Even though working with him would be a complete distraction.
The “nothing” after sex would be easy if I never saw him again. But the way he made my body feel . . . Surely I wouldn’t be able to be near him and not think about it.
“I’ll have my office update the contract I had with Nina with your details, and have them send it over.”
I stayed silent and kept as still as possible. I should say no, but I couldn’t.
“We can start right away.”
What was his rush? Art collecting wasn’t a sprint. It was something you took a lifetime to do. I sat up and glanced around for my clothes. “There’s an auction of Old European Masters at Sotheby’s next month.” I reached for my bra and fastened it around my chest. “I’ll check out the program and see if there’s anything I think you should bid on.”
“You’re saying yes?” he asked. He sat up and snuck his palm under my bra strap.
I shrugged him off as a sadness I couldn’t place settled in my belly. “Yes.” I stood and he grabbed my hand, trying to pull me back to him. I twisted my arm and he let go.
“Hey, I said I wasn’t done.”
“Well I am.” I continued to dress. He’d been clear there was nothing after the fucking, and I wasn’t about to wait for him to kick me out.
“I thought you were sticking around?” he asked.
“I need to be somewhere,” I replied.
Somewhere with alcohol.
Even though Harper was breastfeeding and spending most of her time in Connecticut, she still made sure she made it to Tuesday girls’ night. I couldn’t have been more grateful. One of the hardest parts of breaking up with someone was the transition period where for a few weeks I had so much more free time. I knew it wouldn’t last long, but at the moment I was aware how much I was on my own.
I’d spent most of my time since the gallery opening working. I went home and continued to fill in spreadsheets or research new artists. Periodically, images of Sam Shaw in my secret, sectioned-off corner of the gallery, sliding his large hands over my ass and pulling me against him, interrupted my concentration but I was fighting it.
“You look different,” Scarlett said as she pulled away from my hug and slid into the booth next to me.
I rolled my eyes. “No I don’t.” Maybe I did. Even days later, my body still felt the aftereffects of Sam’s touch. The bruises on my breasts had faded to penny-shaped shadows on my skin. I savored each one, more disappointed every day they grew smaller and fainter. No man had ever left a physical mark on me before. I liked it.
He’d left his mark on my mind, too.
“Just tell me you didn’t fuck that loser painter of yours.”
I cringed at the thought of Steve’s soft, spindly body. “No. Not at all.” There was nothing soft about Sam Shaw’s body. Nothing unsure about his touch. “But you’re right. I fucked a client the other day though. Pretty stupid, I guess.”
Except that I couldn’t regret it. Sam’s body gave me masturbation fantasy material for the rest of time. Had he really been that big? Had he really made me come that hard? It was as if he’d reached into me and pulled out the orgasm by sheer force.
“Why was it stupid?”
“Because I need him to still be my client.” I didn’t tell Scarlett that Sam’s assistant had sent me over the contracts as promised. Or that I’d signed and returned them to her. I didn’t explain how Sam had called me three times since, or that I’d ignored him each time. I didn’t want anyone to know how he seemed to be taking up more and more of my thoughts.
“Was it bad sex?” she asked. “You can’t look at him because he had a two-inch penis?”
A small dick wasn’t Sam Shaw’s problem. I shrugged and coaxed over a waiter. Harper arrived at our table at the same time. “Can I get a virgin mojito and a bread basket, please,” she asked before she even acknowledged us.
“Two more margaritas, please,” I said and turned back to my friends.
“Move over,” Harper said as she slid onto our booth. “What are we talking about? Jesus, is there nothing to eat in this place? I thought this was supposed to be a restaurant.”
“Take it down a notch. You just ordered a bread basket,” Scarlett said. “And we were talking about guys with two-inch dicks.”
Harper grimaced and moved away from us, as if Scarlett had announced we both had herpes. “Who’s got a two-inch dick?” she asked.
“No one,” I replied.
Scarlett gave Harper a knowing look. “Some guy Grace banged.”
“You banged a guy with a two-inch dick?” Harper asked.
“No, his dick was plenty big, thank you.” Jesus, how did we get here? I didn’t want to think about the size of Sam Shaw’s penis, or how it felt slipping into me, pushing deeper and deeper. How I felt it in my toes and finger tips, beneath and through every part of me.
Harper and Scarlett just looked at me, waiting for more.
“So, who’s the guy?” Harper asked.
I shook my head, glancing across at the waiter, hoping he’d interrupt us soon so we could change topics. “No one.”
“A client,” Scarlett said.
I rolled my eyes.
“When did it happen? Could it be a thing?” Harper asked. Trying to get Harper to talk about finding a serious relationship before she met her husband had been almost impossible. Now she wanted everyone to have what she had. It was sweet, but it was annoying.
“No, it’s not a thing and it’s never going to be. It just happened, but it won’t happen again.” Because nothing happened after the sex.
And that suited me fine.
“I need to focus on the gallery at the moment. I think I’m going to offer art consulting to people who want it.” I twirled the stem of my empty margarita glass.
“Oh, I thought you weren’t into that,” Scarlett said.
I shrugged. “But with Steve’s work gone, I have to do whatever it takes to make it work.”
Thankfully, the waiter arrived with our drinks and took our order, taking Harper and Scarlett’s attention away from me, giving me room to breathe, to think. I tuned out whatever it was Scarlett and Harper were talking about. Was he in his apartment now? On that old beat-up couch, the TV on, his hand slipping past his waistband to circle his cock?
I jumped at the buzz of my phone on the table. Sam flashed across the screen. Three ignored calls and two margaritas meant it was time to speak to him. “I have to get this,” I said, sliding out of the booth.
“Sam Shaw,” I answered, placing my finger in my ear as I walked through the restaurant toward the exit.
“I’ve called you three times, Grace Astor,” he replied, clearly irritated.
“You’re on my call sheet, but you beat me to it.”
“Your call sheet?” he asked, giving me a second to respond. I stayed quiet. “You signed the papers; you’re supposed to be my art consultant. I’ve not been consulted about anything.”
“I signed the papers, that doesn’t mean you own me.”
More silence, but from the few hours I’d spent with him, I understood it wasn’t angry, just contemplative. He absorbed what people gave out, learning about it, and then stored it up. For what?