Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Mandy
Captain of the ship? Gimme a break.
Where do I even start?
Nonsense. Madness. And every other synonym to the word you can list.
I woke up this morning to a normal day. Sunshine streamed through my bedroom window, the scent of fresh coffee promising another ordinary Thursday at the gallery. Like every morning, I gave my easel a quick glance, my stomach tightening at the blank canvas that hadn’t felt a brush stroke in days.
I didn’t know then that I’d end up pressed against the cold porcelain sink of a tiny bathroom with a man who radiates disdain from his perfectly styled hair down to his Italian leather shoes. And who I loathe with equal intensity.
I certainly didn’t expect said man to then invade my professional world and appoint himself my mentor. Did anyone ask me if I wanted a mentor? No, I don’t recall raising my hand for that particular torture.
Honestly, I might as well be sitting with the devil himself.
And yes, I’m studying his shock of black hair for hidden horns.
Okay, fine, he helped with the Creep. And yes, he’s supposedly here to save the gallery.
But there’s something about the way he carries himself, like he owns not just the room but the entire town.
I keep expecting smoke to curl from beneath his pristine dress shirt.
The pitchfork is probably collapsible, tucked away in his back pocket.
And why yes, I am having an argument with myself about the merits of Seymour Black, a man I never expected would enter my sphere of life. Yet, here we are, trapped in this moment.
“You might as well accept I am part of your life now,” he says, his voice carrying that particular blend of authority and indifference that sets my teeth on edge. No emotion. No shame. Just matter-of-fact certainty, like I should be grateful for his presence.
Picture this: a gorgeous man--and yes, I hate admitting even to myself that he’s gorgeous--with an ego the size of New Hampshire and a way of speaking to people that makes you want to check if you’ve suddenly become invisible.
A lot of women would kill to be in my position, to spend time with him.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m not most women.
“Mentor, really?” The words come out sharp and brittle. My fingers clench as fury swells in my chest, choking out any breath. Give me a blank canvas right now and oh, the emotion I’d pour onto it.
“Yes. Are you not familiar with the concept?” He doesn’t move, just fixes those intense green eyes on me like he’s studying a particularly puzzling piece of art.
“Let me explain the process. I oversee your work and give feedback. You take my suggestions. Inch by inch we see an improvement in the business until the point where I can step away.”
“Why are you doing this?” I lean forward slightly, studying his face for any crack in that perfect mask.
Something flashes in his eyes—a glimpse of truth perhaps—but it’s gone before I can decipher it, hidden behind that carefully constructed wall of indifference. “The reasons aren’t important.”
“They are to me.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He sighs, a sound of such practiced patience it makes my fingers itch to throw something. I half expect him to pinch the bridge of his nose, exhausted from dealing with someone so far beneath his notice. “I appreciate fine art. I want to see the Lakeside Gallery succeed. This is what I do.”
I can already see how the next few minutes will play out.
The back and forth, him making those casually cutting remarks he probably doesn’t even realize are devastating, and me firing back because apparently that’s my new superpower.
But what would that accomplish? I’d still have to work with him, still have to see that perfectly composed face every day.
The answer comes with startling clarity: Be professional.
I pivot, decision made, and force my features into a pleasant expression. “Well, thank you for offering your services. I’m lucky to have a mentor with such a plethora of wisdom when it comes to the art world.”
“It’s not so much about the art world. It’s business.”
I can’t help the wince that crosses my face.
Diana’s earlier comment about artists lacking business sense echoes in my mind.
I paste on another smile, knowing he can probably see right through it.
My only goal now is to survive this meeting, then seek comfort in my favorite lunch: Jamie’s perfect grilled cheese at Beachside Java.
“Alright, where do you want to start? A tour of the gallery?”
“No need. I’ve seen enough.” His posture shifts, somehow becoming even more businesslike, more focused. The tiny glimpses of humanity I’d caught earlier vanish completely. “For this upcoming event with Darren Meade, I’ll observe. Then we can make any changes for the next two events.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw at the mention of Darren Meade, and for once we’re in perfect sync. Sharing the same distaste. “It’s meant to be a simple night. The goal being that patrons will drink some champagne, be wowed by Darren’s art—”
“And then whip out their credit card?” He cuts in, one dark eyebrow raised.
“Well, yes. That’s the point.” I brace, waiting for the inevitable avalanche of suggestions.
“The champagne could give people a headache. The wife might leave early. It could cloud their judgment, so they put off purchasing.” He ticks off each point on his long fingers, each tap against his palm making me want to grind my teeth.
“Or, they lose just enough of their inhibitions that they go with their gut, blocking out the voice of doubt.” My chin lifts as I meet his gaze. I’ve thought this through, analyzed every angle.
“Obviously,” he says, that single word dripping with condescension, “this hasn’t worked in the past if this is your plan every time. What about lighting and music?”
I force my shoulders to relax. “It’s low lighting with special spotlights on the painting. The music is classical, playing low in the background.”
“Not too loud?” His fingers drum against the table, a steady rhythm that draws my eye.
“Nope.”
“Hmm. Not everyone likes classical. Is there a style of music that matches Darren’s style?”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. I lean forward, close enough to catch that hint of expensive cologne. “I’m open.” My lips twitch. “You tell me what style of music would match a painting titled Penguins Making Love.”
For just a moment, his composed facade cracks. He chokes back what might have been a laugh, his lips twitching before he schools his features back to neutral. It’s like watching a door slam shut. “No comment. How about ambassadors? Do you employ them?”
I shrug. “It’s just Julia and myself. Diana is usually there, too.”
“Ambassadors are people who are there to push the sale. If someone spends more than a few minutes at a painting, they might be interested. Most people will attempt to talk themselves out of a sale. The ambassador will talk about the painting, get them more enthused about it, and persuading them to purchase. Maybe even saying that someone else is interested.”
My nose wrinkles in distaste. “That’s dishonest.”
“That’s sales,” he quips back, his tone suggesting I’m hopelessly naive.
I can practically see him taking mental notes, probably planning to present me with a thick dossier of changes.
Meanwhile, my own ideas swim through my head.
String lights outside, creating an intimate patio space, serving drinks and appetizers before opening the doors.
Maybe spend time highlighting certain paintings.
We could even charge tickets for the privilege of attending.
Once they’ve invested money, they’ll want to walk away with something.
This would also weed out the people not interested in spending money.
“That’s wonderful you’re willing to work with me.” His voice cuts through my planning. “I fully expected a battle the entire way. Glad to see you’re choosing not to be difficult. I hope that means you’ll be open to my suggestions.”
I bite my lip hard enough to hurt, swallowing back all the things I want to say.
Like he’d ever take my suggestions. The reality of my situation crashes down.
I’ll be working with this man for the next two months, at least. My shoulders slump slightly.
Not sure I can fake politeness that long.
Not sure I’ll survive. Plus, there’s the bombshell about the gallery possibly closing.
And I haven’t sold one of my scenic paintings in a week.
I need a grilled cheese, like yesterday. I need the crisp, buttery outside, the gooey, melting cheddar. A few minutes of pure comfort where I can forget everything else exists.
“How about we continue this conversation over lunch?” His voice is surprisingly gentle, almost human.
My head snaps up. No way. Never. I might have to work with him here, but I don’t have to do lunch. “Oh gosh, thanks, but I have a lot to do here at the gallery.” My voice comes out too high, too quick.
He raises an eyebrow, his expression clearly saying, Really?
“You might not know everything I do here.” I straighten in my chair, defensive.
My job consists of more than sitting around, waiting for customers.
Okay, that might be a lot of it. But more and more, Diana has been leaving things to me.
Everything but the finances, which is why I didn’t know the gallery was teetering on the edge.
He stands, unfolding to his full height in one fluid motion.
I stand too, refusing to let him tower over me.
There’s a shimmering, electric tension stretching between us, a perfect balance of mutual dislike and disdain.
I straighten my spine, lifting my chin, though it barely helps reduce our height difference.
“I’ll see you out,” I say, making it clear our meeting is over. I can already taste that grilled cheese.