37. 37
“H
oly spitballs, Delaney Sage. Are you an idiot? You can’t go falling for your husband. Stupid. Stupid. Stu—” I suck in a breath, gasping as I run smack into Lars Simon.
“Ms. Jonas.” He smiles, and it somehow reminds me of a snake. I expect a long, split tongue to come slithering out of his mouth any second. “How’s the building? I’m assuming you’ve pleased your…” His nose wrinkles and his eyes widen. “Husband?”
I clear my throat. “Ah, yeah. I have. Thanks. It’s in renovations now.” I’m saying too much, but my nerves are shot, and they’ve taken with them my good judgment. I cram my eyes closed and clear my head. “Only Miles doesn’t know about the renovations. It’s a surprise, and I’d appreciate your silence,” I say as a warning, not a request. Something I learned from my mother years ago.
“And I’m assuming you’re pleased with your housing situation?” That snake-like, sarcastic grin rears its ugly head again.
“I’m assuming you’re referring to me paying you to keep quiet about where I’ve been sleeping at night. Yes, I am pleased.” At least we haven’t had any photographers near the loft. “Thanks.”
“Absolutely,” he says, and I picture the single word slithering out of a snake’s jaws.
I peer around the room once, not caring about this man or what he thinks as long as he keeps quiet. “Do you have any more of Miles’ work down here?”
He smirks. “One.”
“Perfect. Can you have it mailed to this address?” I pull a notepad from my purse and write down my grandmother’s address.
“You don’t want to see it? It’s pathetically predictable.”
It’s Miles. It’s not pathetic. It’ll be perfect. “You can bill the same account as the last piece,” I say, ignoring that he ever opened his mouth, let alone spoke.
Lars takes the note from my hand and reads Grandma’s name. “Judy Jones?”
“Yes, my grandmother.”
“How nice for Miles to finally be a success—that is, as long as his wife is purchasing all of his work.”
I am anxious. My nerves are shot, and I think I kissed a little pepper spray down my throat. There’s no stopping what is about to happen. I plant both hands on my hips. “Excuse me, you do get a commission from this sale, correct?” All at once, I am Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—without all that messy prostitute business. I clamp my jaws shut, stopping myself from yelling. Big mistake! Huge! Nope, it’s not time for that—yet.
Lars clears his throat without bothering to answer the question.
“If you’d rather, I can always ask Miles to paint something specific for her.” That would take a while and I’d like to send her something now. But I don’t mind taking the opportunity to put Lars in his place.
“No need,” he says. “The piece is yours.”
How has Miles put up with this joker for so long? “By the way, please don’t diminish what my husband does.” My hands are fists at my sides. And then I say it. I become Julia. “That would be a big mistake! His heart and soul go into his work, and just because you’re too small-minded to understand it doesn’t mean he isn’t brilliant. So, he isn’t known around the world yet. He will be. Wouldn’t you rather be known as the man who gave him a chance rather than what you are—the imbecile holding him back?”
Lars’ shoulders push back and his neck straightens, long and thin. His lips purse into a tight line, but he says nothing.
I am ready to storm off—ready for a Julia Roberts grand exit—when I remember. “Ooo, can you tell me where to get beer and meatballs?”