Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Mandy
Great, it’s Seymour.
The fluorescent lights in the tiny bathroom buzz overhead as I press my back against the cool tile wall. My hands are still shaking from the encounter with Darren, and now this. Just perfect.
Now, I have to grovel in front of him, give him his due, bow down before him, gush how wonderful he was in taking care of that big bad man. The mere thought of stroking his ego makes my stomach clench.
I don’t want to do it.
Maybe he’ll go away. I stare at the bathroom door, willing him to disappear. The ancient ventilation fan whirs and rattles, filling the silence.
“I’m not going anywhere until I talk to you.” His deep voice carries through the door with annoying authority.
Well, he’s going to be waiting a long time then…at least until I have to leave for my meeting, which is in about three minutes. Crap. I have a feeling Seymour is the persistent type in this situation. He doesn’t know me very well then.
“I’m fine. Thank you. You can leave now.
” The words come out clipped and cold. How professional was that?
Geez. If Diana heard me, I’d deserve the lecture on how to treat customers.
Is Seymour a customer? He’s never been in before.
The gallery’s polished wood floors creak under his weight as he shifts outside the door.
“Mandy.” He sounds annoyed. The way he says my name sends an unwanted shiver down my spine.
“You might be able to boss everyone else around, but I’m not everyone.
” But I am, because my knees are wobbly, and I feel like caving.
Really, I just want to curl up and take a nap.
Forget about what happened. Forget about Seymour and his commanding tone of voice.
Forget about my failure as an artist. Forget about the past.
What feels like a few minutes pass, and I puff out a breath of relief. The silence stretches. The fan rattles. My shoulders start to relax.
“Fine. I’ll have the conversation through the door.”
Nope, he’s not gone. My shoulders immediately tense again.
He continues, “I saw everything in there. How that man targeted you the second he walked through the door.”
Is he talking really loud? I think he is. His voice echoes off the bathroom’s tiled walls, probably carrying through the entire downstairs gallery. My cheeks flush hot. Has Diana arrived? Will she hear him? I press my ear against the door, straining to hear if anyone else is around.
“He was a jerk.” His voice raises a notch, bouncing off the gallery walls. “The way he kept touching you and bossing you around, like some kind of pervert. Like he enjoyed every minute of it.”
I panic. Can Julie hear him from her desk? I don’t want Julie to know the specifics either. I don’t want anyone to know, because that could lead to either me being let go or reveal that I’ve put up with that man’s crap for way too long.
“I saw when he—”
I whip open the bathroom door, the hinges protesting with a squeal.
Seymour fills the doorframe, all six-plus feet of him, and I have to crane my neck to glare up at him.
He just looks smug, his mouth carved into a smirk.
Gorgeous, but smug. Dark hair falls across his forehead in a way that probably took thirty minutes to look that effortlessly tousled.
But there’s the intense way he’s looking at me, his green eyes sharp and focused.
It’s almost like this is something he just needs to take care of, then wipe his hands off.
I hiss, “I don’t need the replay, thanks.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you do,” he says, flat-toned. His expensive cologne—something woodsy and masculine—invades my space.
“I didn’t ask or need your help,” I spit out.
But why oh why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
I should be profusely thanking him, but there’s something about him and how much I don’t like him that makes it hard to be grateful.
Instead, I get defensive. My fingers curl into fists at my sides.
“You’re not some Greek God floating down from Olympus to help us mere mortals. ”
“You think I’m a Greek God?” He leans against the door frame, one shoulder propped against it, his crisp white shirt pulling across his chest. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or thoroughly enjoying himself at my expense.
“Hardly.” The word comes out more breathless than I intended.
“Tell me more.” His eyes glint with amusement.
I study him, give him the condescending look right back, like he’s looking in a mirror. From this close, I can see the faint stubble along his jaw. “You know, the Greek Gods, selfish, arrogant, self-absorbed, and—”
“I’d say selfish and self-absorbed are pretty much the same thing.” Now any expression on his face closes down, his features hardening into an unreadable mask. “Tell me something I haven’t heard before, Sparky. I can give you the list of names I’ve been called if you’re hurting for synonyms.”
Any desire to thank him shrivels up and dies. The fluorescent light casts harsh shadows across his face, making him look more intimidating. “If this is an ongoing occurrence for you. Women insulting you. Maybe there’s a reason and you should consider changing your personality.”
“Please, give me some tips. What should I change?” he asks. His voice drops lower, almost a purr, and goosebumps rise on my arms despite my irritation.
I should stop right now, but I can’t. “Well, first...”
I stop talking because what I was about to say aren’t things he can control.
Like maybe he shouldn’t smell so nice, the scent of soap and peppermint making my head swim.
Maybe he should shower less. He could also try to be less handsome and he could definitely tone down the sexiness factor.
Stop swaggering about and drawing women to him like he is some Greek god.
It might work on some women, but it won’t work on me. I will not be a piece of clay in his hands that he can mold. Doing or saying what he wants. No way.
“Yes?” His eyebrow raises, a perfect dark arch above those green eyes that seem to see right through me.
He’s waiting and he almost looks bored, his long fingers drumming against the doorframe.
Of course, he’s bored. It’s just me. Mandy Farnsworth.
Some lowly peasant in his world. My rage spikes, hot and sharp in my chest. I feel it rising.
I can’t stand men like him, with their perfectly tailored clothes and condescending smirks.
I am not a toy he can play with for fun.
I lean close, inches from him, except I have to look up. The heat from his body radiates between us in the cramped space. “You can do something about the porcupine breath.”
What kind of insult was that? Where did that come from? I mean, really. Porcupine breath? The truth is his breath probably smells like expensive coffee and mint.
The silence between us doesn’t last long, the hum of the fan the only sound.
He laughs. It’s not a fake laugh or an I’m-making-fun-of you laugh.
I think it’s an honest-to-God laugh, like a real one.
For a few brief seconds, his eyes twinkle and he smiles, transforming his whole face.
Deep dimples appear in his cheeks. I think it’s the first real Seymour smile I’ve ever seen in my life. So somewhere in there is a real person.
It’s amazing how fast that flicker of the real Seymour lasts, about as long as the laugh. Two seconds and that’s being generous. Quickly, the mask falls, his features settling back into their usual arrogant lines, and he changes the subject. “Tell me about that guy.”
I shrug, my shoulders tight with tension. Where to start? I don’t want to talk bad about our biggest donor. It’s not professional. I tell him the line I’ve told myself for weeks, the words practiced and hollow. “He’s an eccentric artist who is generous with Lakeside Gallery.”
“That wasn’t practiced, or anything,” he says. Now there’s not so much smugness as genuine concern, his brows drawing together. “How long has he been bothering you?”
Since the day I met him. Every time I see him. The memory of Darren’s hands makes my skin crawl. “Not often.”
“I don’t believe you.” His voice is soft but firm.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze defiantly even as my heart hammers.
“I don’t care whether you believe me.” I sigh.
I’ve been a brat. Seymour took care of Darren, and I do appreciate it.
I force out the words through gritted teeth.
“Thank you.” I quickly follow it up with, “Did you beat him up out in a back alley?”
Another flicker of a genuine smile crosses his face, softening his features. “Not sure there are any back alleys around here.” He stops, tilts his head like he’s confused, dark hair falling across his forehead. “Wait. Repeat what you just said.”
“I asked if you beat him up.” Great, he’s going to force me to say it again, which shouldn’t be a problem, because I’m grateful. There, I said it. I’m grateful. The word sits uncomfortably in my chest.
“No, before that.” He studies me, waiting to see if I’ll say it, like it’s some kind of test. His green eyes seem to catalog every micro-expression on my face.
“I said, thank you.” The words come out barely above a whisper.
“You’re welcome.” His voice has gone soft again, almost gentle.
The sharp click of high heels echoes through the gallery. It’s a familiar sound. Diana is the only one who wears heels. And here I am, talking with a customer in the doorway of the bathroom, in the employee only part of the gallery. My heart leaps into my throat. It doesn’t look good.
I step aside, shoving at Seymour’s solid chest, trying to push him into the bathroom so I can shut the door on him.
One quick conversation with Diana, and I’ll let him go and never see Seymour Black again. He can’t be in town that long.
Except my plan fails spectacularly.
Seymour grabs my wrist and pulls me into the bathroom with him, shutting the door with a quiet click. The sound of it closing seems impossibly loud in the tiny space.