by Ella Brooke
Because the truth is, seeing him here…all I want is to be near him. And I know I’ll pay for that later.
We walk down the block to a little coffee shop, and once we’re seated, I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands. He’s watching me, and it feels like I can barely breathe.
“I’m not just here for work,” Dante says after a while.
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice just now.
“The truth is, I missed you so much I was out of my mind with it, Samantha,” he says, and the raw need in his voice nearly undoes me. I close my eyes, trying to fight back the tears that threaten to fall. I’ve been fantasizing about those words for so long now. “Nothing’s been right since you’ve been gone. It’s like part of me walked away with you that night. I’m incomplete without you. I need you, Samantha.”
I open my eyes and look at him. His intense gaze is on me, and I soak it in.
“I spent all that time in Africa. I woke up every morning doing something good with my life. I was finally making my own way instead of just following the path my father laid out for me. I thought I’d feel fulfilled. And in some ways, I did,” he says slowly, and I can’t stop staring at him. “But there was something missing. Like part of me was just… gone. And the truth is that nothing in my life is right without you.”
I can’t stop the tears that come to my eyes. I’ve dreamed of this moment, lying alone in my bed at night, so sure it would never come.
“I love you, Samantha. I love you so damn much, and I need you. I want to be with you, every day of my life. Every night. Through everything, if you’ll have me. Please, baby,” he asks, and I’m a crying, weeping mess.
“Okay,” I find myself saying dumbly between sobs, but it’s all he needs. He scoots into the seat beside me and moves in to kiss me. At that moment, my phone rings, and he backs off with a choked laugh.
I glance at him, and he smiles and shakes his head.
“Answer it, so I can have you all to myself again,” he says with a laugh.
I fumble in my purse and find my phone, wiping my eyes and trying to get myself under control. The number is the same one I called when I scheduled my audition. I glance up at Dante.
“It’s the theater. They’re probably rejecting me.”
“Or not. Won’t know until you answer, though,” he says. He reaches over and takes my hand, and I take a deep breath and hit the button to answer.
“Samantha Day?” a male voice asks.
“Yes.”
“Samantha, this is Robert Magill.” My stomach twists. He’s the producer for the show I just auditioned for.
“Yes, hello, Mr. Magill,” I say, and I hate the way my voice shakes. Dante squeezes my hand.
“We just finished auditions, and I have to say we were deeply impressed by yours.”
“Oh! Thank you so much,” I say.
“In fact, we were so impressed we’d like to offer you a role.”
I barely refrain from screaming in excitement. “That is…thank you!”
“Don’t thank me yet. We’d like to offer you the lead.”
I’m going to faint, and it’s only Dante’s hand in mine that keeps me from totally losing it. I have no idea how I end the call, other than to say yes and thank the man about seventy times before hanging up.
I stare at Dante. “They want me for the lead,” I say, and it doesn’t feel real. “Holy shit.”
The smile he gives me warms my heart, fills all the rough, empty pieces of my soul. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles, and the feel of his lips on me makes tears flood my eyes again.
“Samantha,” he murmurs. “Samantha, baby. I love you so much. I want this life with you. We can make this work. We can do anything, together. We can make our life what we want it to be.”
I nod, and then he finally, finally claims my lips, telling me without words how much he loves me, how much he missed me, how much he needs me, and I do my level best to tell him the same. All I know is I never, ever want him to stop kissing me.
And when he promises that he never will, I know he means it.
THE END
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By Lia Lee
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Chapter One
Nathaniel
The sultry moodiness of Billie Holiday wafts from the speakers as my eyes drift over the gallery. The bright sunlight filtering through the large front bay windows could make even the most lackluster art shine right about now. It gleams across the glossy wooden floors, and the air smells of autumn and freshly brewed coffee.
If I were alone in my gallery with the art and Billie, this morning would have been perfect.
But I’m not.
This is one of those times when my business feels like work. I try to rein in my irritation as I look down at the printout in my hands—the plans I was emailed this morning.
“Yeah, this isn’t going to work, Roberto.” The plans are for an upcoming installation we’re planning for the gallery, and they are absolute trash. I shake my head. My curator, Roberto, used to be the best, but for the last few months, he’s been off his game. I know he’s dealing with personal issues, and I sympathize, but this is really unacceptable. Five years ago, I would’ve fired him for such a lack of detail in his work, but… well, I’m not the man I used to be.
I look over the layout some more. “It’s a fucking mess.”
“It’s not that bad,” Roberto says, on the defensive. I hold his gaze, and after a moment or two, he looks away. “I just think you’re being overly critical here, boss.”
“Overly critical. Really?” I point to several places on the print-out. “This looks like some junior in art school put it together. Come on, man. You’re better than this. So, do better.”
Roberto rolls his eyes. “Vanessa’s art is all over the place. You know that,” he argues. “There’s no theme, no unifying concept, nothing—”
I glare at Roberto again, and he snaps his mouth shut. “And that’s what we’re going to push here—her work is always fresh. Always surprising. Play that up. Get rid of the straight lines and boring lighting. We’re not hosting a Whistler exhibit, man. Think Pollack. Think beyond the norm. Vanessa’s work might be subjective, but it’ll sell. You know who she is, who she’s married to, and who her friends are. So, get it done.”
Roberto is usually argumentative, but when he knows he’s wrong, at least he has the sense to shut up. And this is one of those times.
I look through the catalog of pieces that Vanessa Duchamp will be showing here in a few weeks. They’re good. This show will definitely draw a crowd, and press coverage, which is always welcome.
I glance around. This place, the gallery I started, the gallery that carries my name on the front window, is my legacy. Every detail—from the dark wood floors to the exposed, glossy black ductwork above and the sleek steel handrail that leads up to the loft and my office—was personally approved by me.
I expect a lot from those who work with me, and Roberto knows that.
“Do you understand what I’m saying here?” I ask him. He pulls the catalog of Vanessa's work over to where he’s standing at the other side of the reception desk.
“I get it,” he says, finally conceding. “I’ll draw up some new ideas and have them to you before I leave today. I was wrong—you’re right. Her work would look ridicul
ous displayed the way I had it planned. I just—”
I cut him off because I know what he’s about to say. His wife, Karla, recently found out some test results. The cancer’s back. She’s already undergoing another round of chemo. “No need to explain. I know. Clear heart, clear mind, okay? Just take some deep breaths, sit down, and try to let the inspiration come. It will, man. You’ve never failed me before now, and I know that you’ll come back to me with something brilliant.”
Roberto goes to say something else just as I reach for my cup to take a much-needed sip of espresso. I am running on about three hours’ sleep, and unfortunately, I hadn’t lost any of it the fun way. I’d been awake, my memories haunting me worse than any nightmare ever has. It’s been five years, and I know my grief should be buried by now, but her face is not one to forget so easily.
I know I’m being a bit of an asshole to Roberto, though, given the situation, and I know my rough night is partly to blame. One of these days, sleep will come easily again. Anytime now would be great. But despite our personal demons, this here is business. My business. And the show must always go on.
At that moment, the gallery’s glass front door suddenly opens, and a gust of wind sweeps in, bringing a flurry of leaves and the smell of traffic exhaust with it. It’s like watching something in slow motion: Roberto had leaned one of our newly acquired pieces against a nearby wall, and the incoming breeze catches it and sends it crashing to the floor. It hits the wood floor with a loud smack and then slides a little bit, just to add insult to injury.
“Shit,” I mutter as Roberto rushes over to pick it back up.
“It’s fine,” Roberto calls out, relief evident in his voice.
“It better be. Why the hell would you put it there? That’s twenty thousand dollars down the drain if it has even a little bit of damage,” I fume.
“It’s fine, Nathaniel. Really.” Roberto looks the painting over after propping it up in a more protected area of the gallery. “Not a scratch on it.”
I’ll check it out later for myself. I give Roberto another scowl and turn to the front door— to the source of the chaos.
It’s some little blonde. I feel another spike of irritation. College brats are always walking in and asking if they can show their work here, like I just take anyone who walks in off the street. Unfortunately, my irritation is paired with something that feels an awful lot like attraction, and I tamp that emotion down as soon as I recognize it.
“Look, miss, we’re not open yet, and you may have just damaged that painting barging in here like that,” I growl.
I notice a quick response, almost a wince, before the young woman calms herself again. I take a few steps toward her before I really get a good look at her…
And she is fucking stunning.
Her dark eyes meet mine, almost like a challenge, and it’s like lightning striking. She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, and the corner of her mouth quirks up as if there’s some joke here that only she is in on.
Once I tear my eyes away from her gaze, I’m able to take in the rest of her. She’s a petite little thing, probably coming up to about my chin. Her proportions are perfect: a tiny waist, curvy hips and the kind of breasts I just know would fill my hands nicely.
I shove the thought away. She’s clearly too damn young. Early twenties, I guess. She’s dressed in a black skirt and blazer that hugs her curves perfectly, with a light pink blouse peeking between her lapels. She has the kind of legs I envision resting on my shoulders as I make her scream my name: shapely and firm. She could leave those black stilettos on, though. My entire body feels warm, and I’m all too aware of the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve had a good, thorough fuck.
I’ll have to fix that.
My mouth has gone dry, and I force my eyes back up to her face. She still wears the same look, as if she’s trying to size me up, but there is a little glint in her eyes now, like maybe I’ve annoyed her.
Cute.
She’s tiny and curvaceous and about halfway between being flustered and wanting to rip me a new one.
Still, cute or not, she’s not supposed to be here, and she’s already caused enough chaos— besides giving me the beginning of what will be an embarrassing hard-on if she doesn’t get the hell out of my gallery soon.
“We open at one o’clock,” I tell her. “And I really, really hope you didn’t damage that painting.”
Chapter Two
Poppy
I feel my face heat in embarrassment and nervousness when he practically yells at me about the damned painting. Again. But that’s never stopped me from running my mouth before, so why should it now?
“Oh, please. The wind blew that painting down. Blame the wind or whoever set it near the entrance.”
The man’s jaw drops, and I keep going. This suit needs to learn a lesson in how not to speak to a woman.
“Seriously, you’re lucky I’m not a customer, mister. If I was, you can bet that I’d be telling everyone I know not to bother coming in here because this gallery’s staff is rude as hell.”
He is still standing there, but now there’s a look in his eyes, a little lift at the corner of his mouth, and I suspect that he’s maybe laughing at me. It’s almost impossible to ignore the way he’s watching me, and I get the distinct impression that maybe he’s trying to figure out what I look like naked. Typical. The arrogance is pretty much seeping off him.
“Point taken, miss.” His voice is deep, rich, like the deep ochres and siennas of a Rembrandt. Suddenly, I go from loathing the guy to feeling a light flutter in my most secret place. “And who might you be, if you're not a customer?”
I hesitate but then recover. I have every damn right to be here. I straighten my spine and look him in the eye. “I’m the new intern.”
The guy doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, his gaze stays on my face for several long moments before traveling down my body as if he’s following every curve, every dip. I’m annoyed as hell to be looked at like I’m some kind of piece of meat or something, but… I feel this heat low in my belly. No one’s ever looked at me the way he is, like he’s noticing every detail, studying me like I’m one of the sculptures in the far corner of the gallery. Part of the heat comes from the fact that he’s hotter than hell. Dark, wavy hair, and the most arresting hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s clean shaven, with a chiseled jaw and strong neck. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes suggest that he’s older—at least in his late thirties—and one word comes to mind: experienced.
I bet he’s experienced as hell in all kinds of things.
He looks damn good no matter how old he is. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a wide chest. He dwarfs me, even in my three-inch heels. That light flutter has turned into a distinct dampness in my panties. I’ve been attracted to guys before but this… this is just crazy. And absolutely unwanted.
“And your name is?” he asks in a low, almost lazy tone.
I’m pretty sure this guy, asshole though he is, could make me come with nothing more than his voice if he really wanted to. Holy shit.
“Poppy McAdams,” I tell him. He gives me a slow nod, still looking at me.
“Well. Ms. McAdams. Why don’t you wait upstairs in the loft? The gallery owner will be with you shortly to go over your duties.” I nod, and the corner of his mouth rises, just a little. “Try not to break anything when you’re up there.”
I open my mouth to tell him off, but he turns away, giving me a good view of his backside, which is almost as nice as his front.
The good-looking ones are always assholes. Always.
Without another word, I head for the stairs and make my way to the loft. I swear I can feel him looking at me, but that’s stupid. Or is it? After all, he’s just a stereotypical man. He probably can’t help himself. And men wonder why feminism is a growing movement?
Of course, when I turn around, his eyes are on me, and he gives me the smallest of nods before I turn around again and continue on my way. I wonde
r if he works here. He must, right? He’s going to be my co-worker. Great. At the moment, I have no idea whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
I finish climbing the stairs and spot an office to the left that says Gallery Director, Nathaniel Stone. The door is open, but there’s a little reception area just outside of it, and I wait there, claiming one of the seats near the door. I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap, then take a deep breath. I’m not nervous. I mean, not really. This internship is mine, and I know I’m lucky to have it. This is one of the most prestigious private galleries in the city, and my dad just happens to be Mr. Stone’s driver. I have no problem using whatever advantage I can get and this internship… this was a big deal. While my classmates were scrambling to intern at any little Podunk gallery that would take them, I was going to be working for THE Nathaniel Stone.
I’ve been here before, of course. Not to visit my dad or anything… God, not that. I grimace as I think of my dad. He helped me get this job. I know I should be grateful, and I am. Really. But if he thinks that’s going to make up for the things I’ve seen him do…
I give my head a little shake. No. I’d never been here to visit my dad at work, the way I imagine some daughters do. I’d come here, maybe once a month or so, since my sophomore year of college, when I started realizing what it was I wanted to do with my life. I’d stroll through the gallery, taking in each new piece, every new exhibit, and I’d try to learn. Why had the pieces been arranged like that? Did the gallery staff truly seem to understand the artists’ intentions, and display the works in a way that honored that? In this case, I always felt like the Stone Gallery was top notch.
And now here I am.
Thinking about it now, it’s strange that I can’t recall every seeing Mr. Stone. However, I do remember Dad saying something, years ago, about the gallery owner being on hiatus due to a death in the family. Apparently, the gallery had almost gone under at the time.
