Chapter 1
The gallery is large, white, and entirely impersonal, excluding the bright-colored art pieces lining the walls. Standing next to my new coworker, Aadhya, I feel incredibly out of place. Not only is she tall, she’s fabulous, too. And British, dressed in a sleek outfit that’s nothing like my own red maxi dress. She’s gorgeous and already knows the ropes around here. I find her incredibly intimidating.
She walks me through the client roster. The codes that open the different offices. The protocol for event organizing.
Her overview is at a breakneck pace, and I try my best to follow along.
“Now you try,” she says, stepping to the side and gesturing at the computer. Aadhya watches me for a few seconds as I try to replicate her steps. “So, you really just got here a week ago?”
“Yes,” I say.
“From New York?”
“Yeah. I love the City, but needed a change of pace,” I say. It’s an understatement. I needed an escape, and London and this gallery provided it. I applied to this paid junior traineeship a few months ago, without telling anyone. And when the acceptance letter arrived in my email inbox a few weeks ago…
I’d seen a way out. A chance at a new existence. I’d jumped at it and left everything behind.
“New York, though,” Aadhya says. Her tone is contemplative. “I can’t imagine ever leaving that city. I was born and raised in London, and this city is never getting rid of me.”
“This gallery was just calling my name,” I say. “So how does this system work? With the access codes?”
She comes to stand beside me and shows me what to do with brisk competence. For my first day, it’s thankfully pretty slow, with only a few clients scheduled for appointments to browse the art. I know my tasks. Shadow Aadhya all day and make sure the clients are happy, satisfied, and have a glass of champagne in hand if they want it.
Around us hangs art worth millions of pounds. Excitement is a steady beat inside of me, all day long. To get to work with this. To get to see it every day.
A few men are standing on the other side of the gallery. I recognize one immediately. Eitan White. The owner and executive head of the Sterling Gallery. He’s a short man with thick, curly black hair, and the most intimidating gaze I’ve ever encountered.
His voice is warm as he speaks to a tall man in a suit.
I look back to Aadhya. “A potential customer? Already?” I whisper.
She nods and flips a page of the art collection catalog. She’s looking for one of the abstracts. “Yes, he was here bang on time as the gallery opened. He’s an existing client. Always gets the royal treatment and personal tours from Eitan.”
I glance over at the pair again. There’s something familiar… A deep, unsettling feeling washes over me when the man turns, and I catch sight of his profile.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
I had known he was in London. Of course I knew, but I didn’t think I would bump into him. Hadn’t really thought about it at all. Not since I packed a bag and booked a flight.
But it’s true that he’s always been interested in contemporary art. Had frequently asked me about existing and up-and-coming artists every time he’s gone to dinner with Dean and me. It had been one of the few things we had in common. I loved telling him about the artists I thought had a bright future, and he seemed like he enjoyed listening to me go on about it.
“Harper?” Aadhya asks. She’s chewing gum, and her long, black ponytail gleams under the soft glow of recessed lighting. She’s beautiful. Brown skin, expertly applied makeup, and a fantastic accent. “You are staring a bit, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s fit. I know that first hand.” She grins and inclines her head slightly in his direction. “One of the gallery’s best customers, too, so you know he’s got deep pockets.”
“Right, that makes sense. You kinda have to if you’re into art,” I say. My voice comes out high, laced with nervousness.
Aadhya taps her manicured nails against the closed cover of the Sterling Gallery’s collection catalog. “He makes Eitan very happy, at least, whenever he visits. I’ve tried to get him to ask me on a date for months.”
My eyebrows rise. “You have?”
“Of course,” she says with a smile. “Do you know how rare it is to have fit customers?”
I look back at Nate, where he’s chatting with our eccentric boss, a legend in the art industry and someone I remember hearing about in college.
The two of them start strolling through the gallery toward where Aadhya and I are lingering.
Shit.
My heart rate speeds up with every step they take. Dean and Nate have been friends for nearly twenty years. They went to college together, and Nate had been over at our place plenty of times for dinner.
He was also supposed to be Dean’s best man at our wedding.
The last time I saw him was at a dinner party, months ago. He’d been sitting across the table from me, surrounded by Dean’s family and friends and so much candlelight that it sucked all the air out of the room until I felt like I was about to suffocate. But everyone else near me laughed on, oblivious to the danger.
Dean must have sent him.
Sure, he’s interested in art, but what are the odds of Nate being here on my second day?
I grab one of the gallery’s oversized coffee table books, resting it upright on top of the sleek desk that holds our single computer, and drop onto the lone chair facing the screen. In a panic, I open up the hardcover and concentrate intently on the pages.
“We have more from Vesper in the room across here,” Eitan says. “If you’re interested in some of their more fluid expressions, there’s a piece in purple that I personally find very expressive.”
Nate gives a thoughtful hum.
“Good afternoon,” Aadhya says warmly. “As always, just let me know if you two want anything while you browse. A cup of coffee?”
“I’m good, thank you,” Nate says. His voice is so close. Right in front of me, above the edges of a glossy Monet I’m barely looking at. My breaths feel too fast, my heart beat too rapid.
Footsteps start up again, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Harper?” he asks. “Is that you?”
Shit.
I lower the enormous book to find three pairs of eyes staring at me. Eitan, with barely concealed surprise. Aadhya, with her mouth gaping wide. And Nate, standing on the other side of the desk, his dark eyes intent on me.
I give him a small smile. “Hi, Nate.”
“What a lovely surprise,” he says. His voice is deep and assured, and not the least bit surprised. He knew, I think. The suspicion grows thicker in my throat, and fear lodges deep.
He wouldn’t come here on Dean’s orders. Would he?
“You know our new colleague,” Eitan says. His voice is impossible to decipher, and I glance from my ex-fiancé’s best friend to my new boss.
“I do, indeed,” Nate says. “How have you been, Harper?”
“Great. Yeah, it’s been… fantastic. Settling in here, in London.”
He nods and gives the others a charming smile. The top button of his dress shirt is undone, and the cut of his suit looks tailored. Every inch, the man I’ve always known him to be. Indecently rich and unfairly handsome.
“Harper has regularly advised me about art back in New York. I have her to thank for some of my best purchases.”
What?
I blink up at him from behind the desk.
“Is that so?” Aadhya says in a warm purr.
Eitan lifts an eyebrow and looks at me like he’s reevaluating everything he thought about his gallery’s brand-new American employee. “Well, well,” he says. “What a lovely surprise, indeed.”
I put the coffee table book down with as much grace as I can, considering it weighs more than any book ever should.
“I didn’t know you were moving on to this gallery, or I would have reached out,” Nate says.
He’s laying it on thick. I don’t know why, either, but judging by the looks on my coworkers’ faces, it’s working. I clear my throat. “It was a rather quick career decision, that’s true.”
He nods, and there’s a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. Quick is an understatement for what I’d done. Pulled the rug out from under Dean, got on a flight, and left everything I’ve ever known behind.
Only weeks before the wedding.
“But a great one. I’ve bought a fair number of works from this gallery. Wouldn’t you say, Eitan?” Nate gives the Englishman a wide grin.
Eitan’s lips curve slightly. “Indeed you have, Mr. Connovan. A most fruitful association.”
“For us both,” he says. “Say, would you mind if Harper shows me around for a bit? I would love to hear her take on some pieces, and then I’ll meet back up with you to finalize a few things.”
Aadhya stares at Eitan. I stare at Eitan. It’s a blatant snub, even wrapped up in the determined charm Nate Connovan has always exuded.
“But of course,” Eitan says. “You two must have a lot of catching up to do. Aadhya will be here if you need anything, and, please, come see me on the third floor when you’re done.”
Mr. White handles it gracefully, I have to give him that.
Nate looks at me with a raised brow. “Let’s.”
Okay then.
Rising from my seat, I don’t dare look in Aadhya’s direction. I can already hear the hundred-and-one questions I’ll have to answer when I return. Likely from each of them.
I fall into step beside Nate. He’s tall, towering nearly a head over me. His long strides are measured next to mine. I try to focus on the art around us and not on his presence, but it’s nearly impossible.
Here it comes, I think. The admonition. The questions.
Telling me how upset Dean is.
What a giant mistake I’ve made.
“How have you been?” he asks.
I glance his way. “Good. It’s been a lot.”
“Yeah. I can imagine.”
I match his tone of voice, keeping mine low, too. Lord knows galleries are great for making sound carry. I steer us toward the adjacent room, bypassing all of the Vesper pieces Eitan had been determined to show Nate.
“Did you know… Did you know that I work here?”
Nate is quiet for a beat, and my stomach sinks. Shit.
“I did,” he says. “But I’m also a regular customer. We would’ve met eventually.”
So Dean had told him. A week and a half since I let Dean know it was over. Since I blew up my life. Since I did everything I could to get as far away as possible… but, apparently, I can’t escape him. Even here. At my new job, in my new city.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to wash his stain away.
“Don’t say whatever you came here to say,” I urge. My voice is fiercer than I expected, but I still hate how it wavers. “Please, Nate. I know you’re his friend, but… don’t.”
He stops in the middle of the Blue Room. We’re surrounded by light fixtures in here, and the window blinds are kept permanently drawn, allowing the soft illumination from lamps to play across the walls.
He looks serious. He’s never looked serious. Not once in the four years since I met him as Dean’s friend, that night at the bar.
“I won’t say a thing,” he says. But then his lips curve and the seriousness breaks. “Except that I’m looking for this painting by an up-and-coming artist… I believe you said her artist name is Nova D’Arc when I asked you for new recommendations last time we spoke. Could you or this gallery facilitate a purchase?”
I want to sag into a heap on the floor in relief. Dean had expressed his feelings and thoughts clearly enough; I couldn’t handle it if Nate had come at me, too. If he laid on me all the reasons why I was terrible for changing my mind.
“Yes,” I say. “Of course. It’s what we’re here for.”
Nate runs a hand through the thick, brown mass of his hair. There’s a cut to his jaw that’s always been severe, stronger than Dean’s, and an air of intimidation I’ve never been able to get past. I know he is Dean’s friend, but Nate is also well-known in New York, and Dean had never stopped gushing about him. About Nate’s family, about their company, about the billions in assets.
“Perfect,” he says.
“You’ve really been buying art? On my recommendation?”
Nate looks away, toward the dancing light on the walls. “I have.”
“That’s insane,” I say. The words just slip out.
He chuckles in surprise. “Is it? I was under the impression that you majored in curating and art history.”
“Yes, but an education doesn’t make me an expert!”
“Tell that to hopeful college applicants,” he says.
“You’ve really been buying art,” I say softly. I had never realized our sporadic conversations at parties or over the dinner table had resulted in action. That he had acted on any of my whims.
“I have a small collection,” he responds. “It’s a good investment and keeps my portfolio diversified.”
Right. I shouldn’t have assumed… “Yes, that makes sense. Art is often used in that way.”
His eyes snap back to mine. “You disapprove.”
I shake my head. Remembering who I’m talking to and where I’m doing it. Who might be overhearing. “I don’t. Art’s value is in the eye of the beholder, but it’s also in the market. And the art world thrives on high evaluations.”
That curve to his lips returns. “That was very diplomatic.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I look at him, and he gazes back at me. The silence stretches out a few seconds too long. The easy friendship I’ve always had with Nate has always been circumstantial. Rooted in his history with Dean.
And that history feels heavy now. While Dean’s presence in this room might be unseen, it’s far more tangible than the displays of dancing light around us.
He clears his throat. “So, are you settling in okay? In the city?”
“Yes, I’ve found a place, and I have my work visa. Still trying to sort out the whole phone number thing.” I shake my head and look through the large arch toward the rest of the gallery.
“Where are you staying?”
I don’t answer him, not right away. It’s all too much. Him, here.
I wonder if he’ll call Dean immediately after this.
If he’ll tell him everything.
“Harper,” Nate says, his voice hushed.
“Did he ask you to come here? To check up on me?” I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Nate, but I can’t… I don’t want him to be informed about my life. I don’t want you to?—”
“I won’t,” he says.
It’s really hard to believe that. Maybe he sees that on my face, because his normally easy-going expression tightens into something more intense. “Harper,” he says again. “If you’ll let me, I would very much?—”
“I hope you don’t mind,” a cultured British voice says, “but I poured us all a glass of champagne.” Aadhya comes to a stop under the arch, with three flutes on a tray and a bright smile on her lips. “Finding everything all right?”
I accept the glass of champagne. “Absolutely. I think Mr. Connovan would love the ethnographic sketches we keep in the Garden Room. Why don’t we all go there together?”
It’s a narrow escape, and judging by the heavy weight of his gaze, not a very subtle one. But my escape from New York hadn’t been very subtle, either.
Nate takes a glass too. “Lead the way, Harper,” he says in a smooth, authoritative tone, and it’s clear the conversation isn’t over.
Yeah. The escape will only be temporary.