Jesus, he wouldn’t have even met this agent if it hadn’t been for my gallery. It just wasn’t fair.
“I’m not going to take away your commission for his sold pieces,” she continued. “I believe there are four works that are yet to sell, and I’ve arranged for those to be collected this afternoon. You understand, don’t you?”
I got that I was being fucked over loud and clear. The commission from the older work would have meant I could relax a little—not have to worry about rent next quarter. I’d thought I was on my way when in fact Steve’s exhibition had been a false start. My ex-boyfriend was a moral wasteland. But I’d learn and get everything in writing next time.
I really wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but I didn’t have the energy.
“You better get your guys here fast.”
Victoria laughed as if I couldn’t be serious. “They should be there any moment.” As if by magic, the bell over the door tinkled and two men carrying tissue paper and bubble wrap entered.
I hung up the phone.
“You have four paintings for us to collect?” the taller guy bellowed from across the room. “If you just point to them we’ll pack them up and be on our way.”
I pushed the breath out of my lungs, trying to calm myself, but as I leaned against the desk, the room rolled as if I was on a boat. I closed my eyes. I needed to keep it together until I’d gotten rid of these paintings, then lose it and drink a bottle of wine by myself.
I opened my eyes, fisted my hands and marched over to the first of Steve’s paintings that hadn’t sold. I yanked it off the wall and passed it to the little guy. “Here’s the first one.”
He just managed to catch it, pressing his no doubt sweaty palms across the splashes of color. The second painting was bigger, but I pulled it from its fixtures and set it down on the floor. “And this.”
My anger increased with every moment. I wanted Steve out of my gallery, out of my life, and I never wanted to be taken in by someone so selfish and egotistical again.
“And you can take these as well,” I said, handing over the last two paintings.
I took a deep, resigned breath. “Leave. You can wrap them up in the truck.”
The men looked at me, and then at each other, clearly not understanding my anger, but thankfully they didn’t argue. I followed them as they left, locking the door and pulling down the cream shade with a snap.
I turned and rested against the blind, tracing my eyebrows with my index fingers, trying to flatten out the scowl I knew I was wearing. What was I going to do? I’d been counting on the sales from Steve’s old work to allow me to buy some more inventory. I couldn’t just find another artist to exhibit on short notice. Now I had nothing of his to sell; his paintings were just taking up space. I needed to get them shipped out and make room for things I was actually going to make money from.
I’d been so excited to open my own gallery, so proud to put on my first exhibition. Now everything I touched seemed to turn sour.
Someone knocking on the glass interrupted my pity party. Steve couldn’t possibly want anything else from me; they’d taken anything of any value already.
I unlocked the door, and found Sam Shaw towering above me.
I caught a whiff of his citrusy scent. It wasn’t the heavy cologne lots of Wall Street types used. It was lighter, subtle, more like a body wash. I liked it more than I wanted to and despite my bad mood, my nipples puckered under my blouse. I rolled my eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” I said.
“It’s nice to see you, too.” The corner of the left side of his mouth turned up slightly higher than the right as he smirked at me. “I thought I’d come a little early in case you closed up to avoid me. Looks like your plan failed.”
“It wasn’t you I was avoiding.” I turned and headed back to my desk. I wanted to kick off my shoes and get drunk, not go to Mr. Shaw’s to rearrange art.
“Oh, really?” he asked as he followed me.
I stuffed my phone and keys into my purse and logged off my computer. I needed to get out of this gallery, and if it meant going with Sam Shaw, so be it.
“Come on, Mr. ‘I can buy whatever I want, including people.’” I picked up my bag and stepped back into the storeroom behind my desk to set the alarm. “Let’s rearrange your art quickly so I can go get drunk.”
“That sounds like the kind of night I was hoping for,” he replied.
“Good evening, Miss Astor,” Gordon, the doorman at 740 Park Avenue, said, tipping his hat as we arrived. I’d expected Sam to pick me up in his car, but instead when we’d gone outside, he hailed a cab. His driver must be sick or something.
“Good evening, Gordon, how are your girls?” I asked. His twin granddaughters were beyond cute.
“Very well, and more beautiful by the day.”
“Be good to them,” I said, following Sam through the lobby.
“Always,” he called after me as I hurried after Sam.
As we stood in the elevator, facing the tiled mirror, Sam said, “You make friends fast.”
Before I had a chance to reply, the elevator stopped at the twentieth floor. “Damn, they need to get this thing fixed,” I said. It was as if the west elevator was haunted.
“Get what fixed?”
“For some reason, this always stops on the twentieth floor,” I said, pushing the thirty-fourth button furiously.
“Someone probably just called it, then realized they forgot something,” Sam said. “You get irritated easily. How many times has it happened to you? Once, twice? Get over it.”
“It’s been like this for seven or eight years, smartass.”
“Seven or eight years? What do you do, ride all the elevators of the Upper East Side, checking they’re running smoothly?”
Despite my sullen mood, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I do, actually. What do you care how I spend my spare time?” I grinned at him and he smiled back and I remembered the way he’d held me, tightly but gently, as if I was something precious that he should be careful with. I looked away.
“Gallery owner by day, elevator rider by night. There’s so much to know about you, Grace Astor.”
“You have no idea, Sam Shaw, no idea at all.”
As we entered his apartment, the lack of any furniture took me by surprise again, even though it was exactly the same as it had been before. “Okay, so tell me which of these pieces are hung incorrectly.” I turned when I didn’t get an answer and found myself alone in the living space. “Sam Shaw?” I called out.
“In the kitchen, Grace Astor.”
I followed his voice. He was in the kitchen, which, unsurprisingly, was almost empty, pouring whiskey into two crystal tumblers.
“Drink?” he said, handing me a glass.
Hell yes. I threw the whole thing back, thrilled to let the liquid happiness trickle down my throat and make everything better. “Thanks.”
He didn’t say a word, just grabbed my wrist and held it as he added more whiskey to my glass.