Coming on a lady’s chest halfway through sex? Please.
I roll my eyes at the thought, draining my glass of wine and setting it down on the floor before curling up with my grandmother’s purple knitted afghan.
Cary Grant would never pull that shit.
2
Lizzie
When I walk into the museum the next morning, the sound of my boots clattering against the marble floors tells me I’m definitely hungover. Ouch. But even through my pounding headache, I still get the same kick as always, passing through the main hall with its gilded ceiling and ornate details. The Met is one of the greatest museums in the world, home to amazing works of art and culture, right on the edge of Central Park. I would come here all the time when I first moved to the city, just wandering the halls and taking in a new exhibition every other weekend. Todd always scoffed at it, saying I was obsessed with the past, but he never understood it wasn’t about the artifacts, but the stories they told. A thousand different cultures over hundreds of years, all asking the same questions about life and love and our place in the world. The day I landed my assistant curator position, it felt like my life was finally back on track—I was doing something just for me, after spending so long following his plan.
But today, I barely give the grand staircase a second glance. Nope, I’m in emergency mode: heading straight for the basement in search of my next fix.
O coffee machine, where art thou?
A whistle pierces straight through my skull. “Someone had fun last night.”
I groan. Our head of corporate PR, Bernard, is at the espresso machine, whipping up something perfect and espresso-adjacent. As usual, he’s impeccably tailored in Italian cashmere and slacks. I hate him for being sober right now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t grovel to get what I need. “How much do you love me?” I say with a begging face.
He takes pity on me. “Enough to stop you making a fool of yourself. Here.”
“Angel.” I grab the tiny cup and gulp it down in one, then hold it out beseechingly.
He sighs. “Just one more, then I’m cutting you off. You’ve got a problem.”
“Sure,” I lie. “Whatever you say.”
He sets the machine on again, then checks his phone. “Shit, I’ve got a donor call. Remember, just one more.” He pauses. “And, umm, maybe do something about that.” He gestures vaguely at my whole body before he heads off.
I don’t blame him. My reflection in the silver espresso machine shows a pasty-faced ghoul staring back at me, so I reach into my purse for a tube of red lipstick, drawing it carefully across my lips. It’s a trick I learned when I moved to the city—red lipstick forgives all sins. You know, like on mornings after I’ve consumed half a bottle of wine while lamenting the death of romance.
I pour another espresso, knowing I’ll be back for more before noon, then navigate the narrow staircase that leads to my basement lair. The main museum itself is all airy hallways and massive exhibition rooms, but behind the scenes, it’s a different story: a warren-like maze of back rooms and storage closets. When they first showed me to my office, a low-ceilinged box in the corner of the basement, I thought it was some kind of joke. Hazing for the newbie on her first day. But now that I’ve settled in, I kind of like it. The ventilation pipes only rumble every half hour or so, and I decorated the walls with framed prints from classic Hollywood films like Bringing Up Baby and The Philadelphia Story, and my big bookcase is jammed with artifacts depicting love and romance through the ages. What can I say? I’m a nerd when it comes to ancient courtship rituals.
I’m just opening my laptop when Skye, my intern, comes bounding into the room. Well, “bounding” may be stretching it a bit since she’s wearing a pair of wedge sandals so high I’m surprised she doesn’t get a nosebleed just walking to work. With her long blond hair and curvy figure, she resembles a modern-day Veronica Lake, complete with that trademark swoosh of hair falling over one of her big green eyes.
I would hate her if she wasn’t so na?ve. It’s hard to hold a grudge against a girl who thinks the guy who picked her up in a bar last night is a big-shot photographer who, like, is totally going to make her a star now that she’s done a private naked modeling shoot for him.
“Hey Skye,” I yawn. “Did you get any memos through? I need to catch up before the staff meeting in case Morgan picks on me again.”
“Never mind memos,” she announces breathlessly. “Did you hear the news? Jake Weston is back!”
Crap.
Jake Weston. The name alone is enough to make my skin prickle with irritation. Jake is a freelance “finder,” which means that he travels the world tracking down artifacts for museums, antique hounds, and private clients. If a basketball star wants a limited edition sneaker, Jake will find it. Front-row tickets to Hamilton on a moment’s notice? Jake’s your guy.
But the only interaction I’ve had with him so far has been over email, where “condescending” doesn’t even begin to cover it. His favorite phrase is “Well, actually . . .” For some reason, every time I open his missives, I picture him as some tight-ass, fifty-year-old guy with rapidly thinning hair.
Apparently, he’s been in Thailand recently, tracking down some rare statue of a golden monkey, and I guess he’s finally back. Good thing, too, because as much as he annoys me, he’s going to be indispensible in locating a few key pieces I need for the Golden Age of Hollywood exhibit I’ve finally managed to talk my boss into.
“Did you hear what I said?” Lizzie’s voice cuts through the thoughts in my head, which is still pounding like crazy in spite of the coffee. “He’s back!”
“I’ll alert the media,” I say dryly, closing my laptop. I’m clearly not going to get anything done with Skye blabbing at me a hundred miles an hour.
“The staff meeting is scheduled to start in five minutes,” she says in a slightly disapproving tone, putting her hands on her hips and assuming the pose of a sexy-but-pissed-off third grade teacher. “Morgan asked me to make sure you were on your way since you were so late for last week’s meeting.”
“I was two minutes over!”
She shrugs. “Don’t shoot the messenger. God, I’m tired,” she yawns prettily, as I check email then grab my folder of notes for the meeting. “I worked at The Box till three last night. I’m trying out this new routine where I’m suspended from the ceiling and then lowered into a champagne glass filled with whipped cream. You would not believe how long it takes to get it all off,” she says with a sigh, as if cleaning dessert off her body every night was absolute torture.