by Anna Paige
“That said, I had no way of knowing—”
Arthur interrupted, “Precisely. You thought someone who appeared quite shady was crashing the event, and you acted in the best interests of the gallery. Now, would Mr. Santoro agree? I have no idea. But he wasn’t here, now was he?” Mr. Santoro was the owner.
“So, you’re saying…wait, what are you saying?”
He smiled, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he watched me flounder. “I’m saying the event went amazingly, and that’s exactly what I plan to communicate to the owner. Nothing more.”
I blew out a huge breath and fought the urge to hug him.
Oh, Arthur is so getting special dinners from here on out.
After we hit Los Tacos and Dickson’s for our favorite portable lunches, Dana and I walked the market and talked between bites.
“The asshat has me working a bunch of doubles next week,” she told me around a mouthful of burrito. “I want to slam his head onto the bar top and get those Coyote Ugly chicks to come dance on his arrogant face.”
“How far out does the schedule go?”
She knew why I was asking. That date was coming up, and we always spent it together, cooking and drinking. Dana loved to bake. Didn’t matter what it was: cookies, cakes, pies, brownies. She was the sugary yin to my savory yang.
We actually met because of food. She lives a block over from me, and I kept seeing her in the local market. One afternoon, we were in line together, and I glanced in her basket and asked what she was baking. There were all manner of chocolate and butter and sugars in that thing, and it made me curious.
Next thing I knew, we were on the sidewalk outside the market talking about our mutual love of food, of feeding people and using cooking as the best, most delicious therapy money could buy.
We’d been inseparable ever since.
“I won’t know my schedule for that week until around the first of November. But I put in a request months ago to have that day off. Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”
“Good.” I nodded. “I’m trying out some new recipes next week, so be prepared for me to totally raise the bar on the grub.”
“You won’t raise it high enough to top the dessert I have planned.”
“Bring it on,” I challenged, smiling.
She steered us in the direction of The Donuttery, chuckling. “Speaking of epic sweets…”
She was an evil instigator.
And I totally blamed her for the mountain of mini donuts I bought.
“So, tell me more about the exhibition. Was there anyone famous there?”
I nearly choked on my donut. “Um, yeah. A few. Honestly, I was so wrapped up in making sure everything went well that I didn’t really notice.” I should have, of course, but after meeting Conspicuous and finding out he’s Ethan Chase…it was hard to impress me, I guess.
Or I was in shock and didn’t register a damn thing aside from the mechanics of running the show.
“You really didn’t pay attention?” She was looking at me like I’d lost my mind.
“I guess not. It was a lot of pressure, you know? I think I saw a few famous people as guests trickled in, but after that I was constantly on the move, and it all was kind of a blur.”
She bit into another donut and sighed. “I so would have taken sneaky pics of the famous people for you, but noooo. I had to freaking work. God, I hate my boss.”
We were making our last lap, heading for the exit, and I was overcome with the urge to hug her. The knot in the pit of my stomach was killing me. The realization that I could never—ever—tell her about Ethan made me want to cry.
It had been the biggest night of my life, the most unbelievable moment when Ethan kissed me, and the first and only secret I couldn’t share with my best friend.
She probably thought I was nuts when I hugged the hell out of her on that sidewalk. But she hugged me back without hesitation, because that’s what a best friend does.
She quirked a brow after I let go. “You having some sort of breakdown, chicky?”
“Nah. I guess I’m just emotional after everything with the show last night. It was a lot of pressure, and recovering from that has been…unexpectedly hard.” I blew out a big breath that turned into an enormous cloud.
Dana watched it dissipate with a pained look on her face. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there, Em. You have no idea how close I came to walking out.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you didn’t. And you’re here now, which is exactly what I needed today. I needed to pig out and walk off this extra energy and talk to my best friend.”
She tipped her head in understanding. “Trying to come off the event high and get back to normal.”
“Since when was I ever normal?” I joked, stowing my melancholy for later.
“Good point.” She hailed a cab and I waited until she was safely inside before turning to walk back to the gallery. It was freezing out, but my mind was churning too much and walking always helped. Besides, I wanted to snag copies of whatever papers the newsstand had that might have featured last night’s show.
Two of each, because I promised Ethan.
If I’d had time, I would have picked up Dammit to join me.
He wouldn’t judge me for keeping secrets.
That was my job.
Chapter Four
Ethan
I didn’t sleep at all the night of the exhibition. Not even a little. I was wide awake, in my studio, working like a maniac until the wee hours of the morning.
I sketched until my hand was cramping into a misshapen claw, and then I sketched some more.
Supplies were strewn everywhere, and if I bothered to look in a mirror, I probably looked like hammered shit, but I didn’t care. Inspiration was more important than vanity.
I’d shower and sleep when I reached a good stopping point.
Problem was, I didn’t want to stop.
It usually took me a week to sketch this much detail.
My muse had arrived like a bolt of lightning, and that wasn’t something to be ignored, ever.
My phone vibrated on the work table, and I glanced down at it.
Jared: When’s your flight get in? Early enough to hang out?
Shit.
I took visual inventory of the studio and the canvas in front of me with a long-suffering sigh. I was due back in L.A. tomorrow. We had one weekend off all month and this was it.
Unlike the arctic blast hitting New York, the temps in L.A. were perfect for the beach, maybe with a bonfire at night. We’d all been looking forward to the down time before the last wave of shows for the year—well, aside from the one on New Year’s Eve.
None of us had specific plans, which was kind of the point. Just hanging out; winging it without some management dork harping about keeping to a schedule.
If I stayed in New York for the weekend, they’d understand.
I didn’t get as much time to paint as I would have liked, and this was a prime opportunity.
The fact that I hadn’t stopped thinking about Emily since the moment we met was irrelevant. It’s not like I was planning on seeing her again.
Hell, I didn’t even ask for her number.
An omission I was kicking myself over five seconds after I shut that door.
I cleaned the charcoal dust from my fingers—sort of—and picked up my phone.
Me: Not sure. Been working on a new piece all night, sketching like a mad man. Feeling really inspired. Might hang here for the weekend and come back Monday.
Jared: A new piece? That’s awesome, bro. Do what you need to do. Hit me up later when you take a break. I want to hear about the show.
Jared was great like that. He never balked when I felt the urge to paint or disappear with Kade for days on end, writing new songs. Whatever I needed, he backed me up.
Best fucking friend I ever had in my life.
Me: Will do. Sorry you’re stuck dealing with the two stooges on your own all weekend.
With Kade off the
market thanks to his new wife Aubrey—whom we all adored—Kane and Lennox were basking in the extra female attention they’d picked up. And they were being fucking obnoxious about it. Especially Lenn. It was like he’d flashed back to those first few tours when we were the epitome of ‘young, dumb, and full of cum.’
Though, in Lenn’s case, he’d never really made it completely out of that stage, unlike the rest of us.
Poor Jared.
Jared: Nah, I like watching them fail. Lenn got the shit slapped out of him last night. It was glorious.
Me: I miss all the good stuff.
Jared: Trust me, there’ll be other chances.
Me: Oh yeah.
Jared: Later.
Me: Later.
I set my phone down on the work table and drained a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and went right back to work.
By the time I looked up again, the sun had long ago set, and my stomach was giving me hell for forgetting to eat all day.
Oops.
Still, pulling myself away from the canvas was like trudging through waist-high mud. Every step was a struggle because I couldn’t stop thinking of the next pencil stroke, imagining the slashes of color and contrasting darkness.
Damn, I’d never been this entranced in my life.
And it had everything to do with the subject of the piece.
Emily.
I ordered in and jumped in the shower while I waited. It was a Friday night, so I had plenty of time to kill. I probably could have painted a while longer, but I knew I’d get stuck there again if I did and the food would end up uneaten on the kitchen counter, assuming I could pry myself out of the studio long enough to buzz the delivery in.
That’d definitely piss off the security guys, who had to bring up all deliveries themselves.
Nope, didn’t want that.
So, I took a long steamy shower, standing under the spray and letting the heat work the tension out of my muscles.
Why couldn’t I stop thinking about her? Why had this image of her stuck with me to the point of obsession? What was it about her that had called to me?
Whatever it was, I wanted to know more.
I still had over an hour to wait for my food when I finished my shower and dressed in old sweats and a torn TotC concert tee circa 2010. If I didn’t busy myself, I’d be back at that canvas, so I picked up the phone and called Jared.
For the most part, he wouldn’t talk on the phone—for a couple of reasons—but I was the exception.
He picked up on the third ring. “Hey, E.”
“Hey, bro. You busy?”
“Nope.”
He wouldn’t tell me, even if he was, because that wasn’t how he worked. If I called, he answered. Always.
“So, the art show was spectacular. I ducked in for a peek before it started. Seriously, I was blown away. The gallery did an exceptional job.”
“How was the turnout?” he asked, and I could hear a door closing in the background. He liked his privacy when he was on the phone, which I totally understood.
“Sold out. And from the articles online, I don’t think a single ticket was wasted. That place was packed.”
“I knew it would be. They always are.”
“There’s something else…” Clear green eyes flashed in my mind, along with that first deadly glare she’d leveled my way. “The woman who handled the show, I met her. Told her who I was.”
Silence.
“Jared? You there?”
“Give me a sec,” he muttered quickly, tripping over his words.
I’d thrown him for a loop. “While you’re getting your shit together, you should know I kissed her, too. Oh, and I’ve been working on a painting of her for the last,” I checked the time, “twenty-one hours, give or take.”
“Shit.”
One syllable, applicable on so many levels.
“She won’t talk?”
I knew that would be his first question because protecting me and my secret was always his instinct. “Nope. I’m positive she won’t.”
“Good. Now, why’d you tell her?”
I thought about that for a second. “I’m honestly not sure. Maybe because she tried to throw me out of my own art show.”
“So you did it to prove you belonged there?”
“No. The curator knew I belonged. I did it because…fuck…I don’t know. Because she talked about my work like it was part of her, somehow, like she was willing to bodily throw me out for showing up in jeans and a hoodie and disrespecting it. It was all kinds of hot, but more than that, I saw her standing there like a momma bear protecting her young, and I wanted to tell her how much that meant to me.” I chuckled and ran a hand through my dripping hair. “If you could have seen her reaction, you’d understand.”
He was quiet for a beat. “You told her because you knew meeting you would mean something to her. You wanted to make her happy because her protectiveness of your artwork made you happy.”
“Except all it did was freak her out. I found her outside after I dropped that bomb on her, and she was so mortified.”
“Smooth move,” he taunted jokingly. “You talk to her about it?”
“Yeah. And the more we talked, the more I liked her. She’s got this quality I can’t put my finger on, but I like it. I’m drawn to it. Which I made clear when I kissed her.”
“And now you’re painting her?”
“Still sketching, but yeah. I can’t seem to stop.”
“You’re not sketching her naked are you?”
I shook my head as I reached in the fridge for a beer. “No, asshole. Not in the literal sense anyway. But she’s naked in other ways, and I think that’s what’s drawing me in. If you could have seen her outside that gallery…”
“Raw emotion is your thing, dude. It’s where you live. Your lyrics, your paintings, both raw and real. It’s what makes you a great artist.”
“That’s exactly it. What I saw from her was raw emotion. I knew you’d help me figure it out. That’s why I keep seeing her in my head.”
“You gonna go back to the gallery and see her?”
“I don’t know if I should. I told her I’d check in next week so she could tell me about the show, but I never intended to go back. Besides, I have to be back in L.A. by Monday night at the latest.”
“So, go Monday morning.”
I flopped down on the couch and laid back, considering the idea.
“You know you want to see her. Go. Maybe it’ll inspire another piece.”
“Yeah, maybe. Just seems reckless to get invested even marginally with someone here.”
“I’m not saying propose, moron. Buy her a cup of coffee or something. Talk to her. Thank her for a great job on the show. No big commitment.” He paused for a minute and shifted into a more serious tone. “You don’t get like this about people, so figure out what’s so special about her. I know you, E. You’ll drive yourself crazy wondering if you don’t.”
Of course, he was right.
It was one cup of coffee, just to indulge my curiosity.
No big deal.
Famous last words…
Chapter Five
Emily
Garfield was right. Mondays sucked. He was also right about lasagna, but that was a whole other thing.
It was snowing, which usually made me happy, but today there was so much crap going on that I couldn’t stop to enjoy the sight of it through the front windows.
If one more thing went wrong, I was going to start dumping booze into my coffee.
Seriously, the fax machine broke two minutes after I walked in, someone on the crew dropped a piece while boxing it for shipping and damaged the frame—at least it wasn’t the actual painting but still—and I’d accidentally started a pot of coffee without the goddamn carafe under it, making a colossal mess all over the break room counter and floor.
And the phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
Arthur was fielding most of the calls since my patience was wearing dangerously t
hin.
It was only 10:30 a.m.
I want my weekend back, dammit. I want to go back to thinking about Conspicuous—Ethan—and that kiss, while food bubbled and sizzled on all four burners of my stove.
I want my wine back, too.
This is bullshit.
At least I’d made Arthur’s day when I brought in enough “leftovers” to feed him for a week. Some of my best work, if I did say so myself.
I took over the phones for him a few minutes later so he could grab more coffee and immediately regretted it. Most of the calls were about Ethan’s show—people who’d seen the photos online and wanted to buy pieces that were long ago sold and shipped out. It was flattering that the show had gotten so much attention, but I wished people would read the whole article before calling. It’s been stated everywhere that all the pieces sold.
Not everyone liked being told they were too late, either. Tactfully handling irate calls was the last thing I was capable of after the way my day started.
I answered my fifth call in as many minutes and glanced around for Arthur, willing him to hurry the hell up.
“Santoro Gallery, how may I help you?”
“Emily?”
My heart jumped into my throat at the sound of his voice. I knew the sound of it by heart, having spent my weekend replaying every syllable he’d spoken the night we met. “Ethan? Um, I mean Mr. Chase?”
He chuckled in that gravelly way men do. “You had it right with Ethan.”
“Hi.” Oh, Jesus, did I really just say ‘hi’ like a shy little kid? What the hell was wrong with me?
“Hi,” he echoed, the humor evident in his voice. “I’ve been thinking about that update I asked for. How about I take you out for coffee so we can talk comfortably—away from the gallery, you know, just in case.”
“You want to take me out for coffee?”
He paused. “You prefer tea?”
I don’t know why, but I found that insanely funny. I could barely answer without cracking up. “It’s not the beverage I was questioning. It was the invitation.”
“Oh, you’re worried your boyfriend won’t approve?”
Oh, crap. That was even funnier. “Is that your incredibly transparent way of asking if I’m available? Because it’s kind of lame.” I put my hand over the phone and busted out laughing. Arthur glanced over at me like he was worried I was losing it.