“No,” Lennox says slowly. “It doesn’t bode well for you at all.”
There’s a weird tension in the air, and I wonder if the two of them have any history. Maybe Lennox isn’t too pleased about chasing down all these works of art for their rich owners. Either way, I don’t want to be stuck in the middle of something.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, “I’m going to head to the ladies’ room.”
I slip through the crowd and find the bathrooms. Of course, they’re brand new and full of polished marble. I’ve just entered a stall when a group of girls comes into the room, laughing and chattering away. A voice I recognize distinguishes itself. Chelsea. “She only got the job because she’s fucking St. Clair. Duh,” she says. I freeze in my stall, my blood gone cold. “I mean, it’s hard to blame her. That guy is yum!”
My stomach clenches. They’re talking about me.
“How do you know?” another girl asks.
“Have you seen her resume? Please,” Chelsea sneers. “No one is going to take that girl seriously no matter how much she dresses herself up. Besides, St. Clair’s such a playboy. In a week, he’ll have some new hotter girl on his arm and Cinderella will be back scrubbing floors where she belongs.”
My face gets hot, and I feel the sting of tears in my eyes, but I don’t move.
“She seemed nice when she talked about visiting hospitals because of her mom,” the other girl says.
“Whatever, sob story, ugh. She doesn’t belong in this world, and she’ll be forced to see it soon enough. Anyway, did you see what Fifi was wearing? O.M.G, can you say desperate?”
Their conversation moves on, but I’m forced to wait, silent in the stall until the door closes shut behind them.
I feel sick. Sure, Chelsea is being a jealous bitch, but her words bring up the same fears I’ve been trying to ignore this whole time.
Maybe I don’t belong. Maybe I never will.
And the things she said about St. Clair… I’m not naïve, a man like that must have women throwing themselves at him 24/7, but I’ve been too swept up in the romance of it all to think about that. But if he is a playboy – if he does date a new woman every week – what does that mean for us? Or worse, what if there is no ‘us’?
I head back out to the party, trying to ignore my doubts. Then I see St. Clair across the room, standing very close to a woman I don’t recognize. She’s beautiful and sophisticated, with long blonde hair and a stunning black gown. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s clear she’s flirting with Charles, placing her hand on his chest and leaning in too close to laugh with him.
I feel jealousy rising in my chest, but I try to push it away. We spent one night together. We haven’t event talked about what it meant, if anything, and it’s not like he’s my boyfriend. I have no real claim on his attention, but still, seeing them together slices right through me.
I try to get my feeling under control. I can’t get too emotional—he’s my boss. And he’s gorgeous. There are always going to be women hitting on him. This is something I need to get used to. He’s not mine.
As I watch them, St. Clair laughs again. The woman hugs him and my control is a distant memory. Is Nona right, what she said about letting my heart get swept up? I have worked so hard to find a place for myself in the art world, and no matter what Chelsea said, I’m just starting to prove myself. I can’t let my feelings ruin this opportunity to launch my career – however much I want St. Clair.
Priorities, Grace.
Instead of going right back to him, I do my best to network for the rest of the evening: chatting to the hospital board, collectors and the rest of the rarefied guests. St. Clair finds me just as people are starting to leave.
His eyes are a painter’s dream, and my resolution to stay focused on the business side of our relationship starts to evaporate as he walks me out of the lobby into the cool night air. “I’m happy to have Arturo take you home,” he says. “Or we could go to my place for a nightcap.”
He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. Those eyes are on mine, sparkling with heat and suggestion.
“Um, well…” I can’t help it. Just like that, my desire to go back to his house is nearly overwhelming. I want to grab him and pull him close, run my hands through his hair. Discover his body all over again.
But I remember what Chelsea said – and how it felt, watching him flirt with that woman. I swallow thickly. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. I think it might be better if we, uh, hit pause on our romance for now. Or whatever it might be.” I look away, feeling my cheeks flush.
He sounds disappointed. “Oh.” He drops his arm but doesn’t let go of my hand and the heat of his skin against mine almost burns through my willpower. “Right.”
“For now,” I say, awkwardly. “You know, being colleagues, professional is probably the way to go here, right?”
He lets go. “Yes, of course. I totally understand.”
“You do?” I’m equal parts relieved and disappointed.
“You’re smart to separate business from pleasure. I guess I’m not so good at drawing the line.” He clears his throat. “But if you ever decide you would like to mix them up again…”
I playfully swat at his bicep, relief washing through me. “So we’re okay?”
“Better than okay,” he reassures me. “I think we’re going to make a great team. Professionally speaking, of course.”
We reach his car. “Take the driver. I’ll grab a taxi.” He winks at me as he backs away and I think Dear god, Grace, are you really letting that fine ass walk away? He looks so good, framed in the streetlight, it makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing turning him down. “See you Monday, super star,” he says and disappears into the night before I can change my mind.
Sometimes being responsible is such a buzz-kill.
CHAPTER 4
If I was concerned about things being awkward between us now, I shouldn’t have worried. St. Clair is so busy with meetings all week that except for a quick nod and smile in the hallway, our paths barely cross. Luckily I’m so inundated with work I don’t have time to dwell on our awkward goodbye in the street after the hospital gala, or my decision to hit pause on those perfect lips coming in for a kiss, that carved body pressed against mine…wait, why did I do that again? Work, Grace, remember? That career you’ve been seeking for your entire adult life? Oh yeah, that.
Besides, I have so much to keep me busy, I barely have time to think. My work is incredible—even better than I dreamed. I keep track of international art sales and dealer buzz, research potential clients, investors, and artists. I visit gallery and garage openings like I did with my mom, and stay up late reading industry tipster sites to stay on top of the latest news. I feel like I’ve been thrown into the deep end of the pool to sink or swim, but I love that St. Clair trusts that I’ll make it to the other side. It’s been so long since I cared enough to try this hard at anything, and I have to admit, I’m enjoying it. Even the di Fiores have been supportive of my new work schedule, leaving warm plates of food at my door in the evenings and waving me off every morning as I head out to the office. If they’re missing my waitressing, I haven’t heard about it, and I hope I don’t let anybody down by allowing this job to eat my life right now.
My new assistant, Maisie, is godsend, helping with anything I need, just like she promised. I stop by her office, which is really the large luxurious area outside St. Clair’s corner suite. “Hi Grace,” she says. “Did you ever find that email from Porter?”
“Yes, actually I wanted to ask you about that. Porter says there’s a great new artist having a show, and I think St. Clair should invest in this guy, which means…” Maisie has started typing again, while still looking at me, showing off her enviable multitasking skills. “Sorry for boring you with details. I just need to talk to him. Is there a time when he’s not busy?”