by Bay, Louise
It was what I wanted, too. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke, that I hadn’t imagined he’d made my body sing the way I thought he had. Even now, just a few minutes later, I was sure it couldn’t have been quite as . . . overwhelming . . . different . . . or as good as I thought it had been.
“And you haven’t agreed to be my art consultant yet.”
I groaned. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t mention the art consultant thing again. Now I wouldn’t make any money from Steve’s earlier work, I needed the cash.
I couldn’t say no.
Even though I wasn’t qualified.
Even though I didn’t have enough contacts.
Even though working with him would be a complete distraction.
The “nothing” after sex would be easy if I never saw him again. But the way he made my body feel . . . Surely I wouldn’t be able to be near him and not think about it.
“I’ll have my office update the contract I had with Nina with your details, and have them send it over.”
I stayed silent and kept as still as possible. I should say no, but I couldn’t.
“We can start right away.”
What was his rush? Art collecting wasn’t a sprint. It was something you took a lifetime to do. I sat up and glanced around for my clothes. “There’s an auction of Old European Masters at Sotheby’s next month.” I reached for my bra and fastened it around my chest. “I’ll check out the program and see if there’s anything I think you should bid on.”
“You’re saying yes?” he asked. He sat up and snuck his palm under my bra strap.
I shrugged him off as a sadness I couldn’t place settled in my belly. “Yes.” I stood and he grabbed my hand, trying to pull me back to him. I twisted my arm and he let go.
“Hey, I said I wasn’t done.”
“Well I am.” I continued to dress. He’d been clear there was nothing after the fucking, and I wasn’t about to wait for him to kick me out.
“I thought you were sticking around?” he asked.
“I need to be somewhere,” I replied.
Somewhere with alcohol.
* * *
Even though Harper was breastfeeding and spending most of her time in Connecticut, she still made sure she made it to Tuesday girls’ night. I couldn’t have been more grateful. One of the hardest parts of breaking up with someone was the transition period where for a few weeks I had so much more free time. I knew it wouldn’t last long, but at the moment I was aware how much I was on my own.
I’d spent most of my time since the gallery opening working. I went home and continued to fill in spreadsheets or research new artists. Periodically, images of Sam Shaw in my secret, sectioned-off corner of the gallery, sliding his large hands over my ass and pulling me against him, interrupted my concentration but I was fighting it.
“You look different,” Scarlett said as she pulled away from my hug and slid into the booth next to me.
I rolled my eyes. “No I don’t.” Maybe I did. Even days later, my body still felt the aftereffects of Sam’s touch. The bruises on my breasts had faded to penny-shaped shadows on my skin. I savored each one, more disappointed every day they grew smaller and fainter. No man had ever left a physical mark on me before. I liked it.
He’d left his mark on my mind, too.
“Just tell me you didn’t fuck that loser painter of yours.”
I cringed at the thought of Steve’s soft, spindly body. “No. Not at all.” There was nothing soft about Sam Shaw’s body. Nothing unsure about his touch. “But you’re right. I fucked a client the other day though. Pretty stupid, I guess.”
Except that I couldn’t regret it. Sam’s body gave me masturbation fantasy material for the rest of time. Had he really been that big? Had he really made me come that hard? It was as if he’d reached into me and pulled out the orgasm by sheer force.
“Why was it stupid?”
“Because I need him to still be my client.” I didn’t tell Scarlett that Sam’s assistant had sent me over the contracts as promised. Or that I’d signed and returned them to her. I didn’t explain how Sam had called me three times since, or that I’d ignored him each time. I didn’t want anyone to know how he seemed to be taking up more and more of my thoughts.
“Was it bad sex?” she asked. “You can’t look at him because he had a two-inch penis?”
A small dick wasn’t Sam Shaw’s problem. I shrugged and coaxed over a waiter. Harper arrived at our table at the same time. “Can I get a virgin mojito and a bread basket, please,” she asked before she even acknowledged us.
“Two more margaritas, please,” I said and turned back to my friends.
“Move over,” Harper said as she slid onto our booth. “What are we talking about? Jesus, is there nothing to eat in this place? I thought this was supposed to be a restaurant.”
“Take it down a notch. You just ordered a bread basket,” Scarlett said. “And we were talking about guys with two-inch dicks.”
Harper grimaced and moved away from us, as if Scarlett had announced we both had herpes. “Who’s got a two-inch dick?” she asked.
“No one,” I replied.
Scarlett gave Harper a knowing look. “Some guy Grace banged.”
“You banged a guy with a two-inch dick?” Harper asked.
“No, his dick was plenty big, thank you.” Jesus, how did we get here? I didn’t want to think about the size of Sam Shaw’s penis, or how it felt slipping into me, pushing deeper and deeper. How I felt it in my toes and finger tips, beneath and through every part of me.
Harper and Scarlett just looked at me, waiting for more.
“So, who’s the guy?” Harper asked.
I shook my head, glancing across at the waiter, hoping he’d interrupt us soon so we could change topics. “No one.”
“A client,” Scarlett said.
I rolled my eyes.
“When did it happen? Could it be a thing?” Harper asked. Trying to get Harper to talk about finding a serious relationship before she met her husband had been almost impossible. Now she wanted everyone to have what she had. It was sweet, but it was annoying.
“No, it’s not a thing and it’s never going to be. It just happened, but it won’t happen again.” Because nothing happened after the sex.
And that suited me fine.
“I need to focus on the gallery at the moment. I think I’m going to offer art consulting to people who want it.” I twirled the stem of my empty margarita glass.
“Oh, I thought you weren’t into that,” Scarlett said.
I shrugged. “But with Steve’s work gone, I have to do whatever it takes to make it work.”
Thankfully, the waiter arrived with our drinks and took our order, taking Harper and Scarlett’s attention away from me, giving me room to breathe, to think. I tuned out whatever it was Scarlett and Harper were talking about. Was he in his apartment now? On that old beat-up couch, the TV on, his hand slipping past his waistband to circle his cock?
I jumped at the buzz of my phone on the table. Sam flashed across the screen. Three ignored calls and two margaritas meant it was time to speak to him. “I have to get this,” I said, sliding out of the booth.
“Sam Shaw,” I answered, placing my finger in my ear as I walked through the restaurant toward the exit.
“I’ve called you three times, Grace Astor,” he replied, clearly irritated.
“You’re on my call sheet, but you beat me to it.”
“Your call sheet?” he asked, giving me a second to respond. I stayed quiet. “You signed the papers; you’re supposed to be my art consultant. I’ve not been consulted about anything.”
“I signed the papers, that doesn’t mean you own me.”
More silence, but from the few hours I’d spent with him, I understood it wasn’t angry, just contemplative. He absorbed what people gave out, learning about it, and then stored it up. For what?
“I went to the preview for the auction I told you about.”
“You don�
��t think I should have come with you? I thought you wanted me to like what I bought?”
I ran my thumbnail between my bottom two front teeth to interrupt the smile that threatened. “I thought you just wanted to make money? I’ll get the catalog sent over tomorrow and we can decide before the auction on Thursday.”
“No. Bring the catalog. Lunch tomorrow. And what time’s the auction on Thursday?”
“Oh, no, you don’t need to come. We can establish your upper limits and I can have you on the phone.”
“I don’t think so, but we’ll discuss it at lunch tomorrow. Twelve thirty. Come to my office.”
And he was gone.
I stared at the screen on my phone. Not only had he hung up on me, he’d ordered me to his office without telling me where it was. He just assumed I knew. Which I did, because of course, since he’d made me come like it was his job, I’d thought it only polite to Google him. But it was an arrogant move. Spoiled.
The problem was, he wasn’t as typically spoiled as I’d thought when I first met him. Some things fit—he was demanding, confident he’d get what he wanted. But then there was the part of him that didn’t have any furniture in his apartment. And the way he listened a little more than he spoke. And most of all, I was attracted to him.
That wasn’t typical at all.
I went back inside, the rush of the air conditioning bringing me back to the moment.
“I met someone I thought might be good for you,” Harper said as I sat down.
“Did Scarlett turn him down?”
I looked between the two of them. Scarlett was single and always dating two or three people at any one time. I couldn’t keep up. But I admired the way she picked up and started again after her divorce.
“Duncan and I decided to be exclusive,” Scarlett said.
My eyes widened. Duncan was a tool. “Really? Wow. When did that happen?” I asked as Scarlett grinned from ear to ear.
Shuffling excitedly in her seat, she said, “Last night. He took me to dinner and said he’d suspended his online dating account.”
No more violins or roses. Suspension of an online dating profile was the grand romantic gesture in New York.
“Well, that’s exciting,” I said.
“I just think you should keep your options open. I don’t trust him,” Harper said, which was what everyone else was thinking.
“As long as you’re excited about it,” I said, kicking Harper in the shin.
“Hey, don’t kick the breastfeeding lady. I’m only saying what you’re thinking.”
I shook my head. “Who’s this guy, anyway?” Not that I was interested. I didn’t trust my judgment at the moment. Sam wasn’t falling into my clearly defined boxes, and despite thinking it was the rich who used people, Steve had proven me wrong on that, too. Everything was topsy-turvy. I needed a time-out from men.
“He’s a client of mine,” Harper said. “I met him last week and he’s just divorced his wife. He’s rich and I know you hate that, but I swear I’m not making this up, he works at a homeless shelter twice a month.”
I chuckled. “He’s either not as rich as you’re saying, or he’s lying to you.”
“Don’t be so cynical.” Harper accusing me of being cynical was like the Queen of England calling me posh. “You should give him a chance.”
“I’m not ready for . . .” Anything. I wanted nothing at all, at least for a while.
“You were ready for casual sex with a new client,” she said. Harper and I always challenged each other. It was part of the reason we’d been friends for so long. The difference was I nudged and she shoved.
“That was different.” I wasn’t about to give in.
“Different?” Scarlett asked.
“Yeah, like exercise or something.” I hadn’t invested anything in Sam, and the freedom felt good. So good I was looking forward to seeing him for lunch the following day.
* * *
It was warmer than fall in Manhattan should be at lunchtime. I’d chosen my favorite Chanel skirt suit—black and white and paired with bright red matte lipstick and scarlet stilettos. The skirt was a little shorter than I usually wore. I wanted to see if Sam noticed my legs.
I was looking forward to seeing him. I wanted to check if I actually found him as attractive as I remembered. I wanted to know whether that jawline was quite as sharp as I pictured. Whether that quiet smile was as beguiling as lived in my mind.
Clearly, being ten minutes late was bad form if this was just a client meeting, but this was something a little more complicated. A business meeting with someone who’d been naked the last time I’d seen them called for slightly different etiquette. If it had been a drink with a casual fling, I’d have been twenty minutes late. Ten was a compromise.
“Grace Astor for Sam Shaw,” I said to the receptionist behind the high, shiny maple desk. She was the girl men loved—a younger, hotter version of Jennifer Lopez, if it was at all possible.
“Please follow me, Ms. Astor,” she said and she and her fabulous ass led me along a plush carpeted corridor to a corporate dining room. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said before shutting the door as she left. Well this lunch was all business, that was for sure. I’d expected to go out to one of the numerous restaurants around midtown that specialized in meals for suits. But it seemed we weren’t leaving the building.
The large, polished maple table was set for two, complete with what looked like crystal glassware and china tableware. If I hadn’t already been to Sam’s apartment, after seeing this I’d assume it to be similarly expensively furnished, no expense spared.
I knew differently.
I was peering at the blue and green abstract painting on the wall above the wet bar when the door swung open. “Grace Astor, you’re late,” Sam said.
“Deepest apologies for my tardiness. It couldn’t be helped.”
He waited for a beat for me to elaborate, and when I didn’t, he chuckled. “We’ll eat here if you don’t mind. Saves time.” He held out his hand for me to take the chair to the right of the head of the table.
His tone was friendly, but businesslike, as if we’d met once or twice before, but not as if we’d seen each other naked, as if we’d pulled and scratched at each other, each begging the other to push them over the edge into a soul-blistering orgasm.
Okay, well I could work with that.
“So, this is the catalog,” I said, pulling out the glossy book from my tote and placing it in front of us. “I’ve marked the ones I think are probably going to go for less than their real value with a Post-it.” We hadn’t really discussed budgets, so I’d labelled absolutely everything I thought would be a good buy. His picks should give me some indication of his budget.
He flicked his thumb down the line of multicolored Post-its and smiled before opening the catalog and regarding my choices.
We were interrupted by three waiters arriving with large white plates. Sam didn’t even look up as the food was set in front of us.
The silence bordered on uncomfortable. “Is there anything you like? I mean, if you want to discuss my reasoning behind any of the pieces I’ve marked, then do ask me questions.”
He set the book down and picked up his fork, pausing when he saw I hadn’t started eating yet. I picked up my silverware and we began to eat.
“What do the different colors mean?” he asked.
Was he asking me what colors represented in paintings?
“Your Post-its,” he clarified.
“Just ignore them, they don’t really matter for your purposes.”
“But there is a reason they’re different colors.” He set his silverware down and sat back in his chair, giving me his full attention.
“Not a business reason,” I replied, focusing on my plate.
“I think you like the ones you marked green the best.”
He was right, but how could he possibly know that? “Why are you always trying to figure people out?” I asked.
“Not always,�
� he said, picking his silverware back up. “Only people who I want something from, or who want something from me.”
“And which box do I fit into?”
He looked up from his plate and grinned. “I think you have a box all of your own.”
The room was quiet, and I was pretty sure I could hear my own heartbeat. What did that mean? Was he just avoiding my question, or was he paying me a compliment?
I wanted him to touch me because when he had before everything had made sense. I’d been so focused on the moment and the way our bodies worked together, I hadn’t second-guessed anything.
“I agree, by the way. I like the green ones, too. But I want to see them,” he said.
I glanced up and he was watching me as if he were checking every reaction I had to him.
“You want to see the green ones?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“You should keep an open mind about some of the others. There may be some other good buys among those that I’ve marked in something other than green.”
“I’m good with the green. I think we should go with your gut.”
“And you’re not going to tell me how you knew the greens were my favorite?”
“It’s no secret. I’m getting to know you. The way you like the intimate or unexpected.” He grinned. “In your art.” He shrugged and took a forkful of food. “And you clearly hadn’t marked them on price or period. It’s cute. Don’t be self-conscious about it.”
“I’m not. If I was I would have replaced the Post-its.” I didn’t want him to think he’d gotten under my skin. “Anyway, it’s too late to see the paintings before the auction next week—the viewing closes this afternoon.”
“Then we’ll go after lunch.”
Did this man not have a business to run? “What if I’m busy this afternoon?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do what you gotta do, Grace Astor.”
Almost everything he said could be interpreted a number of different ways.
“Do you always want more from people?”
He paused and glanced away from me. “Not always.”
What more did he want from me?
