted at twenty.
I glance up at her, and she’s looking at me, her dark eyes seeming to see far too much.
For a spell, I wonder how much she knows about my history. If she’s as intelligent as she seems, then surely she would’ve done some research on her new boss? But how far back, and deep, would her curiosity have taken her?
I’m inclined to think that if she knew about Danneel or Micah, I would’ve seen pity in her eyes. So, it’s best that she doesn’t know anything beyond what she needs to. I don’t want anyone’s pity. I swam myself back up into life after my wife’s death, and I don’t plan on loving a woman again. Besides, Poppy’s only here for two months. What am I even having such thoughts? She’s just an intern, and I’m just her boss.
Remember that, Stone. Keep it professional, and you won’t have any problems.
Chapter Four
Poppy
I know three things now.
Number one: I am going to love it here. Nathaniel seems like he’s actually prepared to teach me more about art curation and gallery management than I’d hoped. He doesn’t expect me just to be a gopher, and I’m so grateful for that.
Number two: he’s going to be a demanding boss. I can tell from hearing him talk that he expects a lot from his staff, and he seems like a bit of a perfectionist. I’m not worried about this too much. It’ll keep me at the top of my game. But since my goal is to impress him so much that he writes a letter of recommendation when the time comes for me to get a job, I’ll need to keep this in mind.
And number three: I have never wanted to ride a man so badly in my entire life. Just sitting here talking to him is like some kind of magical aphrodisiac, like getting shot with Cupid’s arrow, and like a touch of insanity all rolled into one. His voice has continued to be deep, rich, and smooth, but when he’s talking about something he’s really interested in, like the Dutch masters, which seems to be his own little private area of interest, his voice takes on this energy that’s practically contagious.
He looks at me with those hazel eyes of his, and it feels like he can see straight through me. I know I’m staring at him, but I can’t seem to stop. His eyes go from almost green to almost gold with his moods and as the light in the room changes. Someone should paint him, catching the different moods of his eyes. They should probably sculpt him, too, because the more I look at him, the surer I am that that would be an absolutely stunning work of art.
I need to stop these wild thoughts.
This man is at least fifteen years older than me. He’s rich as sin. He’s my dad's boss, for crying out loud, and for the next two months, he’s my boss, too. My future depends, at least a little bit, on earning his respect.
I glance at his hands, which are currently shuffling through my paperwork. No wedding ring. Good.
Oh, my God. Enough, Poppy!
I can’t get all lust stupid over this man. I can’t be distracted. Even if he weren’t my dad’s boss, which would add another level of weirdness to anything happening between us, I need Nathaniel Stone to respect me enough, to trust me enough, to let me learn as much about his business as possible. He won’t respect or trust me if it’s clear that I want to jump him. I’m not here to open my legs, even though I know a few women who made that particular method work to their advantage. I’m still a virgin too for goodness’ sake. I’m here to learn from him and hopefully earn his professional respect. I can’t mess this up.
I take a breath and answer a couple more questions. I’m just grateful at this point that he’s hit the refresh button on today. Not exactly a great first impression; telling him off and telling him he’s rude. Even if he did deserve it.
“All right. I think
we’re good here,” he says, standing, and it’s clear that I’m being dismissed. “I’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning, then.”
I stand as well and reach out to shake his hand. “Yes. I’m looking forward to it. Thank you so much for this opportunity.” There. That sounded almost professional.
He nods and releases my hand, and I pick up my bag and turn to leave.
“Oh, and, Poppy…” he says. I like the way he says my name. A lot.
Damn it, there you go again.
I turn back to him. “Yes?” The large office feels somehow smaller now that he’s standing in it, and I force my eyes to stay on his face. That perfect, chiseled face that could rival even the most vivid description of Dorian Gray.
“If you wear anything shorter than that skirt during your time with me, we are going to have one hell of a problem.”
My jaw drops. What does that mean? I recover as quickly as I can and manage a weak, “Okay,” before hurrying out of the office. I can’t even begin to figure out what he meant by that, and he had this unreadable look on his face…
Was I being chastised for my clothing? I glance down at myself as I walk down the stairs. No. This suit skirt is totally work appropriate.
Maybe he’s a prude? I think as I nod to the other guy who had been in the gallery. Now that I’m really looking at him, I recognize his face. He’s been here in the past when I’ve visited. I guess he’s Roberto, Nathaniel’s curator.
As I step outside into the cool autumn air, my mind still races with that damn comment. Nah. He didn’t seem like a prude, either.
It could be the other end of the spectrum. Maybe he was being sleazy.
I walk toward the nearest subway station, mulling that over, and immediately discard it. He’s egotistical and arrogant, for sure, but I didn’t get the sleazy vibe from him. I know what that feels like, and this wasn’t that.
Another thought hits me, and it has me grinning. Maybe tall, dark, and grumpy was indicating that he finds my legs distracting. Maybe seeing my legs every day at work would leave him almost as hot and bothered as I was, just from being around him.
I laugh to myself. I like that idea. And either way, every business suit I own has the same length skirt, so he’ll just have to get over it.
The idea of him lusting over me, even a little bit, increases my good mood even more. I know that, once that original awkwardness had passed, I did a good job in my initial meeting with him. I know that he was impressed by the fact that I’d volunteered for so long, and he actually seemed interested in what I’d said when I was talking about some of the projects I’d undertaken. Smart, cultured, and sexy as hell? Sign me up.
Boss. He is my boss. And my dad’s boss. I grimace at that. Working with my dad is going to be… a little weird. We’re not exactly close, and I know him helping me get this internship is at least partially out of guilt. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been daddy’s little girl and this will be the most time I’ve spent with him in years. It’s not that Dad’s a bad person—and a part of me will always love him regardless—it’s just… thinking about that situation has me reflecting a bit more on my own reactions and behavior, and how easy it is for powerful men to take advantage of women who work for them…
I should know better right now. I shouldn’t be contemplating any sexual thoughts of my boss because, despite my dad’s history, my mom raised me to respect myself, and others.
So, I won’t think about any of it anymore—especially not what it would be like to ride Nathaniel, grinding into him, cowgirl-style.
Because he’s my boss.
I need to keep reminding myself of that, especially if he’s going to keep making comments like that. For all I know, he either flirts with every woman he comes across, or he really did just disapprove of my skirt length. He never has to know that I’m already picturing him naked and that it’s entirely possible that he’ll be starring in my sexual fantasies for the next few weeks, at least. No one has to ever know about that but me.
Oh, shoot. Listen to yourself, Poppy. You can’t even banish him from your mind for one second.
It’s a hopeless cause, yet it’s one I apparently don’t seem to mind. I guess I’ll just have to grin and bear the hot, handsome bossman.
Chapter Five
Poppy
My first week at Stone Gallery passes in a blur. True to Nathaniel’s word, he’s had me doing more than a little administrative work. I’ve answered phones, responded to customer emails, dealt with shipments and mail, and gone on lunch and coffee runs for Nathaniel and Roberto.
I almost feel like I’m being tested, like Nathaniel’s waiting to see if I’ll start complaining or whining that this kind of stuff is beneath someone with my education and experience. But I know better, and I can see, by watching him, that he doesn’t consider any task at the gallery beneath his pay grade, either. I’ve watched him help the maintenance guys move a heavy display case, answer the phones on several occasions, and when a pigeon flew in the back door on my second day, Nathaniel ran around with the rest of us, trying to shoo it back out before it crapped on someone’s priceless creation.
One thing I’ve learned—aside from the fact that he’s gorgeous and absolutely knows his business—is that he has a dry sense of humor. That’s like my own personal version of Kryptonite. Added to the rest of the package, it’s like some kind of cruel joke that one man ticks every single one of my “oh my God, I want him” checkboxes, and he’s my boss.
The universe has a messed up sense of humor.
I’m at the reception desk, typing up an invoice for a client who purchased two pieces from the gallery, when Nathaniel walks around the desk and stands behind me. I hear him shuffling through some paperwork on the credenza.
“Are you looking for something?”
“There was a printer’s proof of the catalog for the upcoming exhibit that came in yesterday.”
“I put it on your desk, along with the rest of the items that needed your attention from that giant, towering stack of mess. The catalog is on top.”
He gives a little chuff of a laugh. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“There were invoices and letters from two months back,” I tell him, glancing back to see him inspecting the newly-organized credenza. “I purged anything that looked like junk mail, but if I wasn’t sure, I put it on your stack.”
“Our receptionist has been out for nine weeks now,” he tells me.
“Yeah, I figured.”
He gives another small laugh. “This looks a lot better.”
“The drawers were all holding a jumble of garbage. I did not expect to find junk drawers in an upscale gallery.”
He grins, and my stomach does this stupid little flip. I try to ignore it. “So, I threw away some of the stuff,” I continue, “but I consolidated the rest of the little bits and pieces and other stuff into the drawer on the left. The other two drawers are kind of inboxes for you and Roberto so that everything doesn’t end up in a big pile again, and so you don’t have to sort through a bunch of stuff to find something.”
He opens the drawers and starts looking through them. “Are you always this organized?”
“Always.”
He gives me another small smile and nods. “I appreciate this. I spend too much time looking for things, and I hate clutter, but there just aren’t enough hours in the day. Jeannette is a lot better than Roberto and me at keeping up with it. I didn’t fully realize how much we depended on her until she started her maternity leave.”
“Sounds like she deserves a raise when she gets back,” I tease, and he laughs.
“She probably does,” he admits. “Want to come with me and grab a bite? Roberto can hold down the fort for an hour or so. And I feel like saying thank you for getting this place in order.”
“That’s not necessary,” I tell him, and he waves it off.
“Nonetheless. Shall we? I was thinking of that little French bistro at the end of the block, but if you’d prefer somet
hing else, we can do that, too.”
I nod, ignoring the fluttery feeling in my stomach. It would be so easy to start to think of this as a date—a date with the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen—and that would be a really dumb idea.
“I’ll grab my bag, and we can go,” I tell him, and he nods and goes back to looking through the newly-established junk drawer.
I make my way to the small storage room at the back of the gallery and grab my bag, then quickly touch up my lipstick and make sure my hair isn’t sticking up at any weird angles. If I can stop being all “teenage girly” around him, this would be a good chance to convince him to let me do more actual curator-related work. I’d love to shadow either him or Roberto while they work— to get a real feel for how they spend their days—but I don’t want to be annoying. I thought to bring it up with Roberto, but Nathaniel is the one who’s the boss, so I really should ask him instead.
Not a date. Lunch meeting with my boss, who I need a recommendation from once this is all over. Keep your head in the game, I tell myself as I take one more look at my reflection in the small mirror near where we store our coats and other personal items. I give myself a firm nod, then turn and walk toward the front of the gallery. Nathaniel is waiting there, and he gives me a small smile as I approach.
“We’ll be back soon, Roberto. Do you want anything?” Nathaniel asks.
“Nah, I’m good. Have a good lunch,” Roberto says without looking up from whatever it is he’s working on. Nathaniel opens the door and steps aside, waving me forward.
And he’s a gentleman. Of course he is, I think.
We walk side by side down the street, with traffic roaring past us and other pedestrians walking by. We’re not in a hurry, and I’m glad. I steal a glance over at Nathaniel. He’s donned a pair of dark sunglasses, and while I kind of miss being able to see his eyes, I have to admit that he’s one of those men who just seem to look good in everything. I can smell his cologne, and it’s a scent that already seems to have permeated into my soul.
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