“As if you even have to ask.” Arthur laughs heartily. “I’ll take some red, my dear boy. The color of passion.”
Gabriel grins at the expression on my face, which I’m sure is one of confusion. I still don’t know who this man is or what he’s doing here, but I actually kind of like him already. He’s quirky and a little over the top, but all of the best people usually are.
Arthur swirls the wine in his glass like a true connoisseur, smelling and tasting its true essence as he sips. “Let’s get down to business then,” he says as he smacks his lips together. “And then I can decide whether I like the wine or not. Nothing brings out the taste like a beautiful piece of art.”
Gabriel nods and gives me a sheepish grin before he pulls a large folder from one of the kitchen drawers, sliding it in front of Arthur. When he opens it up, I feel all of the blood drain from my face.
Inside is something so intimate, so personal, my cheeks are burning with embarrassment.
“Ah yes.” Arthur pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Gabriel told me you had an affinity for black and white.”
I swallow a big gulp of wine as I watch his eyes rake over every detail of a photo I took in Central Park. A small girl sitting on the sidelines of a playground, watching all of the other children play without her. It’s just one of the many that Gabriel’s had blown up and printed off for Arthur to see tonight. All without my knowledge, of course.
“Can you tell me why that is?” Arthur asks, moving to the next photograph.
“I’m sorry…” I stutter over the words. “I don’t understand.”
“Your affinity for black and white,” Arthur says, swinging his gaze back to me. “Why do you like it?”
“Oh.” I blink. “Well, I’m not really sure. It’s just something about the photographs, I’ve always liked them. The way they look once everything’s been stripped away. And all that’s left is…”
“Emotion,” Arthur finishes for me.
“Yes.” I nod.
Gabriel is grinning, and I can’t understand why. I’m a nervous wreck, and I still can’t tell what Arthur’s thinking as he sorts through the rest of the photos.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he stacks them back into a neat little pile and closes the folder, his gaze darting back to me.
“You’re very young,” he says. “But you have the distinct ability to capture human emotion at its most powerful. That tells me two things.”
I wait for him to finish, and when he doesn’t, I can’t help myself. “And what is that, Mr. Huckabee?”
“The first is that you have a beautiful soul. And the second is that I’d like to work with you.”
I grip the breakfast bar with white knuckles to hold myself up as Gabriel gives me an encouraging smile. I’m lost for words, my throat so thick with emotion I feel like I’m going to burst.
“Arthur owns a contemporary gallery that specializes in photography and new media art,” he explains.
“Of course!” I blurt. “Huck’s Gallery. I must have passed by it a hundred times on my deliveries. I always wanted to stop in but never did.”
“That’s the place,” Arthur says. “So what do you say, young lady? I’d love to have some of your work on display.”
“I’d love that.” I give him a shy smile. “Thank you so much, Arthur.”
“Fantastic.” He rises to his feet and grabs his fancy cane. “I’ll have my assistant make an appointment with you for next week, and we can go over some of the photos together with a fresh pair of eyes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to my weekly salsa class.”
I’m still thanking him profusely as he slips out the door, and soon enough, I’m wrapped in Gabriel’s arms. I squeeze him so tight all of the breath leaves his lungs in a grunt.
“That was very sneaky of you,” I squeak.
“I always knew you were talented baby,” he says. “I just wanted you to believe it too.”
Just as Gabriel pulls me in for a kiss, the doorbell rings again, and I give him a frustrated glance.
“Now what do you have planned?”
“Honestly, nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not sure who it is.”
The person on the other side of the door buzzes again, and Gabriel moves to answer it. The moment he opens it, a tall and regal looking man steps inside, surveying the place with a haughty attitude before his gaze lands on me.
“Gabriel,” he says.
“Richard.”
Gabriel’s voice and posture are both stiff, and instantly I know, this is his father. Richard Maddox.
“Would you care for a drink?” Gabriel asks, gesturing to the bar.
Richard nods and Gabriel pours him a glass while I wring my hands together nervously. I’m not exactly sure what I should do in this situation or whether I should excuse myself or not.
“Victoria, this is Richard Maddox,” Gabriel says in a formal tone. “Richard, this is Victoria.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Richard says, his dark brown eyes crinkling with a polite smile.