by Sarah Andre
“Wait—”
“I’m grateful for your time, Gretch. I’ll be okay because he really does love me. Last week, he left some flowers from the garden and a note saying he was sorry.”
The rote sentences came as no surprise, but guilt still squeezed Gretch’s heart. Except for the one time she’d convinced Eve to start a plan, each call ended with this tone of resignation. As always, Gretch reiterated her assurance of support, but when the line disconnected, she slid the headset off with a frustrated grunt.
“One day she’ll be ready,” Zamira said in her rich, soothing voice. Her fingers shaped each word gracefully as she spoke.
Gretch recognized the signs for one and day. She also knew a few swear words, which she signed back. “Give me five minutes with that husband,” she retorted, jaw stiff.
“Unwise. That man has no problem hitting a woman.” Another call came through, and Zamira reached for her headset, placing it carefully over her elegant peach hijab. “Your shift ended ten minutes ago. Go enjoy your Sunday.”
Gretch made no move to leave, although she straightened the cubicle for the next volunteer, Sandra, who was chronically late. No way would Gretch leave Zamira alone. What if another call came in? No one deserved to be put on hold when it took every ounce of courage to place the call in the first place.
Gretch scrubbed her fingers through her hair, both to release frustration and fluff up her headset hairdo. Enjoy your Sunday. Knowing Eve would face that bastard when his shift ended?
Gretch sipped her coffee. Her day was officially wrecked. She should just go home and do laundry. No, Dwayne was visiting his family; being alone when she was this frustrated wasn’t a good idea. Maybe head to the gym and lift weights until her muscles shrieked as loudly as the thoughts in her head? Too many men. She couldn’t deal with the entire gender at the moment. She needed a place that renewed her faith in couples in love. A walk through Lincoln Park? Watch the world go by at D’Angelo’s Café? It had received top reviews in last Sunday’s Tribune for romantic ambiance. Granted, it was across the city, but the afternoon loomed, lonely and empty.
On the corner of the desk, her muted phone screen lit with an incoming text. Brandon.
You left too soon. Let’s meet up so I can repay the (.gif of fireworks bursting.)
A shudder rolled through her. She typed a cryptic blow-off. Men were not on the agenda today. At all.
Even in the blinding afternoon sun, Sean recognized Gretch’s willowy figure and spiky platinum hair like he would a Bernini masterpiece or the first strands of La Boheme’s Che Gelida Manina aria. His heart beat so erratically that if EKG leads had been stuck to his torso, an ambulance would be screaming in the distance. The sudden hush couldn’t be his imagination. He glanced around and yep—the other patrons were as drawn to her as if an asteroid streaked toward the peaceful café.
Gretch jaywalked across the wide street, her long-legged stride and confident poise a smoke-and-mirrors trick hiding her prickly temperament. Okay, that wasn’t accurate. She defined bold majesty, like some mythological warrior goddess. She took what she wanted, said what was on her mind, and didn’t suffer gawking fools. He’d fallen hard for her fearlessness, her determination to live life on her terms, but he’d quickly learned to worship her from afar. Any verbal encounter meant matching her acerbic wit to the point of a WWE smackdown. He’d reigned as champion until last night, across the bar’s dance floor. He hadn’t been able to shut down the pathetic pining fast enough.
Sean set down his tea cup before the tremor in his fingers outed him further. Pull it together!
So he’d fucked up last night. The bar scene was her turf, and being the best restorer at Moore and Morrow was his. But here—this café? It was the perfect place to finally show her he was dateable. Hi, have a seat. Can I buy you a coffee? How hard was that? What if they had a great conversation? Found lots in common? Sean steadied his erratic breathing, as if facing down a martial arts opponent.
She headed closer, her eyes locking on to the last empty wrought-iron table just as a couple carrying a loaded tray nabbed the seats. Sean grinned at the haughty displeasure flashing across her face.
Those Queen of Fucking Everything expressions. Last year he’d impulsively bought a tin of peppermints with that phrase emblazoned across the lid, but it still lay at the bottom of his knapsack because she was so out of his league. Today? This was serendipitous. Hi, have a seat. Can I buy you a coffee?
At ten feet away, her gaze landed on him. Her stride stalled. His introverted instinct was to pretend he didn’t see her, but one did not not notice Gretch. Sean forced his hand into an indifferent wave.
She scanned the populated tables once more and halted at his. The perfect spring day morphed into air so oppressive he had to breathe through his mouth. His heart thudded like a conga drum. Here goes. “Hi—”
“You do realize you’re taking up an entire table for four.”
The invitation died on his lips. His sarcastic alter ego awoke like Godzilla. “Is this your charm-school way of asking to sit with me?”
“Hell no. I can’t tolerate men today.”
“I see.” He ignored the insecure side of him that was paralyzed by her ire. She’d said men, so A: this wasn’t about him; and B: she’d included him in the species subset. His brothers wouldn’t have been that generous. Sean touched the knapsack at his feet. “Allow me to vacate, so that you, a single, can occupy the table for four.”
She pursed her lips. Not like his logic had stumped her—more like she’d expected her brushoff to be met with laughter and a second, cajoling invitation to sit with him. His breath streamed out. Oh shit. Why couldn’t he instinctively know how to act before everything became a social gaffe?
He sat back and kicked out the opposite chair with his foot. “Have a seat.”
“How gallant.” Gretch folded into it sideways, hooking a slim leg over the arm. He’d never seen her in jeans, and impossibly, they emphasized her coltish legs more than miniskirts. Her stilettos were a shiny Ferrari red and sharply tapered at the toe. She cocked her head and assessed him with eyes a unique blend of rosy brown and kobicha. In his spare time, he’d tried to re-create that exact shade with his paint palette, to no avail.
She seemed oblivious to the men around her, but their voracious glances emboldened him.
“They don’t have wait service out here,” he said without stuttering, drooling, or his voice cracking. “Can I get you a coffee? Pastry?” A tin of mints that describes you perfectly?
“No. Thank you.” She tapped long, red nails on the table. “Any more caffeine and I’ll turn into a comic book supervillain.”
And this was where he got stuck. Should he cite stats on caffeine and its effects on the human body? He could expound for hours. What would guys like Jace do with that cute supervillain remark? They’d say something cute and goofy back. Do it!
“You, uh—smell like cayenne pepper.” He chugged his decaffeinated tea. Seriously, it’d be so great to choke and die on the spot.
She arched a brow. “Why are you here?”
He glanced at his cup instead of replying.
“I mean, why aren’t you cleaning the Wickham art? You told Hannah you’d finish this weekend.”
“I worked all day. I’ll wrap up tomorrow.” He frowned at the third degree. It wasn’t like she was his boss. “Why are you here?” So much for serendipity.
Gretch nodded at the D’Angelo Café sign with royal indifference. “The grand opening was written up in the Tribune.” She kicked her leg around and sat up. Her heel struck the pavement with a sharp click. “Why were you at Teenie’s Martinis last night?”
He swallowed convulsively. Answer honestly or with protective snark? He placed the cup on the table, turning it in microscopic increments until the café logo faced him squarely. “I overheard you tell Hannah where you were going.” He traced the logo with his thumbnail. “Thought I’d check it out. Buy you a drink.”
“Then why didn
’t you?”
He paused. He’d braced for: “I’d have to be awfully drunk to accept a drink from you.” What now? No way would he tell Gretch he’d lost his nerve, bumped into the other woman slinking his way out the back door, and succumbed to her lewd proposition. “Turns out I’m not into that scene.” Any of it. But because Gretch hadn’t battered him with the sentence he’d expected, he added, “So…would you have had a drink with me?”
She cocked her head and examined her nails instead of answering. Sean glanced at the patrons, the bustling square, the long shadows easing toward their table. Five cars slowed for the traffic light. He retraced the logo, his knee jiggling. He should’ve chosen snark, because whatever came out of her mouth next would wound deep. Her silence strained every muscle in him, stretching him like some medieval torture rack. Five more seconds and he’d beg for mercy.
“You’re a nice guy,” she said in that awful, kind tone his brothers’ girlfriends used. He braced for The Adjectives. Weird. Strange. Peculiar… Gretch rested her arms halfway across the table, fingers splayed, still looking at them instead of him. “I was so sure I couldn’t tolerate any man this afternoon without going ballistic, but you’re…different.”
Hope rose. Different wasn’t bad! “Maybe we can—”
A faint smile appeared on her face, and his vocal cords seized. Hope swan-dived off Kilimanjaro, the free fall stealing his oxygen.
“You’d never survive me, Sean.”
The nerd panicking within wholeheartedly believed her. The fourth-degree black belt took exception. “You hardly know me.”
“I date a certain kind of guy for a certain kind of reason.” She reached over and twisted his cup so the logo slanted at an unacceptable sixty-two-degree angle. Immediately his skin crawled with the need to right it, but she’d stuck her chin in her hand and waited, that faint smile still in place, like a cat watching a cornered mouse.
He folded his arms. “And what insurmountable feat does it take to be that guy?” His jiggling knee made the table quake.
Gretch laughed, and the throaty sound washed over him, almost capturing his attention from the cup that needed turning. Desperately.
“It’d take a miracle.” She rose gracefully. “See you at work.”
Sean multitasked dragging the cup into position, watching the smooth sway of her hips, and thinking up a miracle. She wouldn’t tolerate chasing. It’d be smarter to ignore her for a day or two—act as if this encounter hadn’t taken place. He inhaled until his lungs hurt. Amid the dominant aromas of coffee, gas fumes, and cigarette smoke, he could still catch her peppery scent.
His smile hurt his cheeks. She’d called him different. That was huge.
4
“My name is Sami Adyton,” the distinguished elderly gentleman said, bowing over Gretch’s outstretched hand instead of shaking it. “I have an appointment with Walter Morrow.”
Gretch beamed at his gallantry and covertly assessed the two men flanking him. Both were steroid-massive and grim. The one on the right, staring at her with undisguised interest, held a carry-on suitcase horizontally. Interesting. The art restored at Moore and Morrow drew insanely wealthy clients, but no one had ever brought their projects in under bodyguard before. Or maybe Adyton felt safer with them around, given the cane in his right hand.
“He’s expecting you, sir.” Gretch gestured toward the open doors of the conference room. “Please have a seat in there.”
She popped into Walter’s office, but her boss was on the phone, looking cross as he scribbled notes in a file.
“I know it’s critical,” he barked. “I said I’d do it. Do you really need to lecture me on this, Joe?”
The navy suit was one of his best, a sure sign of the importance of his upcoming presentation on why Adyton’s art deserved Moore and Morrow’s expertise. He glanced up, and she motioned to the conference room. “He’s here,” Walter said solemnly. “Okay.” And hung up.
“Adyton brought two bodyguards.”
No surprise flickered across Walter’s face. Doubly interesting. What was in that suitcase?
Walter stood and straightened his already-straight crimson power tie. His nervous expression was so atypical that Gretch blurted, “You look fine. What are they bringing us?”
Walter picked up a thin file, clearly avoiding eye contact. “Don’t you have payroll to attend to?”
Gretch frowned. “You know I’ll have to write up the acquisition contract anyway.”
He passed her without comment. He never acted like this. He never used that rude tone of voice. What was going on? She followed him out. “Should I bring coffee?”
He turned at the conference room entrance. “Payroll, Gretch.”
The second the door clicked behind him, she marched into his office and scooped up his outgoing mail, scanning the papers littering his desk. An inventory list that had handwritten Arabic scrawled in the margins snagged her attention.
Adyton’s name was typed in as seller, and Tomas Hussain was listed as buyer. There were twenty items on the list, and the total of a hundred thousand dollars circled at the bottom. Warehouse location on Knox. Gretch whistled as she crept from the office and hurried down to Hannah’s. Her bestie would cough up why Walter was acting like they were accepting the Crown Jewels. Maybe they were—a hundred thousand dollars’ worth.
“…hope to finish the Picasso shortly,” Hannah said into the phone. “We’ll be ready to transport and rehang this final set at your convenience, sir.” Her face was in flames, her shoulders hitched like a coat hanger was wedged in the back of her lab coat. Had she not named the artist, it still would’ve been obvious who the client was. “Yes… I meant to call you, Harrison. Sir.” Hannah cringed.
Gretch took a seat, smiling her encouragement. How awkward to feel so intimidated by a client who’d probably be your father-in-law before year’s end.
After a few more stilted comments, Hannah hung up and pantomimed blowing her brains out. “It never gets easier.”
Neither did telling Hannah to grow a backbone with Harrison Wickham. “Does Walter know Arabic?”
Hannah’s harried expression morphed into a blank look. “Not that I know of. Why?”
“He’s meeting with a Sami Adyton,” Gretch said. “I don’t have a proposal started. What’s the project?”
“Jeez, I can’t recall.” Hannah rubbed her forehead, clearly on mental overload managing staff and restoration projects, dealing with her sick great-aunt, and moving to a new condo with Devon, who spent most weeks back in New York cleaning up some corporate mess.
“It was in a suitcase, and the client brought two bodyguards.”
“Wow.” Hannah’s brow knitted. “Nothing’s ringing a bell.”
“Are we supposed to get a huge project?” Gretch pressed. Surely Hannah—the co-owner—would know. She’d have to staff for it. “I saw a list on Walter’s desk. Twenty artifacts worth a hundred thousand dollars.” She held up Walter’s outgoing mail as proof she was supposed to be hanging around his desk.
Her bestie shrugged in apology. “I’ll speak to him as soon as he’s through.”
That was about the time Gretch would know, too. He’d need contracts drawn up. No doubt Sean would be chosen as the restoration tech. This was where his obsessive-compulsive tendencies became precious assets.
“Boss?” Sean said from behind.
Gretch started and twisted in her chair. See, the problem with Sean was he moved with the litheness of a panther. Not like he had a slight build or tiptoed. He just constantly appeared out of thin air, taking her by surprise.
As Hannah greeted him, Gretch frowned. He stood in the doorway making direct eye contact with Hannah as if Gretch weren’t three feet away. As if they hadn’t shared a café table yesterday, where he’d clearly indicated he wanted to be more than coworkers.
“You’re late,” she snapped. Not that she had the slightest administrative pull. Nor did she give a shit what time Sean strolled in. It was just an irration
al need to keep stripping away the stoic, almost bored expression he always wore. Besides, it was only common courtesy for him to notice her.
His unreadable dark eyes shifted and swept over her camouflage-print minidress. The flare in his nostrils was barely perceptible—Hannah probably hadn’t caught it—but confidence bloomed hot in Gretch’s chest.
“Is it army-dress-up day?” he asked. His perpetually quizzical eyebrows rose a fraction higher. “Did I not get the memo again?”
Ugh! He was such an ass sometimes. Not one man riding the El this morning had taken his eyes off her, and vanity aside, she’d expected it. Ever since puberty, she’d been a magnet for the baser side of men. Except Sean. His M.O. was no reaction. Even yesterday, when she’d tossed his passive attempt to ask her out back in his face, he hadn’t blinked. No disappointment, no surprise, nothing. Army-dress-up day! “If only you knew a sexy dress when you saw one.”
He lifted a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “The mud color bleaches your skin. Now your choice of makeup has too much yellow tint.”
“Sean,” Hannah admonished, shooting Gretch a look of warning.
“Just explaining the logic behind the color wheel.”
Gretch huffed out a breath. Of all the people to hand out fashion advice. But why escalate? The men on the El hadn’t been looking at her skin tone, and Sean wasn’t looking at her figure. His precision at eyeballing hues and blurting his opinion without regard to whether he insulted someone was legendary. Walter had stopped parading new clientele past their golden boy long ago.
“Was there something you wanted?” Hannah asked him in a gentler tone.
“Logistics of this week.” He straightened and stuffed his fists in his pockets. “The Picasso will be done by the end of the day. If Dane can crate Wickham’s collection, I’ll start on the Art Institute’s Etruscan mosaic.”
“Walter’s meeting with someone.” Again the look of bafflement. It wasn’t like Hannah not to know incoming and outgoing art pieces like a mother knows her children. “His new project might take priority.”
