Chapter 9
nine
PRESENT DAY
KATE
“What in the world were you thinking?” Amantha’s laugh is incredulous. “You really punched Brandon in the face?” She strolls beside me as we round the sparkling ramp of The Spiral.
She’s wearing a gray pantsuit that perfectly matches her pale eyes. It hugs the type of ample curves I could only dream about.
“I was supposed to punch Brandon! We were sparring! I mean, I know I still lost the bet, but it felt amazing to get a few hits in. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get to punch him again during our lessons.”
“Diabolical.” Amantha laughs as she pushes open the employee entrance door. “You, my friend, are a menace.”
I sip my iced matcha latte, courtesy of my overtly-flirtatious favorite barista, Rohan, who had it ready and waiting for me again.
I sweep my long, straight hair over my shoulder as we walk. Today, I chose yet another all black ensemble—black bodysuit, black pencil skirt, and black heels. Why?
Because I’m in mourning.
Coming back to work after the holidays already sucks, but now I have to share that stupid tiny office with Brandon.
Sure, I understand why Kendra is requiring us to use the space.
Both of our desks are centered in the commons area of the curation wing, and it can get pretty loud there.
If making quieter cold calls to donors means we’ll still have jobs, I’ll have to take one for the team.
“Where’s Val this morning?” I ask Amantha, taking another sip.
“He’s coming in late. Anthony asked him to go to his ‘career day’ at school to talk about curation.” Amantha’s smile stretches from ear to ear at the mention of her eleven-year-old son. “I mean, he could’ve asked me, but I’m not even offended ‘cause it’s too darn cute.”
“That is pretty adorable.”
We turn the corner into the curation wing. Blythe rushes toward her office in a blur of frizzy blonde hair and an orange blazer, and I cough a laugh. Despite being almost fifty, she’s always moving at warp-speed.
I part ways with Amantha, checking with Blythe to see if there’s anything I need to help her with before I start contacting Kendra’s list of donors. There isn’t. I brush a finger across my mahogany desk stationed just outside Blythe’s office.
Hesitating, I grab a few office supplies and stuff them into my tote. I’m not sure what will be stocked in my—our—new office. My eyes rove Brandon’s vacant desk across the commons area. It seems untouched. I frown. It’s not like him to be late. Usually he shows up a few—
An icy shiver works its way from my neck to my tailbone as recollection smacks me in the face.
Of course he’s early. One would have to be an idiot to forget the deal we made over the nice office chair.
An expletive bursts from my mouth as I hurtle down the hallway, my now heavy work tote bouncing with office supplies.
Sure enough, my cocky ex is leaning back in the nice chair, shining brown leather dress shoes propped on the desk.
A bluetooth keyboard stretches across his tan chino pants, and his black long-sleeved button up is cuffed up each corded forearm.
Those stupid inky rose petals climb his neck, visible from where his collar stays unbuttoned without a tie.
“Katie, you finally made it!” Brandon’s smile almost blinds me as he scoops his messy papers into a pile and pats a corner of the desk affectionately. “Here. I saved you a spot.”
I scowl, and his smile only grows bigger.
My attention falls onto a small basket of reprieve. It’s filled with my favorite protein bars, the ones I told Amantha about last week. I’ll have to thank her later.
I snatch a protein bar from the basket as I stalk the two steps toward the crusty chair. My head falls to the side at the cylinder of anti-bacterial wipes set atop it.
Brandon is the perfect picture of innocence. “See? I’m not a monster.”
I swipe the container unceremoniously to the floor then pick up the rusty chair. It swings into the open air, making Brandon duck.
“You can’t bludgeon me with a chair at work, Kate!”
I stall with the tetanus chair halfway out the door. “Does that mean I can bludgeon you not at work?”
Brandon puffs a laugh. “Always so bloodthirsty. What, punching me in the face wasn’t enough for you?” He rubs a hand over the slight bruise shadowing his square jaw.
I smile sweetly. “Surprisingly, no.”
I whip my hair over my shoulder and stalk down the hall. After depositing the chair in a supply closet, I make a mental note to tell the elderly facility manager, Rick, about it later.
I flick my gaze toward the curved glass conference room. The table is surrounded by soft, upholstered chairs with wheels and somewhat decent back support.
Before anyone can witness my theft, I dart in and grab one. I yank the two neighboring chairs closer to mask the gap and wheel the chair out of the room.
Brandon is again manspreading across the desk, but his green gaze is laser-focused as his fingers fly across the keyboard in his lap. He glances at my new chair, and his mouth quirks for a second before his attention snaps back to his work.
Even though it’s been six months, I’ve never truly witnessed the colleague side of Brandon before. Val and Brandon usually hole up in Val’s office, and I’ve never technically been assigned a task with him.
The pinch of his black eyebrows, the offset tightness of his mouth as he stares his task in the face…it’s kinda hot. Despite the lack of a necktie, Brandon could almost pass as an employed grown-up.
Almost.
I smooth my black pencil skirt over my backside and sit down. Using my forearm, I slide Brandon’s mess back ten inches, ruffle through my work tote, and line up my office supplies on the edge of the desk. I pull the basket of protein bars Amantha left into line with them and smile.
It falters when I notice Brandon watching me.
“What?”
He grins, lifting up one of my supplies. “You gonna need a three-hole-punch while we’re here?”
I huff. “I don’t know. Maybe. What if I need to three-hole-punch something while I’m in here? Or someone?”
A deep belly laugh flies out of him, and I can’t ward off a minuscule smile.
“And the office snack basket stays here.” He drags it back into its original position. “That way I can monitor if you’re actually eating my peace offering. Wouldn’t wanna get three-hole-punched ‘cause you get hangry.”
“You brought these?”
“What, you think some office fairy flies around with your favorite protein bars?”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I slip behind a neutral mask with a shrug.
The silence grates at me for about eight minutes before I crack. “Should I ask what you’re working on? Aren’t we supposed to be coordinating?”
Brandon’s fingers continue to fly across his keyboard. “Private grant application I found this morning. Besides, Kendra told me she emailed you the list of donor prospects, so I assume you’re emailing them to set up phone calls?”
He assumed right, but I refuse to acknowledge it. Besides, the heat in my cheeks has flamed again at how professional his tone is.
“You…found a grant?” I ask, cool as a cucumber.
His lips twitch as his eyes meet mine. “I am capable of research, Kate.”
“Shocking.”
He goes back to typing as we descend into silence. I retrieve my earbuds from my purse then select my favorite yoga playlist. Soothing music calms my jitters as the hours begin to pass.
Close to lunchtime, a notification pings my email. I perk up in my chair. One of the potential donors already emailed me back.
Mr. Winthrop and his wife are known for their generosity in the arts. The email states that they’re getting on a flight to Fiji in thirty minutes and to call as soon as possible.
I scramble for the desk phone that someone, probably Rick, so kindly installed earlier.
“What are you doing?” Brandon’s focus finally breaks.
“Saving the museum before Mr. Winthrop boards a plane to Fiji.”
Mr. Winthrop answers on the third ring.
My voice drips with honey. “Hello, Mr. Winthrop. This is Kate Chen with the Chicago Legacy Art Museum.”
“Okay?” Mr. Winthrop has the haughty tone of someone much wealthier than me. For some reason, my mind paints my dad onto the other end of the line, and I clench the phone receiver.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with. Your email was abysmally vague. Why exactly did you insist on calling me?” he demands.
“I—”
Brandon leans over and pushes the speaker phone button on the desk phone.
I recover and duck my head toward the speaker. “I was calling to say that we enjoyed your and your wife’s company at our Felix Andreas gala last year.”
“Okay?” he repeats.
I swallow, smoothing my pencil skirt. “You and Mrs. Winthrop filled out a form saying you may be interested in donating to future exhibitions. We have an incredible one coming up—”
“A form?” he butts in. “I don’t recall filling out any forms.” His voice muffles. “Charlotte, did you fill out a form at the Felix Andreas gala?”
I can’t make out her response. Brandon’s got that crease between his brows again.
“It appears she did pledge a donation,” Mr. Winthrop mutters. “How much of my money are you ladies trying to take?”
My mouth flaps for a millisecond at his obvious disdain, but it’s Brandon’s voice that answers.
“Hello, Mr. Winthrop. This is Brandon Roberts, Kate’s associate.
” The rich, velvet tone he uses makes the honey in mine seem like synthetic maple syrup.
“We don’t need to discuss numbers, especially before you board a plane.
I hear you’re going to Fiji?” Brandon types something into his phone as he speaks.
“We are.”
“I hear it’s lovely this time of year,” Brandon says silkily. “When you return, Kate and I would love to take you and Charlotte out to dinner. We can discuss the donation then.”
“We won’t be back for three weeks.”
“No worries, Mr. Winthrop. We’ll reach out once you’re back to schedule it. Say, will you two visit the Garden of the Sleeping Giant while you’re there?”
I blink at Brandon like he’s lost his mind.