“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.
Skye moonlights as a burlesque dancer three nights a week at a club downtown. In her initial interview, she told me that either she wants to someday be a) a curator like me or b) Dita Von Teese. Good thing for her that she has plenty of time to decide.
“God, what I wouldn’t give to be back in college,” she moans. “I could sleep ’til noon every day and still make it to all of my classes. Those were the days, you know?” she says, her voice tinged with nostalgia that might be poignant if it wasn’t so ridiculous.
“You only graduated last year, Skye,” I say, resisting the temptation to roll my eyes. “And can you run and grab me another cup of coffee before the meeting? I had a bit of a late night myself.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I find myself stifling another yawn. Dammit, why are those things always contagious?
“Oooooh!” she squeals, the sound like a jackhammer in my brain. “Your life is so glamorous! Did you have a hot date?”
Let’s see: I woke up still passed out on the couch in the clothes I’d worn the night before, which stank of stale, cheap beer in the worst way possible. Not exactly glamorous. Or hot, for that matter.
“Hot? No. A date? Yes,” I say, standing up and stretching my arms overhead and tugging at the big loopy bow at the neck of my blouse, which suddenly feels like it’s strangling me.
“Don’t worry,” Skye says, “you’ll totally meet someone. Probably when you least expect it. I mean, that’s how I met Spencer.” Her green eyes widen, and she moves closer, her expression serious as a government official’s while revealing state secrets.
“I’d sworn off all guys for at least a week, and then in walks Spencer. He sat in the front row the first night I danced at The Box and picked up my rhinestone thong when I dropped it off the front of the stage during my ‘Star Light, Star Bright’ number, you know? The one with the American flag? Well, we’ve been together ever since,” she says dreamily.
I blink at her uncomprehendingly. I’m not awake enough for this shit yet. Is ten a.m. too early for a drink? Because a little hair of the dog sounds pretty good right about now.