“My body’s a temple,” she countered.
He lowered his voice and spoke close to her ear. “Well, I know I worship it.”
She nudged him with her elbow, laughed, and stole one Cheeto from his bag.
“Okay, so listen.” It was the day after their arrival in New York, and Gen was scheduled to meet one of the owners of Archibald / Bellini in the bar at the Plaza Hotel. They’d already made their way from the more modest hotel where they were staying, and Gen was giving Ryan a pep talk before they walked in to meet Antonio Bellini. “Just be yourself,” she told him. “This is … okay, so, this is a big deal for me. But it’s going to be fine. He called me, not the other way around. So I hold all the cards here. It’s good. It’s going to be good.” Halfway through giving Ryan the pep talk, she realized that it was for her and not for him.
Ryan looked amazing in navy slacks, a sky blue dress shirt with the top button undone, and a dark blazer. He was all freshly scrubbed and shaven, and he smelled good, and it wasn’t helping her to focus on the task she had ahead of her.
“I can’t concentrate when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?” he quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Like we’ve just had amazing sex.”
“We did.”
“I know. But I can’t think about that. Because if I’m thinking about that, then I won’t be thinking about Gordon Kendrick’s show.” She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together.
“Do you want me to go? If you’d rather not have me here, I can see some sights. Visit Times Square or something.”
“No! God, no. I need an ally.” She squeezed his hand.
“Okay. Well, I’m here. I’m your ally.”
“All right.”
“You’ve got this,” he said, and kissed her.
His kiss made her knees feel a little bit melty, and that wasn’t going to help her nail this meeting.
“No more kissing. If I’m going to focus, there can’t be any more kissing,” she said.
“Okay. No more kissing.” He grinned at her. He’d have to stop doing that, too.
She smoothed her dress—one of the many black dresses she thought of as her gallerywear—and clicked her way into the bar on her spiky high heels with Ryan behind her.
Bellini was sitting at a table by a window under a potted palm tree. She recognized him from a picture she’d found online. She approached him with a confidence she did not feel and extended her hand as Bellini stood to greet her.
“Mr. Bellini, I’m Gen Porter.” She shook his hand. “And this is Ryan Delaney.”
“A pleasure.”
Bellini was a short, mostly bald man in his fifties with thick-framed, round glasses that were so precisely circular that they seemed to be a parody of round glasses—something one of the Muppets would wear in a display of scholarly intellectualism. He was wearing a suit that probably cost two thousand dollars. She recognized two-thousand-dollar suits from when she used to live here, though she hadn’t seen one up close in quite some time.
“So, Ryan,” Bellini said as they all sat down. “Are you involved in art as well?”
“Cattle,” Ryan replied.
Gen braced herself as she imagined where this might go. Bellini might belittle Ryan for his work. Ryan might respond with defensiveness. And then the entire meeting might swirl down the drain like dirty bath water.
Instead, Bellini raised his eyebrows with interest. “Cattle. You’re not one of the California Delaneys, are you?”
Ryan grinned. “Well, I imagine there are quite a few Delaney families in California. But that’s not what you’re asking.”
“Ha, ha. No. I’m asking whether you’re the Ryan Delaney I read about in Fortune magazine.”
Gen blinked. Ryan had been in Fortune magazine?
“You read that?” Ryan laughed lightly. “They made me and my family seem like these business-savvy moguls. My brother is the one with the business sense. I just know cattle.”
“Well, I have to say, it’s a thrill to meet you,” Bellini said. “Thank you for bringing him along, Genevieve.”
Gen’s mental GPS navigation system had to reroute to accommodate this sudden change of direction. Bellini not only knew who Ryan was, he was visibly giddy about meeting him. This could be good. It gave Gen a kind of advantage. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be good if Bellini was so focused on Ryan that he forgot Gen was there.
“Shall we order?” Bellini asked. A waiter came and took their drink orders—a martini for Bellini, a glass of chardonnay for Gen, and a beer for Ryan.
“I’m thrilled to be showing Gordon Kendrick’s work at Archibald / Bellini,” Gen said in a bid to get the conversation on track.
“Well, I have to say, I was hoping Mr. Kendrick would be coming as well,” Bellini said.
“Ah. Yes. Well, I tried to persuade him to come, but he’s recently experienced a remarkable artistic breakthrough, and he didn’t want to leave his work.” Gen had known the issue would come up, so she had framed it in the best way possible. What Kendrick had actually said was, You want me to stop painting so I can have wine and cheese and listen to a bunch of blowhards talk about how I ‘deconstruct linearity in a post-structuralist world’? The very idea exhausts me. Can’t you do it?
She’d tried to argue with Kendrick, but deep down, she knew he was right, so she hadn’t pushed the issue.
“Well.” Bellini chuckled. “Far be it from me to separate an artist from his work. Especially when that work is poised to be highly profitable for all of us.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Gen said.
“Oh, it’s not a matter of hoping. Half of the work we’re showing has already sold.”
The waitress returned with their drinks and placed them carefully on round paper coasters in front of them. Gen was trying to comprehend what he’d just said, and so she ignored her wine.
“It has? But no one has seen the work.”
Bellini waved a hand dismissively at her. “I might have passed along some of the digital images you sent me. Just to a few key collectors.”
“But we’d agreed not to share the images with anyone until after the show opens.” Gen had thought Kendrick’s work would have greater impact if it were seen in person. She’d told Bellini that. She didn’t want anything to take away from the drama and suspense of unveiling the paintings live, at the gallery.
“Ah, well.” He took a drink from his martini. “As I said, sales have been strong. You can’t argue with success.”
Gen stared at Bellini, who seemed to barely register her presence as he focused on his drink. The guy had flatly ignored the agreement they’d made regarding how to handle the paintings. And now he was unapologetic.
“We had an agreement,” she repeated.
“Let’s see if you’re still cross with me when you see the size of your commission check,” he said, winking at her.
“That’s not the point,” Gen said.