Chapter 3 #2
“Yes,” I lie. “And that intern is practically a child. I’m just saving the museum from a lawsuit.” I tip the shoulder of my graphic silk bomber jacket with a dismayed sigh. “And it’s none of my business who you…fraternize with.”
“Ooh. A play on words. Witty, love.”
That nickname causes me to clench my empty coffee cup into styrofoam shrapnel. “If you still love your mother and want to see her again, you’ll stop calling me that.”
Those annoying dimples punctuate the slight hollowness of his cheeks before his voice darkens seductively. He steps closer. Too close.
“Mmm…” His minty breath is accompanied by his trademark sexy cedarwood scent. “You know how much I like it when you act all bossy, but like you kindly reminded me, this is a workplace.” His emerald gaze dips over my body, and a prickle of heat follows every square inch his eyes touch.
“Unfortunate,” he murmurs.
“What’s unfortunate?” A jolt of self-consciousness zips through me, and I stupidly puzzle down at my outfit.
A calloused finger slips beneath my chin before Brandon lifts my face to his.
I startle but don’t move. I’m nothing but a quaking deer in headlights, either too stupid or stubborn to get out of danger’s way. His eyes drop to my mouth and darn it, mine drop to his, too.
Besides the fact that Brandon is stupidly hot, there’s a depth to him that is equally captivating. His magnetic pull is every bit as dangerous now as it was six years ago. Because I’m not going to fall for the charms of Brandon Roberts ever again.
“It’s unfortunate you won’t admit you still want me—love.”
I shove his hand away from my chin. “No, it’s unfortunate you won’t quit and go work somewhere else. This museum is mine.”
“How do you keep up that big head with that tiny neck of yours?” He eyes me with a pretend sense of wonder before his grin turns crooked.
“Last I checked, this is the Chicago Legacy Art Museum. Not the Kate Chen Ego Rehabilitation Center. And why would I go back to working at a gallery when I get to see your pretty face every day? So, no. This place is every bit mine as it is yours.” And with that, his dimples deepen before he strides from the room.
That sexy degree of cockiness is all it takes for the feral fluttering in my stomach to start, and I want to murder every single butterfly. Because that’s what Brandon Roberts reduces me to.
A butterfly serial killer.
The morning meeting starts soon, so I rush down the hallway, deposit my things at my desk, and pick up speed as I jog toward the curved glass walls of the conference room.
Even from here, I can see my boss, Blythe, fidgeting inside. Her frizzy, shoulder-length blonde hair sticks out like it can’t be coaxed into calming down any more than she can. I’m convinced her blood is purely made up of energy drinks.
My gaze shifts sideways, and Brandon’s amused green eyes lock with mine through the open doorway. A cocky grin slides onto his lips as if he somehow hears the betraying uptick in my pulse.
Forget the butterflies, I want to murder him.
Ihold my head high as I sit beside Blythe in the conference room. Brandon sits next to Amantha and Val, but I refuse to acknowledge his presence.
The museum director, Kendra Steele, looks impossibly more serious than usual.
She always gives off strict high-school principal vibes, wearing her black hair in a bun so tight it’s better than a facelift.
But her bronze skin looks fantastic for her age, so maybe she’s had one of those too.
A heavy silence stills our chatter as Kendra stands.
Amantha and I exchange a worried look.
“I’m not going to sugar coat this.” Kendra’s voice is thin and reedy.
“The museum is in trouble. Three of our largest donors have pulled their donations for unrelated reasons. Federal funding has been reduced significantly across the country. Even though we had a smashing success with Lance Stirling’s exhibition last July”—she offers a fleeting lip twitch toward Amantha, who had worked closely with the viral artist—“the museum cannot function on ticket sales alone. Unless we can raise a significant amount of funding by the end of the second quarter, layoffs will be imminent.”
The curation staff is encased in stone. I’m not sure I’m breathing, either. Did I hear that right? Funding got cut? Donors pulled out?
An annoying tapping sound beneath the table breaks the silence. My eyes seek out Brandon—whose annoying ways know no bounds—but then I realize that it’s my bouncing left knee against the mahogany.
Amantha’s voice is a hoarse whisper before she clears her throat. “Is any of it… related to what happened after Stirling’s soiree?”
Kendra responds with a brisk head shake.
“No. Just a perfect storm of unfortunate events.” Something akin to sympathy shadows her expression.
“Which means, Amantha, that in addition to cutting other departments’ budgets, I’ve had to do the same here.
Unfortunately, you no longer have the funds to transport your exhibition pieces from Amsterdam. ”
Amantha’s jaw drops. Val stands in protest.
“Kendra,” he says, “there’s gotta be a way to scrape together enough for those pieces. Amantha will have to scrap her plans if we can’t. The museum only owns three of the pieces she needs. She can’t build an exhibition with three paintings.”
Kendra’s dark eyes glitter. “There’s nothing I can do, Val. I hope you can trust that I’ve done my best to direct what funds we have.”
Amantha’s gray eyes brim with silent tears, and mine threaten to do the same. I know how much this exhibition means to her, and I can practically hear her heart breaking.
Brandon sits in stony silence, eyes fixed on Kendra.
“What funds do I have?” Amantha’s lip quivers, but she sits up taller.
“I can send you the new numbers by the end of day. We’ll discuss your plans moving forward. The Historic Scavenger Hunt for Charity will still proceed as planned next month, but after that…” She blows out a long breath.
I’ve never seen Kendra like this. She looks almost… defeated.
Blythe pipes up from beside me. “Kendra, with all due respect, there’s gotta be something we can do. Sure, donors pulled out, but there’s more fish in the sea. Maybe we can dig up a grant.”
“We will fix this,” Val says. “I’ll help Blythe search for donors and grant applications.”
Kendra says, “I’ve already begun compiling a list of prospects. Contacting potential donors will be dull work, but it just may save someone’s career. Layoffs will be a last resort, but I am being completely transparent when I say the chances are high.”
My stomach twists. Would Kendra really fire me? I guess if she had no choice, she’d probably fire any of us. A sickening picture of me returning home, unemployed, with my tail between my legs makes me shiver.
The potential lawyer-turned-assistant-turned-loser.
Never let them see you sweat.
I meet Amantha’s worried eyes with what I hope is a look of reassurance. We will fix this. I don’t know how, but we will. Stubborn lava heats my bones, and I sit up straighter.
I sacrificed so much to be here. This cosmic “I told you so” cannot mean that my parents were right about me being a disappointment all along. It cannot mean the end of all this.
Kendra interrupts my spiraling by turning to Val.
“The museum cannot risk you or Blythe splitting your focus, especially with the Historic Scavenger Hunt for Charity coming so soon. The assistants, however…” Her dark eyes swing to me.
“Kate, Brandon, I’m assigning you two to work together to procure additional funds for the museum. ”
I stare blankly at her, hoping I’m having an aneurysm that distorts words. Reality punches me in the face when a certain rumbling voice across from me speaks up.
“We can do that.” Brandon puts far too much emphasis on the word “we.” I cut my eyes to his as an unfortunately-timed pang of hunger makes me clench my fists. His green eyes twinkle above his cockiest smirk to date.
I may look calm on the outside, but a cacophony of filthy curse words ring out in my mind.
“Good.” Kendra nods briskly. “And because you’ll need a quieter area for phone calls than your desks in the common area, I’m temporarily assigning you two the office space across from the copy room. It’s not much bigger than Amantha’s, but it will do just fine.”
The meeting ends without my consent. I stalk past Brandon without another word. He strides behind me, seeming to know exactly where I’m headed. I pick up my pace until I’m practically jog-walking to our newly assigned office space. Brandon’s hot on my tail, though.
I know I’m being immature and that I should act more professional, but it’s not my fault. It’s Brandon’s.
I half slam into the door frame, pin balling off and knocking into Brandon’s stupidly hard chest. We shove each other for purchase in the doorway before eyeing the tiny office space.
Kendra lied. This isn’t bigger than Amantha’s. It’s basically a glorified closet without a window. I blink again, as if it will somehow expand the square footage to accommodate a second desk.
It doesn’t. There is one desk, one nice office chair, and one scrubby waiting chair tucked sadly into a corner.
We both exclaim, “I call the desk,” and “I get the desk.”
I glare at his smirk.
“Once we come back to work after the holiday break”—Brandon’s tone is patronizing like he’s speaking to a toddler—“whoever gets here first each morning gets the desk. The other can get tetanus from the crappy chair.”
“Hope you’re up to date on your shots, then,” I say sweetly.
Brandon’s laugh sounds husky, and now this office space feels even smaller. He studies me for a moment too long.
“Ugh. Here.” Brandon withdraws a granola bar from his work bag and forces it into my hands before walking past. He slings off his bag and sets it on the desk, sliding out his laptop. Noticing me balking, he rolls his eyes.
“Eat it, Kate. If I have to work with you, I’m not getting my head ripped off ‘cause you chose to skip breakfast.”
I yank off the shiny wrapper and shove a bite into my mouth, chewing furiously. “Who says I won’t rip your head off anyway?”
“Occupational hazard, I guess.”
I step around him and plop into the desk chair. He hangs his head sideways, gesturing at the contents of his bag already splayed across the tabletop.
“What?” I ask, my mouth still full of granola. “I got to the chair first.”
“The audacity,” he mutters, but a tiny lip twitch gives him away.
My own tiny grin betrays me.
Against my better judgment, I allow us to stare at each other. But then Brandon’s eyes drop to my mouth, and a memory seems to crash over us both.