Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Mandy
I don’t know why I didn’t think about this before. Setting rules. He seems like a rule person. I bet he loves rules.
So without glancing away out of sheer nerves—and it’s hard to keep looking at someone when they unnerve you, especially when their green eyes remain so utterly devoid of warmth—I say, “We need to set some ground rules.”
Still, not even a smirk crosses his face.
Now I realize I need to actually have the rules.
Of course, the first one that pops into mind I know he won’t like.
For example, no talking to me. Or only talking to me at the art gallery.
No more being enclosed in small spaces together.
Like micro-bathrooms where his cologne seems to take up more space than should be possible.
“Since you seem to be at a lack for words, I’ll start.” He motions to Jamie. “I’ll have the Cobb salad.” He doesn’t strike me as a salad guy, but whatever. “We meet once a week to brainstorm ideas. More than that before the next two events.”
“No food allowed. Strictly business. Thirty minutes.” I’m not sure I can stand him longer than that, not when every minute feels like an exercise in restraint.
“Thirty?” he asks, one dark eyebrow lifting slightly.
“If we come prepared, anything longer than that will be unproductive.” Yes, I am pulling this fact out of thin air, but I deliver it with as much authority as I can muster.
“I must disagree. Sometimes it’s at the end of the meeting where the breakthrough happens.” He pauses. “How about we’ll try for thirty, but if we’re productive, we let the clock run?”
“Fine.” I question why he’s compromising with me. Makes me suspicious. I scramble for another rule, watching as Jamie slides a glass of water in front of Seymour. “We only meet at the gallery.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Going for the seduction route, I see.”
You might imagine his tone of voice as being flirty and teasing. I wouldn’t blame you, but you couldn’t be further from the truth. His words have a hardness to them, sharp as cut glass, almost like he’s accusing me of something sinister.
“Scratch that. We only meet in public places. But no food involved. And other people have to be around.”
“How about water? Can we drink water? Is that allowed?”
“Only water. Not even a seltzer.” Why did I say that?
This part of me that has to have the last word is a new thing, emerging like some defensive mechanism specifically designed for dealing with Seymour Black.
Normally, I don’t play these games, but this feels more than a game.
It’s my future. In that case, I can be as hard-ass and ridiculous as I want to be.
“How about coffee?” he asks, his voice carrying that particular tone that makes me want to argue just for the sake of arguing.
“Nope.” The word comes out sharp and definitive.
“Well, you might want to allow coffee depending on what time we’re meeting. I’d rather not be grumpy.”
I almost laugh, the sound catching in my throat. “Like you’re normally friendly?”
“I didn’t say that. I would say business-like.” His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t sign up for this gig and volunteer to be your mentor to be your friend.”
The words land like ice water. Wow, does he know how to insult someone. “Trust me, the last thing I want is to be your friend.” Wait. Did that come out wrong? Did that imply I’d be open to a hook-up, because I’m not. My cheeks warm as I add another rule. “No meeting in bathrooms or bedrooms.”
He smirks, the expression barely touching his eyes. “Redundant. That would break our rule of being in public.
“Fine.” The heat creeps up the back of my neck, spreading beneath my collar as I sit straighter on the barstool.
I don’t know what it is about this guy that makes me simultaneously want to run away and stand my ground.
“We meet here, at Beachside Java, after work and before their rush hour. We sit in the corner and we drink water.”
“For hopefully thirty minutes.”
“That’s right.” The words come out clipped. Of course, I have to add a few more rules. You might think I’m just antagonizing him. Going out of my way to poke his buttons. Well, you’d be right. But then he beats me to it.
“No asking personal questions,” he says.
“No problem there.” I mean, really. I’m totally on board with that. How much personal stuff does a guy like Seymour Black have going on? And what would I have to share? Oh, yes, I’m an artist who lost their muse, struggling to pay rent, and now I might lose my one stable job in the art world.
He flashes a devilish grin. “No smiling.”
I study him, taking in the hard line of his jaw, the almost challenging glint in his eyes. No smiling?
And he has the audacity to say that after a crooked smirk that probably makes most women weak in the knees. Not me though. Definitely not me.
“I’ll need clarification on that, because there are many kinds of smiles.
” I lean forward slightly. “There’s a professional smile.
Or maybe you don’t quite know what that means?
” Then I realize that Seymour Black doesn’t smile.
Not even in a professional manner. “There’s a friendly smile that encourages, but looks like we don’t have to worry about that, because we will not get personal. ”
I’d mention a seductive, flirty smile, but that won’t be happening. Not sure Seymour knows how to flirt.
“No smiling of any kind,” he says.
That’s when I feel the start of a smile tugging at my lips.
Have you ever been in a situation where something is so ridiculously funny, you can’t help it?
The dead serious look on his face, the way his shoulders are set with such determination, makes me want to burst out laughing.
I need to wrap this up and leave before I completely lose my composure.
I hold out my fist. “If there’s no smiling, then there’s certainly no touching.
We’ll have to pretend fist bump, because shaking hands can be way too personal.
” A giggle escapes despite my best efforts.
“Maybe we should hire a chaperone for our meetings. Just a thought. Or we talk to each other from across the room. Or just text.”
He smirks, reaching into his jacket pocket. “No phone numbers.” He pulls out a card, the heavy stock paper speaking of expense and status. “You can email me.”
I grab the card, still fighting back laughter that threatens to bubble up. “See you later, alligator.”
At home, I flop onto the couch, the familiar cushions welcoming me.
My small cottage is my haven, the walls holding memories of summer vacations and family gatherings.
It was my parents’ summer home, and when they turned into birds and flew south, it became mine.
Well, it’s my brother’s too, but Scott has an apartment and so far, he hasn’t mentioned it.
Now, if I tried to sell it and take the money and run, that might be different.
I pull out my phone.
Mandy: What do you know about Seymour Black?
I don’t expect Scott to text back right away, but I see the dots.
Scott: Bad news. Stay away from the guy.
I suppose he’s the wrong person to ask for a background check on Seymour, because Grace didn’t have a great experience with him when they worked together.
Hmm. I’ll have to do some detective work.
That might be hard if we can’t ask personal questions.
And we can’t smile. The absurdity of it hits me again.
I burst out laughing, the sound echoing in my quiet living room.
The next few hours pass quickly, filled with the mundane but necessary tasks of finalizing details for Darren’s event tomorrow night.
The thought of Seymour being there, watching, observing, making mental notes of every misstep, sends a shiver down my spine.
I’m sure I’ll receive a list of ways to improve.
I’m supposed to want that critique. It hits me again, heavy and real, that the gallery might have to close.
I grit my teeth, tasting determination. If working with Seymour Black will help the gallery stay open, I’m resigned to it.
Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
I arrive at the Inn early. In the mood to dress up, I wear a simple orange sundress and bring a sweater, because it’s August and the evenings carry a hint of autumn’s approach.
I run a brush through my hair. Add some lip gloss and mascara.
I never wear the stuff, but I’m in the mood tonight, wanting to feel like more than just the gallery girl.
If I’m going to shell out the big bucks to eat at the Lakeside Inn, I’m going to find us the best seating. Right near the windows so we can see the water, where the last rays of sunlight dance across the surface. Though, secretly, I prefer Jamie’s grilled cheese to this fancy food.
Barrie and Grace arrive within minutes, both of them dressed up too, their faces bright with anticipation. We sit down and place orders. We decide on a round of appetizers we’ll share. Chicken wings, nachos, stuffed potato skins, and breaded asparagus. That counts as a vegetable, right?
The plates of food arrive and we dig in, the comfortable chatter of good friends filling the space between bites.
I look at my friends and a whoosh of relaxation floods me. Barrie was right. I needed this. To be around people who care about me, and I care about them. And, bonus, I’m allowed to smile. The thought brings another grin to my face.
“What?” Barrie asks, curiosity shining in her face, and the way she asks the question, it’s like she’s saying, Spill it.
“Oh, nothing. Just happy to be with friends.” It’s the truth. I don’t want to talk or think about Seymour Black for the rest of the night. It’s a rule. My own personal rule that has nothing to do with him.
“There it is again,” Barrie accuses, pointing her fork at me. “This tiny smile, like you’re remembering something. Or you’re about to burst out laughing.”
“Like I said, happy to be here.” I reach for another potato skin, hoping the food will distract her.