Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Mandy
I spin around, my anger burning hot enough to match the summer heat. My hands clench at my sides, fingernails digging into my palms.
I force myself to look him in the eyes for the first time since last night, searching for any trace of the man who’d seemed almost human at dinner.
But that version of Seymour has vanished completely.
He stands before me now, infuriatingly composed in his tailored suit, his dark hair perfectly styled despite the humidity.
The worst part is he probably has no idea how devastating he looks, which only makes me angrier.
My heart betrays me with an unwanted flutter, but I grit my teeth against it.
I refuse to be another woman swooning in his wake.
“You don’t want to talk to me right now,” I warn, my voice low and tight with suppressed emotion. “I might say something I’ll regret.” Though honestly, I’m more worried I’ll say something I mean but shouldn’t.
“We need to talk.” His voice carries that familiar note of authority that sets my teeth on edge.
“No. We don’t.” I spit out the words. “You’re not my emotional support boyfriend-slash-babysitter during off hours. Sorry to inconvenience you last night. I am more than capable of taking care of myself. I’m not some fragile flower.”
“I never said you were.”
“You didn’t have to.” Nope. Diana took care of that. It’s better to know.
“I see you’re hurt. Let me explain,” he says.
I stumble over my words, my cheeks burning with each failed attempt to express myself. It’s frustrating enough that he can read me like an open book while I’m left guessing at his thoughts behind that controlled expression. My hands fidget with the hem of my shirt as I try again.
“I’m sorry you had to spend the night with me.
” The words come out wrong, and I wince internally.
“I mean, in your bed.” That’s even worse.
My stomach twists with embarrassment as I watch his eyebrow raise slightly.
“You know what I mean. How much do I owe you for the dinner? I might be an artist, but I can pay for my food.”
“I was happy to pay for your dinner, Mandy.” His voice is measured, giving away nothing of what he’s really thinking. But there’s a slight tension in his jaw that makes me doubt his words.
The casual dismissal in his tone sparks something defensive inside me.
My shoulders straighten as I gather my dignity around me like armor.
“You know what, Seymour. I know you have rules when it comes to women. I don’t know what they are, and I don’t want to know.
” My voice grows stronger with each word, fueled by a mix of hurt pride and determination.
“I’ll add another rule so you don’t have to worry about me hitting on you.
Especially after the whole trust act you put on.
I only spend time with coworkers during actual work hours. ”
Before he can respond, I yank open the car door and slam it shut behind me, my hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel. The sound of the door closing feels like punctuation on this whole mortifying exchange.
And he’s standing at the door to the gallery when I arrive the next morning. The few seconds I glance at him, it’s impossible to read his expression. Is it a smirk? One of casual indifference? Maybe he has resting-smirk face.
I’d been hoping for a few minutes of quiet in the gallery. I love first opening the gallery. It’s my favorite time. I’m full of energy and hope, because who knows who will walk through the door and buy a painting? This is a high-tourist area. One time, Steven Tyler, famous rock star, browsed.
Not only is Seymour waiting for me, but he brought a friend. He despises me so much that he can’t stand to be alone with me.
I shrug it off.
An artist learns quickly that to survive in life, you need a thick skin.
Not everyone is going to love, or even like, your work.
It’s unrealistic to think they will. You have to learn to take the criticism, even if they’re wrong or have misunderstood your work.
The same goes for people. Not everyone is going to like you, and that’s okay.
Scott likes me. Barrie likes me. Grace likes me. I have enough likes.
I nod and unlock the gallery.
“Good morning, Mandy,” he says. Like all is well with the world.
“Good morning.” I try to sound pleasant, but I can’t stop the icy barbs in my tone. I’ve never been good at pretending. Not like someone else I know.
“This is Harris, my lawyer.”
I hold back my comments. That Seymour can’t handle being with me without his lawyer.
Or having another warm body in the room.
I thought his friend looked familiar. He was Grace’s lawyer during that fiasco last year.
Another typical billionaire lawyer type.
Well-dressed and handsome. Well, the world can have them.
“Yes, I remember. You worked for Grace, right?”
“Yes, excellent memory.”
I turn on the lights and brew coffee. More for my guests. Maybe they’ll drink coffee and stay away from me. The morning passes quickly. Seymour spends time upstairs looking through financials, and Harris sits at a table, drinking coffee, and working.
I suddenly have a vision for the gallery.
An entire section that is a coffee shop-slash-gift store.
Where prints of the paintings can be sold.
Even prints of the famous ones on mugs and T-shirts.
First, I have to focus on the upcoming event.
Maybe a small outdoor patio, where musicians can accompany art shows.
It’s all under the umbrella of fine arts.
Seymour makes an appearance, and he’s walking toward me like a man on a mission. I suppose we have to talk about plans and the gallery at some point.
“Can we talk?” he says, but it’s more of a demand.
“Of course.” There, look at me, the ultimate professional.
No icy barbs in my tone on that one. I can do this.
I can be around Seymour and be polite. And not think of his bare shoulders in the water as I cling to them.
Okay, enough. This isn’t some bodice-ripper.
But it’s hard to forget the way it felt, my body so close to his.
Oh geez. I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks. Where is that rage again? Oh, yeah, the entire night last night was a lie.
There, better. No more naked torsos.
On my lunch break, with my two babysitters, we sit around the table upstairs. Julie is downstairs, busy with the few people who sometimes pop in on their lunch break.
Before the meeting even starts, I have so many questions bouncing around my skull.
I’ve done a fair job ignoring them all morning, but with him so close, they reappear.
Questions, like, who are you, really? Why the whole trust act when you weren’t honest?
Why did you act like it was all your idea and dazzle me with a midnight swim and grilled cheese? Why? Why? Why?
“This doesn’t have to be long,” he says, skimming over his notes. “Sure, there are lots of smaller things that could be changed about the day-to-day.”
“Excuse me.” I mean, really, he’s barely been in the gallery. “What do you know about an art gallery?”
He raises an eyebrow, and I see in his expression the frustration of having to deal with people like me. People invested in their business—maybe too much—that they can’t see the sky from the clouds.
I lean forward. “Have you ever cared about something, Seymour Black?” Harris snorts, then covers with a cough. “I mean cared enough about something that you’re emotionally invested?”
A micro-second passes where I see the pain again, then it’s gone. He gives me a flat-toned answer. “That’s not why I’m here Miss Farnsworth.”
Oh, it’s Miss Farnsworth now?
He matches my body language, leaning forward, intense. “Yes, I have, but if you want the gallery to be successful, you have to figure out how to separate your emotions from the business.” He sighs. “This will go nowhere if you take every one of my suggestions as an insult.”
“It’s true,” Harris says.
I flash him a you-stay-out-of-this look. He shrugs it off.
I want to keep fighting with him. Mainly, because I’m hurt.
I know this about myself. I shut down. I close off.
I throw out barbs like they’re poison arrows.
And, after those moments of vulnerability last night, I feel hurt.
I give myself a quick talking to. What do I want from this?
What do I really want? I want the gallery to stay open.
I want people to be exposed to art and love it.
I give in. “Fine, what do you want to change about our daily operation?”
“That’s what I was saying. We can focus on that later. What’s important are these next two events and proving to the board that it’s worth investing more in the gallery. That it’s not a bust.”
I have an epiphany right then. This isn’t about last night.
It’s not about how much I loathe Seymour Black, or that he hurt me last night with his entire act.
I need to let that go, so I stop thinking about it and focus on an event.
“I love Miranda Kelly. She’s a local photographer with a massive following. ”
“Never heard of her,” he spits out.
“Maybe you’re not in the art world. Have you ever bought a painting?” I ask.
“Yes, I have. In fact, I have one of Alexander Silvano’s.”
His words hit me with such force that my stomach clenches and my legs go weak.
I grip the edge of my chair, willing myself to stay upright as memories I’ve kept locked away for five years threaten to surface.
I have to work to control my breathing, to not let him see how his casual suggestion has shattered my composure.
“Then you should know that Miranda Kelly is pretty popular in New England,” I manage, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. “We could draw fans from up to an hour away, maybe more.” Please let him accept this alternative, I silently plead.
“Alexander Silvano is from this area. He’d be perfect.”