2. Ava
2
Ava
T he gallery empties like a beach at high tide, leaving scattered evidence of human occupation. We have our empty champagne flutes, our crumpled napkins, and of course the lingering scent of perfume.
I watch the last group of well-dressed patrons disappear through the front door, and then I slump against the nearest wall in exhaustion and relief.
Lucy appears from the back room, coat already draped over her arm. “You survived! And did pretty well, I might add.” She tugs at my elbow. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
“I can’t . Not yet. I promised Dean I’d help tidy up a bit.” I glance around at the minor mess. “Besides, I need a few minutes of quiet to process... whatever tonight was.”
“That was your career happening,” Lucy says, grinning. “Seriously, Ava, you look exhausted. Go home, soak in a tub full of Epsom salts.”
“I’m fine." I wave a dismissive hand.
She gives me her signature ‘I-see-through-your- bullshit-but-love-you-anyway’ look and, with a final squeeze of my arm, heads out.
So there I am, mostly alone in the now-dimly lit gallery
. My paintings, bathed in the soft glow of the remaining spotlights, stare back at me with a mixture of pity and judgment.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter to the closest canvas. “It wasn’t my fault they decided to hang a pendant light directly above me.”
A deep laugh comes from behind me. My entire body goes rigid like I’ve been plugged into a high-voltage outlet.
Oh, sweet mother of all that is holy, please don’t let that be...
Slowly, I turn.
And there he is.
Him.
Okay, maybe not him him. The lighting in here is definitely playing tricks on my brain. He is... similar. Same tall, lean build. Same ridiculously sharp jawline. Same dark hair, though this time it is styled in a more casual, less ‘I-own-half-of-Manhattan’ way. He’s wearing a dark, fitted sweater and jeans, which is a significant departure from earlier.
But the eyes. Those intense, storm-gray eyes are unmistakable.
Okay, Ava, play it cool. Pretend you didn’t publicly humiliate yourself in front of him. Twice. Maybe he has a twin. A slightly less intimidating, more approachable twin who enjoys slumming it in SoHo galleries after hours.
“Admiring your handiwork?” he asks in a low voice.
I can feel my face turning red already .
Handiwork? Is he talking about the painting or the champagne incident?
“More like contemplating the best way to burn it and flee the country,” I reply, forcing a casual tone that feels about as natural as a penguin on a Miami beach. “You know, start fresh. Maybe take up goat farming. Goats don’t judge our questionable life choices.”
“No, they don’t.” He smiles. The curve of his lips makes my stomach do a distracting flip. “But really, goat farming? Seems a bit drastic. Though I imagine the scenery would be an improvement over this.” He gestures vaguely at the gallery.
Okay, he’s definitely got a sense of humor.
And he’s not running away screaming.
Progress.
“ This ,” I say, gesturing back with a flourish, “is the culmination of four years of school.” I point directly at my painting. “Behold. My masterpiece. Otherwise known as a collection of colorful splatters that vaguely resemble the Manhattan skyline. Depending on your current blood alcohol content, of course.”
His gaze fixes on the painting, and I feel the heat in my face subside somewhat. “I’d say it’s more than just ‘colorful splatters.'" His voice is softer now, almost intimate.
He’s complimenting my work. Again. Is this some kind of elaborate torture? Is he going to present me with a bill for dry cleaning and then have me arrested for assault?
“You look familiar,” I blurt out. “Have we met before? You kind of look like... you know, um, that Gideon King guy?”
Smooth, Ava. Real smooth.
Of course it’s him.
Or maybe not?
The lighting is different, and so are the clothes. I mean, I didn’t really look at him all that closely earlier. And what little memories I have of his face are fuzzy. Humiliation in front of all your peers will do that to you.
Either way, he’s gorgeous.
He smiles, and it transforms his face in a way I hadn’t seen earlier. “I get that a lot. Makes for some interesting situations. Once got upgraded to first class because the flight attendant was convinced I was him.”
“That’s...” I struggle to find the right word. “Convenient?”
He gives me a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m John.” He closes the gap between us and extends a hand.
Hesitantly, I take it. His hand is warm and firm, the scars on his knuckles a subtle reminder of a past that is probably far more interesting than mine. His cologne hits me full-on. That damn cologne. Blood-orange zest, amber, vetiver, and... woodsmoke. It’s unmistakable.
Holy shit. It is him.
My face heats up instantly, my dreaded blushing beginning right on cue. Great. Just when I thought I’d used up my daily quota of mortification.
“Ava,” I manage to squeak out, my voice barely a whisper.
His eyes linger on mine for a beat too long. “I know.” He nods at my chest. “Name tag.”
I stare at him, stunned. Then I look down at my dress and giggle girlishly as I remove the tag.
Okay, breathe. He’s playing a game. Why? Who knows. Maybe billionaires get bored easily. But you can play along. For now .
“John,” I say, pulling my hand away and trying to regain some semblance of composure. “You’re a fan of art?” I gesture at my painting, feeling a fresh wave of self-consciousness wash over me.
“I’m a fan of anything that evokes a reaction,” he says, his voice low. “And your work definitely evokes a reaction.”
Oh, god. Is he flirting?
He’s definitely flirting.
“Well, I’m glad I could... evoke something,” I say, trying to sound witty and confident but probably failing miserably. “Even if it’s just the urge to run screaming in the opposite direction.”
He laughs. “I assure you, running is the last thing on my mind.”
Okay, Ava, this is getting weird. He’s either a really good actor, or he’s actually enjoying this. Which is insane. Or... he’s really not Gideon King.
“So,” I say, taking a step back and trying to steer the conversation away from awkward land, “you just hang out in galleries after closing time? Is that a hobby?”
He shrugs. “I like the quiet. The atmosphere. It’s a nice change from earlier.” He glances around the nearly empty gallery. “Besides, I find these events tedious. All that forced conversation and pretentious small talk. It’s exhausting.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You and me both. I’d rather be home in my pajamas, eating ice cream straight from the carton and watching bad reality TV.”
He smiles. “See? We have something in common already.”
Okay, this is surprisingly normal. He’s relatable. Which is terrifying.
“I guess we do,” I say, feeling a flicker of something. Connection? Or maybe it that's the residual champagne talking. “Though I doubt Gideon King shares our disdain for pretentious art gatherings.”
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t know, would I?”
“And you both just so happen to wear the same cologne, right? ” I say flippantly.
“Do I?” He acts surprised, then shrugs. “Good taste must be universal.”
I blink in confusion as my brain performs some impressive mental gymnastics to try to make this work. Right, because obviously cologne-sharing is a totally normal thing among Manhattan men who happen to be doppelg?ngers. What’s next? They shop at the same obscure Italian tailor and vacation at identical private islands, too? My talent for self-delusion deserves its own exhibit space.
Still, it isn’t entirely impossible it’s just a coincidence. Of course people wear the same cologne all the time. The last time I went to a bar, I smelled Versace Eros on at least five different people.
But this isn’t Versace Eros. It smells far more expensive.
Just then, Dean Wess appears. “Almost closing time, lovebirds!” he announces, his voice echoing through the gallery. He gives ‘John’ a curious look but doesn’t seem to recognize him. “You two can continue your little talk elsewhere. I need to lock up.”
‘John’ turns to me, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “There’s a bar around the corner. The Velvet Curtain . They make a decent martini. Care to join me?”
Go to a bar? With Gideon King? Who’s pretending not to be Gideon King? Or ‘John,’ who really is his doppelganger?
God, this is insane. This is a terrible idea. This is...
“Sure,” I say, the word escaping my lips before my brain can fully process the implications. “Why not? ”
Two burly men in dark suits stand flanking the gallery door, their expressions professionally neutral. As we approach, they straighten subtly, nodding respectfully to ‘John.’
I glance between them and my companion, my eyebrows rising. “Friends of yours?”
He shrugs. “Just being polite to the men who’ve been working all night to protect the gallery.”
“They’re totally not your security guards,” I quip.
“Definitely not,” he agrees.
I look back. They don’t seem to be following us. Not private security, then.
Maybe he’s not Gideon King after all.
He makes small talk during the walk. The easy banter keeps my mind occupied, almost silencing the tiny voice screaming about billionaires and bad decisions. Each streetlamp we pass feels like a decision point, a chance to turn back. But my feet keep moving.
And then we’re there.
The Velvet Curtain is dimly lit and intimate, with a low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses and silverware. We find a booth tucked away in a corner, the plush velvet seating swallowing us when we sit.
A waiter appears and ‘John’ orders two martinis without even asking me what I want. Presumptuous, but I can roll with it.
As we wait for our drinks, a man approaches our table. He’s tall, blond, and looks like he’s stepped straight out of GQ magazine. Still, he’s got nothing on ‘John.’
“Well, hello there, beautiful.” GQ-wannabe gives me a predatory smile and leans in. “I’m Brad.” He extends a hand, pretending that ‘John’ doesn’t exist.
Before I can come up with a polite rejection, ‘John’ intervenes.
“She’s with me,” he says firmly, his eyes glinting dangerously. The blond guy assesses him for a moment, then shrugs and walks away.
“Thanks,” I say. “I can usually handle myself, but—”
“Sometimes it’s nice to have backup,” he finishes.
Exactly.
The waiter returns with our drinks, two perfectly crafted martinis with olives gleaming in the dim light. We clink glasses.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of the overly strong drink, “tell me, ‘John,’ what does a man who’s definitely not a billionaire do for fun?”
His slow, deliberate smile makes my stomach flip. Again. “The same things everyone else does, I suppose.”
“Like what?”
He considers for a moment. “I like trying new things. New restaurants, hidden bars like this one.” He gestures around the intimate space. “Travel when I can find the time. Though lately, it’s mostly been domestic.” A fleeting shadow crosses his face, gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it.
“Domestic, huh? So, you’re a homebody?” I tease, taking another sip of my drink. The alcohol is starting to loosen my anxiety.
He chuckles. “Not exactly. But I do appreciate a well-appointed space.” He adds with a wry smile: “And I’m a surprisingly good cook if I do say so.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Specialty?”
“Anything that involves fire. Grilling, mostly.”
I purse my lips. “I, on the other hand, am a master of the microwave. Mac 'n' cheese, frozen dinners. You name it, I can nuke it. I can even make fried rice in the microwave.”
He laughs, then leans in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “Everyone has their talents.”
My breath catches in my throat. The air between us suddenly feels charged.
“So,” I say, leaning back and forcing myself to break the spell, “besides culinary adventures and gallery hopping, what else? Any secret hobbies? Competitive ferret racing? Extreme ironing?”
He smiles patiently. “Nothing quite that exotic. I’m a collector. Of sorts.”
“Of sorts? ” I raise an eyebrow.
“Experiences, mostly,” he says. “Moments. Things that can’t be bought or replicated.”
“Like art?”
“Maybe,” he admits.
Okay, definitely a collector. And definitely skirting the billionaire line again.
“I prefer art that tells a story,” I say, feeling a sudden need to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Something that resonates. Something you can’t find anywhere else.”
“I agree,” he says softly. “Authenticity is rare. And valuable.”
With the alcohol continuing to flow, I feel more at ease, and we talk for what feels like hours. He tells me about a recent trip to Italy, describing the rolling hills of Tuscany and the chaos of Florence with a detail that makes me feel like I’m there with him. I tell him about my struggles to balance my art with the demands of school and the pressure to succeed and make it big. It’s a connection forged in shared vulnerabilities, fueled by alcohol and the anonymity of the dimly lit bar.
Eventually, I find myself sharing stories I rarely tell, about my grandmother teaching me to paint, and about the portrait of her that meant so much.
“It was the best thing I’d ever created,” I admit, swirling the ice in my latest whiskey sour. The alcohol has blunted the sharp edges of my anxiety, creating a pleasant haze where my usual self-consciousness should be. “It’s just too bad what happened to it.”
“And what happened to it?” he says, leaning forward.
I bite my lower lip. “Nothing. Never mind. It’s in the past.” I take another sip. “Let’s just say I’m very particular about my work now. About who gets to own it.”
Something flickers in his eyes: understanding, maybe, or something deeper. “Control matters when you’ve had it taken from you.”
“Exactly.” Our eyes lock, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of how close we’re sitting, how the background noise has faded to a distant hum. His cologne envelops me again, and I notice the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw.
A familiar heat creeps back into my cheeks, but this time it’s not entirely from embarrassment.
He leans forward, closing the distance between us by inches. “I find it refreshing, you know.”
“What?” My voice sounds breathier than I intend.
“Talking to someone who just sees me, for...” He pauses, searching for words.
“A person?” I suggest, smiling slightly.
He laughs, that rich sound I’m starting to anticipate. “Yes. Just a person.”
A comfortable silence falls between us, a silence filled with shared understanding and something else. Something deeper.
The bar has a small dance floor, and a band is playing a slow song. ‘John’ gives me a questioning look.
“Dance?” he asks.
I nod, my heart beating.
He takes my hand, leading me onto the dance floor. Then he pulls me close, and I feel his body warm against mine. I can smell that damn cologne again, that heady mix of citrus and spice.
He moves with a natural grace, his hand firm on the small of my back, guiding me effortlessly. I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me and getting lost in the moment.
His hand moves lower, tracing the curve of my spine, sending a tremble through my body.
I open my eyes, looking up at him. His gaze is intense, burning with a desire that mirrors my own.
The song ends and, fetching his martini from our table, he leads me off the small dance floor and through a set of doors that open onto a balcony.
The cool night air is a welcome contrast to the heat of the bar. We lean against the railing, looking out at the city lights.
He offers me his martini. I take a swallow of the drink and hand it back.
“You know,” I say, “I’m always careful. Too careful. I follow the rules. I do what’s expected. I always...” I trail off, unable to finish.
He turns to me, his eyes searching mine. “And tonight?”
“Tonight I want to be reckless. I want to forget my problems. I want to feel something.”
“Come over for a nightcap,” he says, his voice low and intense.
“Okay,” I say quickly. A little too quickly.
Just a nightcap.
Who am I kidding? I’m going to be riding this gorgeous man like a stallion as soon as we get to his place.
He nods slowly, as if reading my mind. “I need to be clear. This is casual. No strings. No expectations. I don’t do relationships.”
This is crazy. This is reckless. This is...
Exactly what I need.
My heart pounds in my chest. This is it. It’s now or never.
This is insane. You’re about to go home with a man who may or may not be a billionaire. A man you met hours ago. A man who could ruin you with a single word if he really is that billionaire.
But a part of me doesn’t care. A part of me craves the danger, the excitement, the escape.
“I know,” I say. “Just tonight.”
“I’m glad we have an understanding.” He leans in, his lips brushing against my cheek. “Just tonight.”