27. Lavender
“You look nice,”Daisy says, looking up from her sketchbook.
“Thanks, Daiz.” I smooth the fabric over my thighs as I examine myself in the mirror. “Do you think this dress says powerful but approachable?”
Sitting up, she runs her eyes over me again. “I think it’s pretty,” she answers carefully. “And it makes you look like you have really long legs.”
“I’ll take that,” I say, leaning down to invite a high five. As well as less than luscious lips, I was also under-blessed with legs. Not that I would’ve liked another leg. Just longer ones.
My dress is a Zimmerman dupe and is a whole vibe. It’s a silk-satin wrap dress in a color that could be either silver or pale pink, depending on the light. It has an asymmetric hem and blouson sleeves cinched tight at the wrists. It shimmers as I move, as well as exposing quite a bit of leg. The neckline is low and a little temperamental, thanks to how it ties at the waist, but I love it.
“Is Uncle Raif going with you?”
“No, doll. You’ve got him all to yourself tonight.” I bend to fasten the strap of my shoe. Raif knows I have an exhibition coming up. Daisy even mentioned Tod”s exhibition. It’s not my fault if he hasn’t put two and two together.
I suppose it’s worked out quite well that he’s late this evening.
Or maybe not as fingers fold around my hips.
“Guess who?” I suck in a sharp breath, his touch heating my skin like wildfire.
“Leo?”
Daisy giggles, and my husband makes a noise of contempt.
“Not funny,” he grunts as I turn to greet him.
“Daisy disagrees.” I press my hand to his cheek as he leans down to kiss me. This has become our standard greeting. I’m not sure why. Maybe because this is how married couples are supposed to act. Honestly, I’ve never had anyone pay attention to me like he does. But I can’t be sucked in, no matter how good it feels.
It’s all just pretend. The house, the driver, the attention and care.
“I was laughing,” Daisy says, still laughing, “because Leo isn’t allowed upstairs.”
“Oh?” I quirk a brow. Possession shouldn’t be hot, though I know why it is. Because it feels good. Because I’ve never been on the receiving end. “Are you worried he might spoil the carpets?”
“Uncle Raif says if he sees him up here, he’ll throw him out of the window.”
“When did you hear me say that?”
“In the garden. You said it in Spanish,” she says, carrying on with her drawing.
“Your Spanish must be improving.”
“I think so. But don’t worry, I know you were only joking with him.”
“Hmm. Joking Uncle Raif,” I say, unable to bite back my grin.
“You look very beautiful,” says Raif, ignoring it. “Where are you off to this evening?”
“Back to work.”
His eyes roam over me appreciatively. I’m pleased I thought to use nipple covers.
“We’ve got an event. That exhibition, remember?”
His eyes darken and rake over me, both our memories slipping back to a sun-bleached terrace under an azure sky.
“Better put a sold sticker on every piece,” he’d said, sliding my ankles apart by slow increments.
The memory that washes over me isn’t visual but physical. Sensory. A throbbing.
“Thirty pieces, wasn’t it?” His brows lift in inquiry, his fingers a brush of velvet against my cheek. “I thought you were going to put sold stickers on every piece.”
That pulse again. But he didn’t really mean it, did he?’
“I should’ve asked how much I owed before now.”
“No need.” I inhale and swing away. “The event was already scheduled. Invites already sent out, wine and nibbles already paid for.”
“Chardonnay?” he purrs.
My body responds like Pavlov’s dog.
“Yeah, the cheap horrible stuff,” I call back as though I don’t remember that conversation. Stepping into the oversized closet, I swipe up my clutch from my designated space. Which is neither color coordinated nor tidy. The drawer tops are littered with costume jewelry, and odd shoes are scattered across the floor.
“Need any help?”
“In the closet?” Amusement colors my tone as I turn. His arms are folded, and his head tilts provocatively to one side in a pose I’m coming to recognize. It means I’m hot for you. Let’s spar verbally. Or fuck. Sometimes, let’s verbally spar and fuck.
“Tonight.”
“No need. Everything’s already taken care of.”
“Want a little company, instead?”
I run my finger under my bottom lip, making sure my lip gloss hasn’t bled. “In here or the gallery?” It warrants asking the way we’ve been going at it. At it. At each other. Kissing. Fooling around. Mauling each other. I wonder how much longer I’ll manage to keep him waiting when my body literally throbs for him.
“I like your lipstick.”
My gaze lifts to find him lounging, arms folded, in the doorway.
“Do you?” I roll my lips together, suddenly self-conscious. My lips aren’t my best feature.It takes me ages to apply all my lotions and potions and liners to fill them out.
Raif pushes off from the frame, moving across the space like a tiger through long grass. All stealth and casual menace. “It makes me want to kiss you.”
“But you can’t.” I turn, hooking my thumbs on the dresser shelf behind me. Setting my boobs to their best advantage or keeping myself from touching him? It’s hard to tell. “I’ve just put it on.”
“Challenge accepted.” His voice seems to vibrate under my skin, and I watch as his finger lifts, and he draws it across my collarbone. Back and again. Between my breasts. He bends and presses a kiss there. “I was asking if my wife would like an escort.” Another kiss on my neck. “Maybe I could take you out to dinner afterward.” A breath in my ear. “Take you home and eat you for dessert.”
“Behave yourself,” I whisper. Strange how it sounds more like the opposite.
“I shouldn’t kiss you?” his low voice rumbles as his teasing kisses rain everywhere but my lips. “Or I shouldn’t offer to be your arm candy for the night?”
“Do you want to be, or is it that you don’t trust me around Tod? Because he’ll be there tonight.”
“I’m not worried about Tod. I’ve never been worried about Tod.”
“That’s not what it looked like last time you saw him.”
Why am I bringing that up again? I’ve been trying to forget the emotions that whole scene stirred up. I don’t want him to start asking questions.
“Let’s not rehash. Do you want me there tonight?”
There’s a touch of vulnerability to his question. Or maybe I imagine it. Do I want him there? Yes, in truth. Instead, I say, “I just need to be sure you aren’t going to fly off the handle again.”
“You have my word.”
Poor Tod. He was frightened about Raif before, but he’s going to be bloody terrified now. But I really want him to be there. That’s weird, right?
“It’s going to be really busy.” At least I hope it will. “All hustle and schmooze. I won’t have a lot of time for you.”
“I don’t need you to entertain me. Let me be Mr. Lavender for the evening.”
I roll my eyes, though I secretly love the sound of that. Check out Mr. and Mrs. Lavender.
“And while your clients gaze at the art, I’ll be the sensible one in the room. I’ll be the one gazing at you.”
What kind of idiot would I be to turn that down?
It’s been a hectic week. Our day-to-day business has continued to see a rise in sales, which is amazing. I just wish I knew where the business was coming from. It could be that the gallery is just reaching its peak, that we’re establishing ourselves in this little artsy corner of London. I’d budgeted for advertising around tonight’s exhibition, so maybe that’s paying off. Or maybe Tod is right, and it’s just the sunshine.
Who knows? I’m just happy about the turnaround.
For a couple of days this week, Tod, Primrose, and I have worked into the evening to prepare the space. I’d dug out my painting jeans again and painted one of the walls a vivid shade of green to highlight Tod’s art.
I glance around the room, mentally totting the price of Tod’s night. The printing costs for the event programs and posters sited locally, the social media ad campaign, and the hire of extra pedestals and display cases. Canapés, wine, silverware, and glasses—money to transport some of his larger pieces into the gallery. And that’s without the time, thought, and brain space that has gone into preparation.
I just hope it pays off because as much as I’ve wanted this for Tod, it’s also really important to me.
When I left university, I was a bit rootless. I knew I didn’t want to go into retail or become a buyer or a merchandiser. I’m terrible with a needle and thread, so I was never going to be a costume designer for TV or theater, and I had no intention of stepping into academia—I couldn’t wait to finish my degree. So no teacher, historian, archivist, or museum position for me. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. And those who don’t like people should never be teachers.
I’d worked part-time in a community art space, and that’s where the idea for this place sprang. Art is human. It’s what we do. Leave our names scratched into concrete and our stick men onto walls of caves. I wanted to make art accessible. I wanted to bring beauty into the world and make money, of course.
I would’ve never been able to open this place without Whit. I think he only intended to humor me at first. He said it was common for new graduates to have their first existential crisis when their careers didn’t immediately take off. But it was worse than that. I was lost and feeling low after what had happened before.
The crying and the upset. The brick. Smashing glass. Lost friends and lost relationships. I even lost myself for a while. Usually at the bottom of a bottle of Belvedere.
But then I’d graduated. Against all odds. How the Whittington clan must’ve exhaled a joint breath. I hadn’t found my immediate place in the world, unlike my older siblings who just seemed to have it all worked out. I spiraled into despair.
Whit, taking me aside one day, as he does, told me I needed to help myself. He suggested I dig into what I love, to find something that would align with my life’s passions. He probably regretted it later when he found out what it was going to cost him. But I am passionate about this space and so grateful to him for the opportunity.
Tonight is important. Because tonight, I get to stick my two fingers up to the naysayers and say, “I’m not just hard work. I’m also a hard worker. I’m tenacious and driven. I am the embodiment of that trite title, girl boss!
And I am so fucking proud of it.
“It looks amazing.” Primrose appears by my side. “Are you excited? I’m excited for you.”
The warmth in her words makes me smile. “Yeah, I am excited. I’m also bloody petrified.”
“Really?”
I nod and glance her way. It doesn’t look like she believes me. “Seriously, look.” I hold out my hand to show her my trembling fingers.
“That’s excitement,” she says, wrapping her arm around mine. It’s sort of a hug. We’re not demonstrative, but we do love. No matter how much we take the piss. “I bet you’ve never been frightened a day in your life.”
“I wish. I just hide it well. I swallow those fears deep, press my head down, and battle my way through life, forcing myself to do the things I don’t want to do. Just like everyone else, really.”
My sister eyes me like I’m selling her a line.
I stifle a sigh. Every now and again, I tell the absolute truth about my feelings, but no one seems to realize. Or care. Fill in the blanks according to the relationship.
I know Primrose cares. We might have a prickly relationship on the outside, but inside, there’s love.
But for now, we both turn to the sound of masculine footsteps.
“Am I disturbing anything?” Raif cants his head to one side, his expression warm and his dark eyes twinkling. The bristles on his cheeks give him a slightly piratical air, as well as making his lips pop.
Maybe I should cultivate a beard rather than buy more expensive lipstick.
“No, nothing.” No need to air my frailties any more than I have.
“I’m told that, traditionally, cheap chardonnay is the beverage of choice, but I thought we might toast to the success of your evening with something a little more special,” he says, producing a bottle of champagne from behind his back.
“I knew there was a reason I married you,” I say, tamping back my delight and ignoring all the suggestions and connotations. The way he’s looking at me, the bottle of vintage champagne that’s the same brand as we’d had on our wedding day. Out on the terrace.
“I hope there was more than one reason,” he says in that sultry tone of his.
“There might be one or two things that I’m quite fond of.”
“Only one or two?”
“People, enough with the sexy voices, please.”
“Did you say I have a sexy voice?”
“Eww. Just fucking eww.”
“I’m going to say a few more if Raif doesn’t get the champagne open quickly.”
“Never let it be said I leave a lady waiting.”
“Urgh!” Prim casts her eyes to the ceiling. “Am I going to have to be drunk before I turn up to my first dinner invitation? If this is the way you are with an audience, I don’t even want to think about what poor Daisy puts up with.”
“I’ll keep it strictly PG,” Raif says, peeling the foil from the bottle.
“I’ll get glasses,” she says, making for the area we’ve set up for catering.
“Ready for your big night?” Raif asks, beginning to twist the bottle from the cork.
“You know it,” I say, laying my bravado as thick as teenage beauty influencer applies their foundation. I’m more anxious under my skin than I am above it. I sometimes wonder where I got into the habit of hiding this part of me.
No need to dwell, though. And I have no intention of sharing.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“I don’t believe you did.”
“Well, you do.” His gaze falls over me. “You’re so fucking sexy.”
“And capable.”
“Very capable.”
“Clever. And accomplished.”
“Also, very true. Not yet twenty-five and already the owner of a prestigious art gallery.”
“Don’t overdo it. I like my flattery to be believable.”
“Then believe this, you are so much more than I bargained for, Lavender Whittington-Deveraux.”
I smile. Really smile. “You are a sweet talker.” Stepping closer, I lay my hand on his cheek, the bristles tickling my palm.
“There is no end to my mouth’s capabilities.”
“Eww! Again!”
“Sorry, Primrose.” Though he doesn’t sound it.
“Come on, let’s get this bottle open before the hordes descend and confuse us with a fancy Mayfair gallery.”