Killer Beach Reads

by Gemma Halliday Publishing

  Nicki's stomach fluttered with something that felt like it should be fear. But she couldn't muster the right emotions. She couldn't settle on any one emotion at all—it was as if she was feeling them all at once. She licked her lips and then sucked them in against her teeth, a nervous habit, waiting for him to explain.

  Sure enough, he poured forth a rush of words. "I'm a writer for The New York Post," he said. "I'm spending a week driving for Uber for an article I'm working on about the way the service is growing and why, and how. Basically, I'm doing this for research."

  Nicki felt the knot in her stomach loosen. But still, he hadn't explained why he wanted to drive her. "But…why wait for me?" she asked, holding her breath without realizing it as she waited for his answer.

  "I don't know," Huck said, and then he laughed. "I don't know anything about you except your name and the fact that you're from the West Coast." He paused for a few long seconds. "I guess I wanted the chance to find out…more."

  Her stomach had been fluttering with butterfly wings as he spoke, and now the butterflies had multiplied and were flying formations. And then he said, "Plus, The Playground is frigging crazy. I kind of wanted to make sure you came out of there alive." He leaned around the seat back and grinned at her, and Nicki's lips curved up in response.

  "Yeah, I'm kind of pissed at my friend for telling me to go there alone," she said, feeling anything but pissed at Briana right now. She'd wanted adventure, and she'd gotten it. Was still smack in the middle of it. She chewed on her lip again, not sure what to say next.

  "So…do you want to go somewhere…with me?" Huck said. This time she got a full view of the dimple. He had one in his left cheek, too.

  Nicki felt another thrill shoot through her body that this cutie pie reporter was asking her out. That he'd sat and waited for the chance for almost an hour. She glanced down at her phone screen and pressed the Home button to light it up. It was already past 11:30, and her stomach sank. How had the night gone by so fast?

  "Yes, I do," she said, and his smile widened. "But…"

  Huck's mouth turned back down at the corners. "But. You have a boyfriend," he said. "No worries. I figured as much." He paused for a split second. "Where should I take you?"

  "Now, hold on," Nicki said. "For a reporter, you sure jump to conclusions. Shouldn't you get the facts first?" She cocked her head to one side, shooting him a flirtatious smile and stalling for time. Her head was circling around her options. She desperately wanted to spend time with this man outside of his car, but if she went to another bar at this hour, she'd regret it in the morning. The whole point of this trip was to wow her boss, and she'd hardly do that with bags under her eyes and a hangover. But she was here for such a short time…

  "Well, tell me the facts then," Huck said in a low voice, leaning slightly further toward her, his chin tucked over the back of the seat. She could actually smell a whiff of an Altoid or something on his breath. It was minty-fresh.

  "I have a morning meeting," she said. "In Chelsea, which is where I'm staying. But I am here another night. Any chance you can take a rain check for tomorrow?" Her eyes met his hopefully.

  He paused for a few more seconds, and her heart sank. What if tonight was her only chance to get to know this man, and she was blowing it? For some reason, the idea hit her harder than it should. It was as if this Huck—she couldn't even remember his last name—had some kind of magnetic pull on her she'd never experienced before, not even with Kevin.

  Certainly not with Kevin.

  "I have a dinner for my parents' thirty-fifth anniversary tomorrow night," he said. "It's in Brooklyn Heights."

  So many emotions whirled at those unexpected words that Nicki felt flustered. "Oh, well, of course you can't miss that," she was saying as he interrupted her.

  "I could meet you afterwards," he said, cutting off the last part of her sentence. "It won't be too late, I think." The dimple flashed again.

  He turned back to the front of the car, put it in drive, and backed up slowly, easing his way out of the space. Just before he pulled away from the curb, he caught her eye in the rearview mirror and winked. "Now, not to sound presumptuous again, but where's your hotel?"

  * * *

  Nicki's seven o'clock wake-up call came way too early the next day, especially since her body was telling her it was four a.m. She usually didn't get up until eight thirty (Pacific time) on workdays, because the museum didn't open till ten. She wasn't a morning person, so the unconventional schedule worked for her.

  Today, though, she had to hurry. She was meeting the gallery owner at nine, and though she knew the gallery wasn't far from her hotel, she wasn't sure yet how she was getting there. She rushed into the shower and flew through shampooing and then blow-drying her hair. She put off the inevitable as she took her time applying makeup and straightening her thick, sepia-colored hair.

  Finally, she turned to her dreaded wardrobe. After getting in the night before she'd hung the skirt and blouse, but the wrinkles that had come from folding and tying the outfit into submission were so pronounced they looked ironed in. She thought wistfully of the cute-but-professional dress she'd packed to wear to her meeting today. It was black and white, with a circle skirt and simple bodice, and she'd planned to wear a sky blue cardigan over it for work that she could remove for shopping and having fun later.

  She longed for her comfortable patent leather heels, her favorite work shoes, and she eyed the boring flats she'd worn on the plane with dismay. She glanced at Sarah Jones's suitcase, but there wasn't a thing in it that would do for this morning, least of all the shoes. She hauled the hotel room's tabletop ironing board out of the closet and plugged in the iron, sighing as she steamed and pressed her clothes back into a somewhat presentable shape. As she ironed the shirt, she realized she'd spilled or dripped something on it the night before, and even after she attacked the stain with the miniature bar of hotel soap, it left a faint pinkish splotch with a grimy ring around it, right in plain view above her left breast.

  "Fabulous." She sighed. At least she could cover it up partially with her blazer…and better yet, at least she had time to go shopping before her date tonight with Huck. That thought brightened her outlook considerably, and a charge went up her spine.

  When he'd dropped her off the night before, he'd put her info in his phone, and they'd texted back and forth for nearly an hour after he got home, until her eyes closed from exhaustion. She'd woken up this morning to three texts, all left the night before.

  You there?

  Fell asleep, I guess?

  And then, Good night.

  Thinking about it, she giggled.

  He was meeting her in SoHo, at a bar he swore was much more awesome than The Playground—and much less like a red room of pain. She thought about his dark curls, his intelligent eyes, and those dimples—especially those dimples—while she finished getting ready, the whole time she stood in line at Starbucks in the lobby of her hotel, and during the entire three-and-a-half-block walk to Zane Holcomb Gallery. It was probably a good thing, because it wasn't until she'd spotted the perforated steel sign on the glass front door that Nicki found her stomach fluttering with nerves.

  This was only the biggest day of her career so far.

  She took a deep breath and then stepped inside, realizing with a start that she'd have no time to calm her nerves or even to catch her breath from the walk before her meeting started. That's because a sharp-dressed man in a navy suit—Zane Holcomb himself, she presumed—walked briskly toward her from the back corner of the open, airy, and white-walled room. He was shorter than she was, even in her flats, with black hair that was gelled into a stylish peak above his forehead. He was wearing a silvery shirt with a lavender tie, and Nicki guessed him to be about forty-five.

  "Nicole Bradley?" he asked, and she felt a flash of surprise that he, too, was using her full name. Apparently she really was destined to become a new woman on this trip. Maybe it's time I start going by Nicole? It did sound a little mo
re grown-up, though "Nicki" had never bothered her before.

  "Yes, I'm Nicole," she said, her voice cool and smooth as she reached out to shake his extended hand. "Bridget told me your gallery was impressive, but she didn't quite do it justice." The room had wide-planked, ebonized hardwood floors, high ceilings with exposed metal ductwork, and an intimate seating area filled with expensive-looking leather, glass, and chrome furniture. Nicki hardly noticed it, though, because her eyes were on the art.

  The space was set up to showcase the work of two painters, whose pieces were displayed on each of two facing walls. One, an up-and-coming artist named Liam Rhodes, worked entirely in black and white, with found objects coated alternately in white resin or black lacquer projecting from his canvases. The other, an established painter well-known in the Eastern half of the U.S., worked in bold primary colors streaked with flashes of metallic and neon. Nicki had thoroughly done her homework before the trip.

  At the center of the room was the work of a third artist, a Vermont-based sculptor named Jack Howston-Redd who worked in the ancient medium of cast bronze. His was the work Nicki had traveled more than two thousand miles to see. Pieces of various sizes and shapes were displayed on mirrored pedestals that seemed specially crafted to showcase the sculptures.

  She circled them slowly, examining each object on display with a trained, critical eye as Zane stepped back to watch, talking nonstop about whatever piece Nicki was viewing at the moment. He seemed possessive of the work, like a proud father discussing the research methods that had led to his son's Nobel Prize.

  The pieces really were spectacular. As Zane talked, Nicki found herself wishing she could travel to the hills of Vermont to watch Jack at work in his secluded studio. The techniques he used to produce each object were painstaking and handed down through eons from master to apprentice in a way that didn't happen anymore in a world of mass production.

  The piece Bridget had sent Nicki to view was an intricately carved chalice worth more than $25,000 that would be the centerpiece of a collection planned for a new American wing of the museum. The chalice wasn't on display in the gallery, and Nicki followed Zane to a back room that was even more well-appointed than the main space. There, a tall, white lacquer table held nothing but the sculpture, and she sank onto a plush leather stool while Zane continued to talk. She studied the chalice from every angle, taking detailed notes and photos with the camera she had, blessedly, packed in her carry-on bag.

  She had to stop herself from pinching her arm to be sure she wasn't dreaming. Is this really my job? She'd loved art in any form since she was "old enough to grip a crayon," as her mom always said. While she was earning her bachelor's in art history, she'd spent two summers abroad in work-study programs, first in Florence and then in Dijon, France. After moving to California for Kevin's job, she'd finished her master's at California College of the Arts and gotten her first job through an internship at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

  This week was putting her one step closer to being in Bridget's role, which was her dream…although her ultimate dream would be a curatorial job right here in New York, the center of the U.S. art world.

  Nicki knew Bridget badly wanted this piece for the new collection, but a member of the museum's curatorial staff had to view it in person before writing the acquisitions proposal. Nicki hoped she'd also get the chance to write the proposal, but she took painstaking notes in longhand because she knew Bridget would probably commandeer them to write it herself. Either way, Nicki wanted to impress Bridget—and the acquisitions committee. She studied the piece for nearly an hour, and then followed Zane into his private office to hear more about Jack's work and take more notes.

  An assistant Nicki hadn't known was there appeared and brought in coffee. Once they'd wrapped up, Nicki followed Zane from the room. Preoccupied, she nicked her left shoulder against the doorjamb.

  "Oof," she said as her camera bag slipped off her shoulder. She caught it with her forearm, but the jolt caused her to splash coffee all down the front of her shirt. Splotches of it hit her blazer and skirt, and a small puddle formed on the floor, seeping into the cracks between the wood planks. She watched the spill as if it were happening in slow motion, reaching out as though she could catch the dripping liquid in her hands.

  At least it didn't hit Zane himself, but she was still mortified as he bent down to mop up the puddle with a silk handkerchief he pulled from his lapel pocket.

  I am such a screw-up. Here she'd made it all the way through the meeting with such grace, finally putting her years of hard work and her degrees to good use, and now this. Since it had happened at the end of their meeting, Nicki thought it was the part Zane was most likely to remember. He might even joke about it with Bridget.

  Her ears were blazing red when Zane stood back up and grinned at her. Nicki had already re-estimated his age to be under forty, and when he smiled like that, he didn't look a day over thirty-five. She found herself wanting to Google him later, to see how he'd come to own a high-end New York gallery at such a young age.

  "No harm done," he said, and her heart surged with gratitude for his grace. "One time I spilled an entire chai latte on a piece of textile art on the viewing table in the back gallery. Completely destroyed it. That's why I now have a policy that nothing sits on that table except art. It's to save us from my clumsiness, not our clients'."

  Thanks to Zane's unexpected geniality, instead of feeling like a complete moron Nicki felt a buzz of success as she walked with him through the gallery to the exit. The front room now contained a few milling customers and two more employees Nicki hadn't heard arrive. She'd expected to have lunch with Zane, but he'd had to cancel because of an unexpected appointment. She was glad, not because she didn't want to spend more time with him, but because she now had coffee all over her clothes. Plus, their meeting had gone so well. Given two more hours and another incidence of klutziness, Nicki knew she was completely capable of falling out of his good graces.

  No, she'd embarrassed herself enough for one twenty-four hour period.

  * * *

  It was almost ten that night before Huck pulled his car beneath the covered portico at the front entrance of Nicki's hotel. He'd been texting her with apologies since eight-thirty. Her flight was at eleven the next morning, but Nicki didn't care about that—she'd stay up all night if that's what it took to hang out with Huck. If his dimples hadn't already done the job, their texting banter throughout the day would have pushed her into huge crush territory.

  Huck parked, got out of the car, and came around to open her door, first giving her a sweeping head-to-toe look that was appreciative—not the critical Manhattan Once Over she'd come to expect in this city.

  Tonight she had no reason to feel self-conscious. Her free hours this afternoon meant she'd had plenty of time to fill the gaps in her wardrobe, even after spending two and a half hours combing exhibitions at the Whitney. She wore a deep blue dress from French Connection that accentuated the ocean hue of her eyes, and she'd accessorized it with a gold statement necklace from Piperlime that was flecked with blue and green. On her feet were the most awesome pair of Italian leather strappy sandals, scored from a small boutique in SoHo. She shuddered at the thought of next month's Visa bill, but she'd decided Eh, what the hell? How many times would she have a summer fling in New York? She should at least get to do it in her own clothes.

  "You are gorgeous," Huck said, causing her breath to catch in her throat and rendering her spending spree totally worth it. She looked up at him—he was several inches taller than her even in her three-inch heels. He was dressed nice, too, in dark jeans and a sport coat. He'd shaved for his family event, which was a shame, because the stubble had been sexy. But this look worked for him too—kind of mysterious boy-next-door.

  "Do I look left-brained tonight?" Nicki asked, winking to mask the way her heart fluttered at his compliment.

  "You definitely look…smart," he said, letting his gaze linger on her legs as she slid onto the fr
ont seat of his car. "Brilliant."

  "Well, I did make a $25,000 decision at work today," she said, and he chuckled.

  "I made thirty bucks or so doing research for my Uber story," he said before he closed her door.

  "I can't wait to read it," Nicki said once he was behind the wheel, not joking this time. She could not wait to read his article. He paused before easing the car forward and gazed at her intently for a few seconds, causing a shiver to race up her spine.

  "First you have to show me how it's going to end."

  * * *

  At two a.m., Nicki wasn't ready for the end of their story. First he'd taken her back to the Village to eat pizza at his favorite walk-up place, Joe's—despite the fact that he'd just had dinner with his family. "You can't miss this," he told her.

  They took their gooey, stringy fresh mozzarella slices with them to a small park across from the restaurant, which was marked by a sign that read Father Demo Square. It was surprisingly crowded for the late hour, but they found an empty bench tucked underneath a canopy of trees. "It's my favorite spot in the city," Huck said as they listened to the water streaming from a tall fountain at the center of the tiny concrete haven. They finished their slices, and when he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side, Nicki had to agree.

  They chatted and people-watched for a while, and Nicki found the rhythms of the city to be surprisingly soothing. The beach is overrated, she thought as a pigeon pecked at the concrete next to her feet and a kid who was up past his bedtime skidded through the center of the park on a skateboard.

  After they left the park, they passed a little gelato shop that was still open, and Nicki pulled Huck inside. She'd barely eaten all day—too nervous and excited—so she ordered two scoops, and he licked a few bites from her spoon. It felt like foreplay.