Lured into Love (Blossom in Winter Book 2)

by Melanie Martins

  “I’m good,” the driver says as he starts the car. “I just don’t want to get fined.”

  “You won’t,” I tell him. Then, lowering my voice, I whisper to Matthew, “I can get you one, if you want.”

  He lets out a quick laugh, most likely astounded by my statement. “Are you serious?” And shaking his head, he adds, “Nah, I’m fine.”

  “Alright.”

  After our ride, the driver drops us right in front of the entrance of a skyscraper. As we go into the marble hall and to the reception area, we are greeted by an elegant lady who, after checking my invitation, opens the lift for us and presses the button for the fifty-fifth floor.

  “Wow, is this in a private apartment or something?” Matthew asks as we wait patiently to get to the floor.

  “Yeah, it’s an invite-only exhibit,” I explain to him.

  As the doors open, we are welcomed into a dark open space projecting waterfalls and flowers from the ceiling down the walls and onto the floor like a quiet river continuing its course. Then wind blows through my hair, and sounds of water and nature fill the room. Above us, fake clouds cover the ceiling, while neo-contemporary paintings hang on the walls.

  “You can remove your mask here,” I remind him.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “No one is wearing them,” I whisper as we both look around. “And no cops are gonna come here to fine you.”

  Thank God, Matthew finally takes it off and… puts it in his pocket! Don’t tell me he’s gonna put it back over his mouth afterward? Oh dear…

  “It’s dope, isn’t it?” I ask as we take in our surroundings. “It’s called immersive art.”

  “Wait, you mean these clouds and waterfalls and stuff are art?”

  I chuckle at his observation. “Yeah, it’s an installation by teamLab, and those paintings over there are by Yayoi Kusama, a Japanese artist.”

  As we get closer to one of her paintings, Matthew asks, “How much do you think this one costs?”

  “Hmm… A painting of hers can cost just twenty grand. But then you can sell it at auction for millions a decade or two later.”

  “What?” he shouts. “That’s insane. From twenty grand to millions?”

  “Art can be a very profitable business. Some of her paintings have been sold at auction for seven to ten million dollars,” I tell him.

  “Damn, that’s more than my own apartment! I don’t get why rich people would waste millions on this.”

  I must have heard this remark a thousand times, but nevertheless, I say, “It’s just like any other investment. The idea is to buy art when there is room for growth and the value can still rise.”

  “So you think after spending ten million, you can still make more out of a painting?” he asks, even more confused.

  “If the value of her art keeps going up, yeah. For instance, there’s a six-hundred-year-old painting from Leonardo da Vinci that was sold for four hundred million.”

  “Jeez, that’s insane,” he snaps. His attention then goes around the room, like he’s looking for someone. “There is a waiter serving drinks. Can I bring you something?”

  “Eh, yeah, something without alcohol, please.”

  “Alright, give me a sec.”

  As Matthew goes to get some drinks, I keep observing the eccentric painting hanging in front of me. Then I can’t help but wonder if Matthew is getting bored of our conversation about art or if he’s just thirsty. I hope he’s not finding this exhibit boring.

  “Ms. Van Gatt?” I hear a male voice saying beside me.

  Turning my gaze in his direction, I find a couple I don’t recognize. “Um, yes?”

  “Mike Steinberg,” the man replies as he extends a hand. “We met at Paulo’s wedding in Rio.” Since I don’t seem to be recalling who he is, he then adds, “I’m the COO of Gatt-Dieren Capital.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” I shake his hand heartily and feel a bit stupid for not recognizing him before. “Pleasure seeing you, Mike.” Then I introduce myself to the woman standing beside him.

  “I’m so glad you’re finally doing well. Your dad and godfather were so worried,” Mike says.

  “Thank you so much,” I tell him, and, to avoid images of my godfather running through my mind, I ask, “Um, what brought you here?”

  “Oh, my girlfriend enjoys this type of exhibit, so here we are.” I give her a warm smile in understanding, and Mike adds, “By the way, your dad told me you were looking to do a second round for your fund?”

  “Oh, yeah, um, I still have to prepare a financial plan and do the math, but yes, I intend to do a second round.”

  Mike nods for a beat before asking, “And for how much? Any idea?”

  My smile grows larger at his curiosity, and after pondering for an instant, I say, “Eh, maybe two or three million.”

  I see him nod, engrossed in his thoughts. “And are you looking for private or institutional investors?”

  “It will depend on the deal, to be honest.”

  “Well, if you’re interested in private investors, by all means…” And he takes a business card from his wallet before handing it to me. “I’d be more than happy to contribute.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I wonder what my dad’s told him about my fund, but based on Mike’s willingness, he must have made a pretty good pitch.

  “Are you planning to operate from a separate entity, or is your fund under Gatt-Dieren Capital?”

  “Um, the fund is independent. Gatt-Dieren Capital doesn’t own it, but Alex is one of the partners,” I disclose. Although it hurts like hell having to mention him.

  Mike seems to be quite surprised. “Oh, so Van Dieren is also involved?”

  Maybe Dad didn’t tell him that part. And as much as I hate to admit it, I say, “On paper, yes.”

  “Hey…” Matthew steps up, holding two flutes. And thank God for him doing so! “There was only champagne, sorry.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I grab my flute and introduce Matthew to Mike. “Matthew, this is Mike Steinberg, COO of Gatt-Dieren, and his girlfriend, Jenny. Mike, Matthew Bradford, a friend of mine.”

  “Hey, nice to meet you.” Matthew shakes their hands, and after some small talk, we leave them behind in order to see the rest of the exhibit. We then stop walking and stand quietly, admiring another painting.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  His question breaks our comfortable silence, and, as I take a sip from my flute, I say, “Sure…”

  “Um, sorry for my curiosity, and don’t feel obligated to reply, but why are you still wearing your engagement ring?”

  “Oh…” His question is totally unexpected, but I guess quite legitimate. And as I’m thinking of an answer, I look ahead at the painting and just bluntly say, “I guess a part of me hasn’t moved on.”

  Glancing quickly at his face, I see his brows rising, but he takes a blatant minute before saying anything else in return. “I’m sorry for what he did.” Matthew’s tone is so caring that it warms up my heart, and a small smile curves my lips. But I remain speechless and keep admiring the painting. There is nothing else to say if not agree with him. “Do you think he will come back?”

  I can’t help but let out a deep, long sigh as I ponder his new question. This time, though, I take bit longer to answer. “Well, technically he’s got business in Manhattan, so he has to come back. The question is would he come back for me?” As I look again at the painting hanging on the wall, I add, “I don’t want to know. It’s better not to.” Jeez, it feels so odd to be here with Matthew and have Alex be the center of our conversation. I’m trying to get him out of my system, but it’s not easy when someone is reminding you constantly about the person you love.

  Matthew continues observing me attentively, before crossing the line and asking, “How did you guys meet?

  Tired of his little inquisition, I decide to expose the wicked truth to him once and for all. So, I look him straight in the eye and say, “He’s my godfather.”

  “What?
” he gasps instantly at my reply, blinking twice. And his outrage makes me crack a laugh as I revel in it.

  “Yep, we met at the church for my baptism.”

  “You can’t be serious…” He is now left totally speechless, and I can’t help but keep giggling at his expression. “Oh, wow… Now I understand why you are so, like, into him.”

  “It’s weird, I know,” I tell him without even trying to argue my case. “It’s a nasty kind of love. The kind you can’t escape from even if you want to,” I shamelessly admit.

  “Do you think he’s already moved on?”

  “I hope not,” I reply bluntly. “I hope deep down he’s plotting something against my parents.” Then I chuckle at how absurd I must sound. “It’s ridiculous, I know… I just, um… I just can’t accept the idea that he won’t fight for us.” I decide to take another sip of my champagne, trying to conceal the nostalgia that is taking over me.

  “Well, if what your mom has against him can land him in jail… maybe it’s not worth fighting.”

  “It always worth a try,” I snap back.

  “Petra,” he begins. My gaze meets his again. “Whatever he does or doesn’t do, I don’t want you to stop eating because of him.” I wasn’t excepting him to say that. Or for him to sound so worried. I break eye contact in shame at what I’ve done to myself. Self-harm is one of my many demons. Why am I even like this? It’s a mystery I can’t even solve myself.

  “I have been eating,” I remind him as a small smile tugs at my lips. “You saw it live yesterday.”

  Matthew lowers his head in a failed attempt to hide his growing smirk. “And I’m gonna check again today.” The cheekiness in his tone makes me crack a laugh, and I realize as I do so that we are standing a bit too close to each other. I must admit, the closeness feels odd to me, but not totally unwanted.

  His hazel eyes drift down for a second, and before our silence gets too awkward, I say, “Um, should we check out the rest of the exhibit?”

  After twenty-five minutes observing and discussing the masterpieces on display, I call Anthony and see if he can pick us up. Fortunately, he accepted and is now on his way. I seriously couldn’t stand to see Matthew with that mask on again. Not sure if it’s because I was in a coma for six months and don’t watch the news or follow anything on social media, but seeing my friend wear it in the car seemed a bit weird to me. Before leaving, though, I don’t forget to say goodbye to Mike and his girlfriend. As my father always says, being polite and acknowledging people goes a long way. Once we get into the car, I ask Matthew, “So, did you enjoy the exhibit? It was quite different from your average art gallery, huh?” Since he’s about to put his mask on again, I tell him, “It’s okay here. You don’t have to put it on.”

  But he doesn’t seem convinced and puts it on anyway. I can’t help but frown. It was in his pocket the whole time and now he’s putting it over his mouth?

  “Rules are in place for a reason, Petra,” he says.

  Rules? What he did is disgusting! But instead I just say, “Okay, but this is not an Uber. It’s a private car.”

  “It’s about being respectful to Anthony and you.”

  “Anthony is not wearing a mask either,” I press on. “He only drives my dad and me around.”

  “The regulations are clear,” he insists. “It’s okay, really. It’s just a piece of fabric. I’ve been wearing it for months now. I’m used to it.”

  “Alright. As you wish.”

  After five more minutes and some small talk about the exhibit, Anthony stops in front of my building to drop me off.

  “Well, um, here I am. Thanks for coming,” I tell him, wondering if I should give him a hug, a high five, or something else.

  “Thank you for inviting me. It was really nice.”

  Since Matthew neither opens his arms for a hug, nor leans over for any type of physical touch, I’m hesitant to do anything. So I just smile at him and say, “Have a great evening.” And I slowly open my door and exit the car. Standing outside, I wave at him until Anthony drives away.

  I’m not sure why, but I feel a bit sad at not receiving even a simple hug. Maybe because Emma always hugs me like there is no tomorrow, I don’t know, but affection is something I miss. A friendly hug would’ve been nice. Then I walk back inside, and, as I get into the lift, my thoughts go to Alex. I remember the hugs we used to give to each other all the time. The first one being when I jumped on him at the Martos gallery where I embraced him so tight he gasped. Instinctively grabbing my iPhone, I check my messages again. Disappointment tightens my chest and emptiness sinks into my stomach as I realize he hasn’t seen any of my texts. Why is he ignoring me like this? Why? I can’t believe he hasn’t checked his texts for the past two weeks. Something is definitely off.

  “So, how was it?” Janine surprises me as I walk into the hallway.

  “Hey, Janine,” I greet back. “It was fine, thank you.”

  “Great. Um, your dad is having dinner in the kitchen. I made lasagna. You want some?”

  “Oh, sure. Is it vegan?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  As I follow Janine into the kitchen, I find Dad sitting at the table, eating a slice of lasagna. To my surprise, he’s dressed pretty casually in a gray sweater, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  “Hey,” he greets me, a welcoming smile on his face. “How was it?”

  Why is everyone asking me that? Taking a seat in front of him, I simply say, “It was fine.”

  Janine puts a slice of lasagna on my plate, and my mouth can’t help but water at how delicious it looks. “Thank you.” Then a quiet silence settles between us as I start eating.

  “Matthew seems to be a nice guy,” Dad comments.

  As I’m not interested in hearing anything coming from his mouth, I say, “We are friends.” And just to make sure he understands that, I repeat the word. “Friends.”

  “I know. And I’m glad you have friends like him.”

  “He was a Bernie supporter,” I tell him. And, to be honest, I don’t even know why I mentioned that. Maybe to scare him? Reveling in his expression, I add, “And he hates Wall Street and big tech.”

  “I can’t blame him.” I roll my eyes at his statement. When Dad likes someone, there’s nothing anyone can say or do to dissuade him. “The boy has integrity. I admire that.”

  Letting out a sigh, I say, “I’m glad you like my friend. May I eat in peace now?”

  “I’m glad you are eating,” Dad says with a contemplative smile. Then there’s silence, but his fingers start tapping lightly on the table as he seems to be pondering something. “Why don’t you invite him over to have dinner with us tomorrow night?”

  “Huh?” That’s all I manage to say before swallowing my bite. “You wanna have dinner with Matthew?”

  “Why not? You used to invite Emma over, no?”

  My jaw instantly drops, and I blink twice. “Um, yeah, but…” But he wants to meet Matthew? Just a year ago, Dad hated anyone of the opposite sex that got close to me, let alone was my friend, and now he wants to meet Matthew Bradford? What happened to him? A brain transplant? “Alright…”

  “When are you gonna call him?” he asks.

  What the heck? Can’t I eat my damn lasagna in peace? “Um, I guess after I eat?”

  Dad glances impatiently at his watch. “Do you mind doing it now? I need to know before going out if we’re having dinner together tomorrow or another day.”

  Blowing out a breath, I say, “Fine.” And I grab my phone to call Matthew. I then wait and wait for him to pick up.

  “Hey,” Matthew greets with a voice warmer than usual. “What’s up?”

  “Hey,” I greet back, and my tone comes out annoyingly sweet. Aiming for a more casual one, I clear my throat and start again. “Hey, um, look, are you available tomorrow evening?”

  “Eh… You already miss me that much?”

  I crack a laugh at his comment. “Ha ha. So funny…” But then I look up at Dad, who’s patiently waiting,
and he’s not having a laugh, no. “Um, my dad would love to meet you and wanted you to have dinner with us tomorrow night.”

  “Oh…” Now I’m the one who’s left Matthew totally speechless. “Your dad wants to meet me?”

  “Yeah, he seems to like you.”

  Matthew takes a bit longer to reply. “Okay, well, that’s great. Eh, what time?”

  I look up at Dad, and he shows me eight fingers. “Is eight p.m. okay for you?” I ask Matthew. And before he answers, I decide to reassure him, and say, “It’s gonna be super casual. Like, just the three of us at home.”

  “Alright, sure. See ya tomorrow, then.”

  “See ya.” And I hang up. Then, looking up at Dad, I say, “Done. Tomorrow at eight.”

  “Great.” He stands up and walks in my direction. Bending over, he softly kisses the top of my head. And his affection is totally unexpected. “I’m very proud of you.” And his compassionate, mellow voice is too.

  “Proud of me? For what?” I ask him.

  “For recovering. You’re being very strong.”

  I feel the urge to remind him I shouldn’t be recovering from a breakup he insisted on and supported, but instead I do none of that. I’m tired of our toxic fights. So, choosing peace over hate, I swallow all my anger, smile at him, and politely say, “Thanks.”

  “Don’t forget, the seventeenth is our annual investors dinner. So have your financial plan ready by then. Mike and a few prospects might ask some questions about it.” I do my best to remain as stoic as possible, and to not roll my eyes at him. Jeez, I had nearly forgotten that event. “You can invite Matthew if you want.”

  “Nope, not a chance,” I snap back just as fast. “But I will invite Emma.”

  “Emma is in Europe.”

  “She’s gonna be here for the dinner.” At least, I hope so. Dad can be so insensitive. Matthew hates everything about Wall Street, but he expected me to invite him to a dinner with bankers and capitalists? How inconsiderate can he be?

  “As you wish.” He then glances again at his watch and finally shares one piece of good news, “Well, I have to go. Have a good night.”

  “Good night,” I reply as he leaves.