Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Seymour
Yes, I just broke all my rules.
How did I let that happen?
The sound of my footsteps echo through the empty gallery hallway as I put distance between myself and that cramped bathroom. My hands still tingle from where they’d wrapped around her shoulders. The scent of her shampoo—something floral and fresh—lingers on my shirt collar.
I was the one who pulled Mandy into the bathroom.
The memory of her small frame pressed against mine sends an unwelcome jolt through my system.
I don’t even know why I did it. Maybe it’s the way she positively hates me, the fire in her eyes when she glares at me.
I felt safe, oddly enough. And the way she pushed me in there like I was nothing more than a broomstick that needed hiding—it was refreshingly direct.
Still, that was too close. I broke my most important rule: never be alone with an attractive woman.
Do I think Mandy Farnsworth is attractive?
Well, yes. She’s a spitfire, practically vibrating with energy when she speaks about art.
That kind of passion is rare. I see it in the way her eyes light up.
I’m jealous, if I’m being honest. I’ve never felt that strongly toward anything.
She’s different from the women who usually surround me, with their calculated smiles and practiced laughs.
She doesn’t care what others think. She doesn’t gush all over me, falling into my lap, or my bed.
That ridiculous shock of blue hair should look unprofessional, but somehow it fits her, like a visual representation of her defiance. She has a dangerous smile, quick and sharp, and a bright look of intelligence that makes most men step back. Most men, but not me.
Then there’s the hatred toward me. Her absolute disgust with everything I am. The way her lip curls when she looks at me, like I’m something unpleasant she found on the bottom of her shoe.
I like that.
No, I love that.
It’s refreshing.
That’s what the rules are for. It means they’re working.
At least, I didn’t smile. I’m pretty sure I didn’t smile.
But then, in a moment of weakness, I hugged her. What was I thinking?
I deserved that kick. My shin still throbs where her heel connected, a sharp reminder to keep my distance.
But I couldn’t help it. The pain in her eyes and etched into her face needed attention.
She needed attention. Obviously, I was right, given the way she sank into my hug.
Like she hadn’t been held like that in years.
Like she’d forgotten what it felt like to let someone else carry her burden for a moment.
I’m not a hugger. Not sure what came over me. It won’t happen again.
She might think she hides what she’s feeling, but she doesn’t. Every emotion plays across her face like paint on canvas—anger, hurt, determination. Even now, I can picture the way her shoulders tensed when that creep touched her, how her fingers trembled as she hung his paintings.
I never should have touched her, especially after what happened with that guy. It was insensitive of me. If she doesn’t say something to Diana in the meeting about that guy, then I will.
Oh, right. The meeting. I’m the newest board member. My friend and lawyer, Harris, knows Diana. He asked me to help. I couldn’t say no. I don’t have many friends, and he’s one of the few I trust doesn’t want something from me. He earns enough money. He doesn’t need mine.
That’s why I’m sitting in a room on the second-floor gallery that is clearly a meeting space-slash-work room. The space feels lived-in. It’s somewhat cluttered with paintings and easels. Filing cabinets line one wall, their metal surfaces decorated with colorful magnets and exhibition schedules.
The door opens with a soft creak, and Diana strides through, all business. She has a slim build and a sternness about her. That’s what it takes to run a business. Any business, but especially one that deals with the arts.
“Hello, Mr. Black. So wonderful you could make it.” She pulls out a leather-bound notebook, the kind executives carry to look important.
“Please, Seymour.”
“And call me Diana. We don’t like to be too formal here.” She glances at the door, checking the hallway. “I’m sure my staff will be along any minute.”
Staff, meaning Mandy. Why do I have an evil sort of anticipation at seeing the shocked look on her face when she sees me? “No worries. I have time.”
Most likely, she’s still down in the bathroom finding her composure after the interaction with that creep.
My jaw clenches at the memory of his hands on her, his entitled smirk.
Maybe that’s why I intervened. I know what it’s like to be ogled.
I know how it feels when someone invades your personal space with ill intentions, to feel dirty from being looked at like a piece of meat.
“Again,” Diana says, settling into her chair and smoothing her skirt, “I wanted to thank you for being willing to join our board short term. I’m glad Harris talked you into it.”
The familiar dance begins. People want to work with me for a reason.
They want more money. They want more business.
They want success. I’m assuming this situation is no different.
Without looking at the books or chatting with the finance person or asking Diana about it, I know one thing. The gallery must be struggling.
Which leads me to my first question. “Maybe there’s an obvious reason I’m not seeing, but why hasn’t Alexander Silvano held an art show here? His art is brilliant. Isn’t he local?”
The painting of his that hangs in my office comes to mind.
His work has a unique style, a clear branding, which is so important for success.
He takes famous New England people from history and paints them in a Picasso-like style, with distorted features.
I’ve spent hours studying my piece, trying to glimpse why the left eye is bigger or the mouth smaller.
His work makes you want to read about the subject, their history, to understand why the artist made those specific choices.
Diana lets out a frustrated sigh, her perfectly maintained composure cracking slightly. “I’ve tried. Trust me. I’d love to host the famous Alexander Silvano as an artist.”
“Has he given you a reason?”
She shrugs, but the tension in her shoulders tells me there’s more to the story. “Something about Lakewood being his hometown. He doesn’t want special influence or earnings, because he knows people.”
Right away, that excuse doesn’t fly with me. My instincts, honed from years of business deals, tell me there’s more to it that he’s not telling Diana. The explanation is too neat, too simple.
“But hey, if you think you can convince him, you’re more than welcome to try,” she says, now opening her notebook to study the agenda.
“Why did you want me on the board?” I already know the answer, but it’s a question I always ask. The response usually tells me everything I need to know about a person’s intentions.
She smiles, and I see the flicker of a sly expression cross her face. “The Midas touch, of course. Your brilliant business mind and that way you have of making businesses thrive. I would almost call it magic.”
Okay, flattery works on most people, but in this situation, it makes me suspicious. If I were to guess, I’d say it’s desperation, one last attempt to keep the gallery open. She hasn’t said as much yet, and maybe it won’t be this meeting, but I guarantee it’s coming.
She leans forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially.
“We’re hoping you’ll work that magic with Lakeside Gallery.
” She takes a more relaxed pose, looking again at her watch.
“Unfortunately, we have too many artists working here. It’s rare to find an artist who has creative genius and a mind for business. ”
The door creaks open, and Mandy enters, her face flushed.
Her quick, sharp intake of breath tells me she probably caught the tail end of Diana’s comment.
I watch the hurt flash across her face before she masks it.
Almost as if she were listening outside the door.
I hope not. The anger rises in me at the way Diana just insulted her staff.
Maybe she didn’t mean to, but the way she quickly offers Mandy a forced smile tells me she knew it was an insult.
She’s just hoping Mandy didn’t hear. Or she doesn’t care.
Mandy starts right in, her words tumbling out with passion despite her obvious discomfort.
“I’ve always thought it helps to have an artist on staff.
So much about selling a painting is about placement, where it sits in the room, and how the light hits during certain parts of the day.
Is the presentation pleasing to the eye and not too overwhelming. Then there’s—”
That’s when her gaze lands on me and her speech halts. The color drains from her cheeks, and I watch as her fingers grip the back of the nearest chair, knuckles white with tension.
“Yes, of course, Mandy. I’m talking about the business sense.” Diana’s smile and her words are real, but there’s an edge to them. “But we wouldn’t be having this meeting with the new board member if enough paintings were selling.”
“N-new board member?”
The color rushes back into Mandy’s face. Her fingers still grip the chair like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“Why, yes,” Diana gushes, apparently oblivious to Mandy’s distress. “Mandy Farnsworth meet—”
“Seymour Black,” Mandy finishes, grinding out the words like they taste bitter on her tongue.
From where I sit, I can see the muscle working in her jaw, the slight tremor in her hands. It’s clear by her tone and the look of disdain on her face that there is a whole lot more she’d like to say. Instead, she turns, smiles, and says with saccharine sweetness. “Nice to meet you.”
I nod, keeping my expression neutral despite the urge to smirk at her obvious discomfort. “Looking forward to helping the gallery through a tough time.”