Selling Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 1)

by Samantha Westlake

  "Shit!" I scrambled to try and catch my balance, but the damn high heels couldn't find any purchase on the slick wood! I flailed my arms, not caring if I accidentally ruined a valuable piece of art. I just didn't want to face-plant!

  I pitched forward, my foot twisting at the ankle as my shoe slipped on the floor. But then, just as I closed my eyes and braced for the moment of impact, something solid but yielding caught me. My hands wrapped instinctively around the object in front of me as my face ran into something warm, soft, and surprisingly good smelling.

  "Well, I don't get women falling into my arms every day," a voice commented above me.

  Oh my god. The first customer must have come in while I was busy looking at the art.

  And I'd just fallen right into him.

  Of course.

  Chapter Four

  *

  "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" I called out, my voice slightly muffled as I pulled my face out from the man's shirt. Good god, I'd just fallen right into the arms of one of my customers! I could already feel the blood rushing to my cheeks; I'd be blushing scarlet when I stood back up.

  "No worries," the man replied, his deep, rich voice sounding amused. "Here, are you okay?"

  I started to shape the words that yes, I was totally fine, but my ankle twisted dangerously as I tried to put weight back on my feet. "Er, my ankle's a little twisted," I said, still not able to see anything but white dress shirt in front of my eyes.

  "Here. Loop your arm over my shoulder, and I'll get you back over to the desk at the front."

  I did as commanded, reaching up with my arm. I felt it slide across broad shoulders, and the man's arm curled around my waist, the heat of his skin soaking in through my blouse. I turned and glanced up at him, and felt my breath catch in my throat for a moment.

  Wow. I'd certainly picked the right man's arms to fall into, I thought distantly to myself with the part of my mind that wasn't busy tracing hearts on the inside of my eyeballs. My rescuer smiled down at me, showing off perfect teeth from beneath a head of brown hair that, despite clearly having had a comb dragged through it this morning, still gave off a slightly shaggy aura. He was clean-shaven, revealing a strong jaw and features that wouldn't have looked out of place on a movie screen. I could practically see him as he piloted a boat with one hand and rescued a damsel in distress with the other. His shoulders were strong beneath my arm, and he seemed to hold me up without much effort. I felt his biceps shift slightly as he adjusted his grip.

  "Hi," he said, smiling down at me.

  I struggled against the rush of hormones that flooded through me at the sight of that smile, sending a quiver through my already shaky knees. "Hi," I managed to reply, sparks electrocuting my brain and running down my spine to collect in the pit of my stomach.

  "Alright, here we go." My mysterious rescuer helped me move back over to the chair behind the front desk. "Now, how's your foot feel? Can you move your toes?"

  This man, this gorgeous man, was looking down at my toes! Toes which, I realized with a pang, hadn't seen much attention from me in the last few weeks. I hadn't painted them in a while, and my last pedicure was months ago, back when I was still a married woman. Hastily, I gave my toes a wiggle to confirm that they still worked.

  "Yep, yep, everything's fine," I quickly answered, pulling my feet down before he could see their disreputable condition. "I think it's just the shoes, actually. Shows me what happens when I wear high heels."

  He nodded. "Too bad. They look nice on you."

  Oh god, he's going to be gay, a little part of my head thought, as the rest exploded into hearts and started drafting up the wedding invitations. No straight man looks at shoes and thinks about how they make a woman appear.

  Still, I could hold out hope that maybe he was straight, and single, and interested... I didn't see a ring on his finger, after all! I also didn't know his name - something that I intended to change as soon as possible.

  "Well, thank you for rescuing me," I said, sitting up a little straighter in the chair as I kicked off my stupid high heels under the desk. I held my hand out to him. "I'm Rebecca Grace, the manager of the Halesford Gallery."

  "Grace?" he repeated back to me, raising his eyebrows. "Are you sure that's your last name?"

  Here came the blushing again. "Yes, it is - and yes, it's ironic," I admitted, desperately fighting against the blood flowing to suffuse my face. "But that's my name. If it helps, you can just call me Becca."

  "Becca," the man said. Oh wow, my name sounded amazing when he said it. "I don't think I've seen you around here before, Becca."

  A little part of me observed that he still hadn't revealed his own name. "I actually just started," I said. "My uncle is Preston Halesford, the owner of the gallery - but he's hoping to move away from some of the day-to-day handling of the business, and he thought that I'd be perfect to run it." I was ad-libbing a bit, of course, but maybe these thoughts had passed through Uncle Preston's mind, instead of him only focusing on how I desperately needed a job to get back on my feet. No need to tell this sexy, tall drink of water in front of me about my current divorced situation.

  "Ah, that makes sense. Preston mentioned that to me recently And how are you liking things so far?"

  Hold your tongue a bit, I told myself. Don't go spilling everything to this man. The thoughts, however, melted under his sexy, warm smile like an ice cube under a blowtorch.

  "Well, given how this gallery's attacked my ankle on my very first day, I'm not thrilled," I admitted. "And I guess we don't get a lot of customers, given how no one else has come in all morning. And the customers who do come in, I'm supposed to be bending over backwards to keep them happy."

  "Really?" The way he raised his eyebrows made me replay my last words in my head. Oh god, here came another blush.

  "Not literally, not like I'm supposed to flirt with them or sleep with them," I stammered out, my face growing more red by the word. Get ahold of yourself, Becca! Get this under control! "But I'm supposed to watch for these two guys, Carter and Onyx, and do whatever they ask because they keep the gallery afloat. It just seems rather demeaning."

  "Have you met either of them yet?" the man inquired.

  I shook my head. "But from what I've heard, they're probably both stuck-up jerks, all full of themselves and expecting me to jump through whatever ridiculous hoops they hold up."

  The man didn't respond to this, just biting his lip slightly. My lord, was he intentionally trying to melt my skirt right off of me? "Anyway, I don't think I caught your name," I went on, desperately trying to change the topic. "What was it, again?"

  His smile widened. "I'm Carter James."

  Oh shit.

  Carter burst out laughing as I squeezed my eyes shut and, just for good measure, dropped my forehead down onto the stack of papers on my desk. "And yes, I can tell you right now that I am totally a stuck-up jerk. I can't wait for you to go jumping through all of the ridiculous hoops that I hold up."

  "Oh my god," I groaned, still pressing my forehead against the cool papers on top of my desk. I'd be beet red when I lifted my head back up. "Oh shit. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you-"

  A finger tapped on top of my own hand on the desk, and I lifted my head back up. The top sheet of paper clung to my forehead, and I brushed it off. Carter, fortunately, was still smiling at me.

  "Relax," he told me, patting the back of my hand with his fingers. "If I hadn't met me, I'd probably think that I was a total jerk, too."

  "Yeah, but I also fell on you, made you carry me back to my desk," I pointed out. "That's about the worst impression that I could possibly make."

  "No - you could also have insulted my mother," Carter said. "Although if you're still planning on slipping that in now-"

  "No no no," I quickly burst out. "I'm sure that she's a lovely woman. Uh, not that I would presume anything-"

  To stop myself from babbling some more, I reached up and clapped a hand over my mouth. I held up one finger, indicating to
Carter that he ought to just give me a second. I slowly took in a deep breath and let it out, trying to calm my overheated brain.

  "Hi," I finally said, doing my best to put on a smile and pull together the tattered shreds of my professionalism.

  "Hi," Carter answered me, smiling back. "I'm Carter James, real estate agent for the area."

  "Rebecca Grace, although everyone just calls me Becca," I said. I took Carter's hand and gave it a shake. "I'm the new manager of the art gallery. Feel free to take a look around, and let me know if you have any questions."

  "Good job." Carter gave my hand a little squeeze, and I tried to not think about how smooth and dexterous his fingers felt. "That sounded very professional."

  "Really?" I reluctantly let go of his hand as my smile slipped away. "I hate to burden you with this, but I'm totally out of my depth here. The only thing that I have any experience selling is tomatoes."

  "Tomatoes?" His eyebrows rose questioningly.

  I nodded. "When I was a teenager, I helped out at the local farmer's market. The stall that hired me was for a tomato farm, so I spent every Saturday morning during the summer and fall sitting behind a bench and selling tomatoes to little old ladies."

  "Ah, I see." It looked like Carter was trying very hard to hold back a laugh. "I bet you were very good at selling those - and I'm sure the skills will transfer."

  "You think so?"

  He nodded. "Besides, most of the tourists who wander into this gallery are little old ladies, on vacation and looking for something to buy with their retirement savings or Social Security checks to remind them of their visit out to the west coast. If you could charm them into buying tomatoes, you can probably charm them into buying little oil paintings to bring back to their senior centers or hang on the walls of their little retirement communities."

  "Sure," I agreed. In the back of my mind, I couldn't help but think that, despite his reassuring words, Carter was definitely not a little old lady. Rather, he was something new and exciting and a little scary, making butterflies flutter in the pit of my stomach.

  Surreptitiously, I snuck another glance down at his hand. I hadn't felt anything when he shook my hand, but a look now confirmed that there was no ring present. So he wasn't married, at least. That didn't mean that he wasn't engaged, or dating someone, or otherwise off the market - and drawing my eyes back up to his handsome face, with those lively, sparkling eyes, I felt all but certain that some other woman had snatched up this charming, sexy model of a man already.

  Still, I owed it to myself to ask.

  Turning over a new leaf, I repeated to myself inside my head, drawing up my courage. Moving away from Barry, leaving the past behind. I'll just ask him out for a drink after work or something, really low-key. Maybe to go see a movie.

  Oh god. I don't know any movies that are playing. I can't even remember the last time I saw a commercial for a movie. Becca, what are you doing? Get ahold of yourself!

  "Becca?"

  I shot back to the present at the sound of Carter's voice. "Yes? Find something interesting?" My voice came out about half a dozen pitches too high, and I cursed my vocal cords for betraying me.

  Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice. "Actually, I was wondering if you had any lunch plans for today."

  "Lunch?" My voice sounded like it belonged to a chipmunk.

  He nodded. "You know, that meal that you typically eat around this time? There's a great little spot just around the corner, if you'd like to join me-"

  "Sure, I'd love to!" I answered, beaming up at him. I didn't know whether an angel had decided that I finally deserved some good luck, or if this was just the power of positive thinking, but I wasn't about to let this chance slip through my hands. Me, have lunch with a handsome man like Carter James?

  The only thing better would be if Barry happened to wander by and see how much better his replacement looked.

  "We could discuss some of the business I do with the gallery," Carter went on, and my hopes faded somewhat. Oh. He wanted to talk business, not tell me about how much he wanted to find a nice woman to sweep off her feet.

  Still, I'd take it.

  Continuing to smile, I stood up - and then felt the chill of the wooden floor on my bare feet. I glanced down at my feet, frowning, and then back up at Carter.

  "Er, do you think anyone will notice if I go barefoot?"

  Chapter Five

  *

  Ten minutes later, I strolled nonchalantly behind Carter into a little open cafe around the corner, hoping that no one dropped their eyes down to take in my bare feet. I had tried slipping back into my ridiculous high heels, but I barely managed to take half a dozen steps in them before my ankle gave an alarming wobble and I retreated back to my desk.

  "I'm sure that no one will notice," Carter offered gallantly, although even I could tell that he was lying through his straight, perfectly white teeth.

  Eventually, I settled for walking over to the cafe barefoot but carrying my shoes along with me in one hand, so that I could slip them back on while sitting at the table. This way, I figured, no one would notice that anything was off if they happened to glance under our table and catch a glimpse of my feet.

  Perhaps to distract me from the curious sensation of the sidewalk under my exposed toes, Carter chatted as we walked, telling me about his business. It turned out to be more interesting than I'd expected; I never thought much about real estate before this.

  "I've never really thought much about real estate before this," I confessed, figuring that I ought to contribute to the dialogue. "When I had a house, I mean, I didn't deal with any of the purchase or anything."

  Too late, I wondered if this could end up leading the conversation down the wrong path. After all, that house had been owned not by me, but by my ex-husband. Nothing kills a flirty conversation with a new man like bring up the hated ex.

  "Most people don't really think about real estate, I'd say," Carter answered me, shrugging. "And I agree that it's definitely not a sexy profession. No woman dreams of falling for a hot, bare-chested real estate agent."

  I looked at Carter, imagining him with his chest bare as he swept me off my feet, and nearly walked straight into a lamp post as my brain short-circuited.

  "But at the same time," he continued, "it's definitely a place to make a living. There's a lot of money in real estate, after all, and lots of people who are more than happy to pay someone to not have to deal with the whole thing."

  "And that's what you do?"

  He nodded. "I manage most of the downtown commercial properties around here. All the storefronts and restaurant buildings and such. If someone wants to rent one of those places for their business, they come to me, and I find out what they can get for their money. On the other side, if someone owns one of those buildings but they want to be more hands-off and not have to deal with collecting rent and checking in on their tenants, they can hire me to manage the building for them."

  "So you fill both roles."

  "And sometimes, I have a building owner come to me with an empty building just after a business owner has stopped by and requested a space!" Carter grinned as he spread his hands wide, and then brought them together. "All I need to do is connect the two of them, take my commission, and sit back and relax."

  "So where does the art come in?" I asked.

  Carter paused for a moment as we sat down at the cafe and picked up the menus that the waitress had deposited on the table in front of us. "Well, leasing out these buildings often requires some staging; I need to make the building look attractive. If it's a communal building with a bunch of different offices in it, for example, there needs to be some nice artwork hanging in the lobby so that clients have something to look at while they wait. It's also harder to convince tenants to move into some place that's bare-bones, with zero decoration."

  I nodded. It made sense. My eyes traveled back to the menu, and I realized, as my stomach let out a little gurgle, that I actually felt quite hungry.

  Bu
t then again, with Carter sitting across from me, maybe I should order a salad or something small, just enough to tide me over so that I wouldn't look like a total glutton as I stuffed myself. Making matters worse, Carter looked up at me over the menu. "What looks good?"

  I shrugged. "I'm not sure yet," I lied, as my mind conjured up an image of a big hearty sandwich.

  "Well, get whatever you want. My treat," he said, which didn't make my anxiety lessen at all. Now I needed to make sure not to pick out something expensive, either, or else it would seem like I was taking advantage of his generosity!

  Eventually, arguing fiercely against my stomach, I picked out a salad with grilled chicken and some avocado. I conveyed my order to the waitress, trying to not sound grumpy. Meanwhile, Carter had no problem in ordering a nice big sandwich and fries for himself. I wondered if he'd mind if I stole a few of them off of his plate.

  "So, you own a house?" Carter asked after taking a sip of his water, and my spirits plummeted.

  "Uh, no, not exactly." How could I phrase this without adding in all sorts of ugly details about my past? "I used to, but I'm now in an apartment, actually not far from here." There. Hopefully that would change the topic without leading to more questions.

  But Carter didn't appear quite ready to let it go. "What changed?"

  "I got divorced," I said shortly, seeing no way around it.

  Great. There it was, out there on its own like a fat, pregnant frog. I waited for Carter's whole attitude to change, for him to regard me as used and potentially already damaged goods.

  Instead, he just nodded, as if he'd been half expecting this. "How long ago?"

  "Six months," I said, feeling a little less distraught at the calmness of his tone. "Still picking myself up, if you know what I mean."

  He nodded again. "It's hard. I haven't been through it myself, but I've helped friends with it. Why'd it happen?"

  "Because the bastard cheated on me." What was I doing? Why was I spilling out all my secrets to this man that I barely knew, a man that I was supposed to maintain a professional working relationship with?