18 Roxie
Roxie
I had no time for nerves. Not with a mascara wand poking dangerously close to my retina.
“Why does it always feel like I could be walking to a firing squad and not a show?” I muttered, blotting my lipstick and giving my reflection a tight-lipped smile.
Hallie, curled up on my bed scrolling through her phone, barely looked up. “Because your boss is a vulture in a Tom Ford suit.”
“Correction,” I said, grabbing my bag. “A vulture in an off-the-rack blazer who still thinks barking orders makes him a leader.”
Speak of the devil.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Martin Hayward. Head gallerist. Gatekeeper. Glamor-obsessed egomaniac with a taste for overpriced scented candles and underpaid employees.
I hesitated. Chances were that when I picked up that phone, Martin would snap off some random instruction that would only make my day that much harder before tonight’s show. Hallie caught the name on the screen and sat up straighter.
“Are you going to answer that?”
I sighed and tapped the screen. “Roxie King,” I said, already bracing.
“You’d better not be late,” Martin barked. No hello. No pleasantries. “I don’t care if your shoes are on fire, I need you here before the collectors start swarming. And for the love of God, don’t wear that leather jacket. It’s tacky and makes you look like a broke wannabe artist.”
I had to bite back from telling him I was a broke wannabe artist, but it didn’t matter anyway. Because the call ended before I could even get a single word out.
Hallie blinked. “What a ray of sunshine! He’s almost more frightening than Anthea.”
I dropped my phone into my bag like it had burned me. “I swear, one of these days I’m going to walk out on him and force him to do it all on his own.”
Hallie stood and crossed the room, her tone softer.
“Why don’t we do it, Rox? Seriously. You and me.
We start our own company, review the best restaurants around the city.
You photograph and I write the articles.
We already have connections. You’ve got the eye.
I’ve got a bit of a following already with my social media page. ”
“You also have a column to write and a dream job dangling just on the other side of that.”
She shrugged as if the idea of walking away from Sophisticate was just that easy. “Doesn’t mean I can’t build something with you instead. I’m serious.”
I looked at her, surprised by how badly I wanted to say yes. Yet, despite all that, I was still burdened by bills. And dreams, unfortunately, didn’t cover them.
So that would have to wait.
“We will someday, Hallie,” I told her, crossing the room to sit down on the corner of my bed next to her. “Someday.”
She gave me a soft smile, the kind that made my chest ache a little.
Not from sadness—just from the sheer weight of love I felt for her.
My best friend. My ride or die. The person who had picked me up more times than I could count, usually with a bottle of wine and zero judgment in her eyes. She believed in me even when I didn’t.
“Fine,” Hallie said, nudging her shoulders against mine. “But when Martin inevitably combusts from all that rage and caffeine, I want you to know I already have our business cards picked out.”
“Oh, yeah?” I laughed. “Let me guess … minimalist white background with a pop of desert red and burnt orange?”
“Obviously. We’re not amateurs.”
She was still talking as I stood, slipping on my heels and trying not to wince at the blister forming with every step.
One more night. Just get through this evening, and maybe, if the gallery gods were merciful, I’d sell enough to quit.
Maybe someone important would stop in the gallery and see me as more than just the girl arranging tiny sandwiches or adjusting lighting or giving some artist’s ego a boost before their big debut.
“I should go.” I grabbed my leather jacket out of spite. Tacky or not, it was my signature. “Wish me luck.”
Hallie blew me a kiss and flopped dramatically back on the bed. “Break a leg. Or at least don’t murder anyone before the champagne runs out. You deserve to have a fun night.”
I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes as I closed the door behind me.
It didn’t take a genius to pick up the hidden meaning behind her words.
I’d been down more days than up over the past week since Memorial Day.
Though the city basked in sunshine, with Central Park’s vibrant picnics and street-side restaurant seating, my mood was a stark contrast. All because of one man that I would absolutely love to strangle the next time I saw him, if I ever did again.
The gallery was already buzzing when I stepped inside, the air thick with the smell of Martin’s stupid candles, expensive champagne, and self-importance.
Hired staff bustled around the gallery, making sure that all the art was properly labeled and hung where it was supposed to go or preparing the food and drinks for the evening.
My heels clicked against the polished concrete, echoing louder than I wanted them to as I made my way to the back room.
The walls gleamed with the latest curated collection, which was full of sleek, abstract canvases that had taken me months to coordinate for tonight’s show.
Martin was holding court near the champagne tower with some of the staff, most of whom looked absolutely petrified. He was mid-pep-talk but judging by the rigid spines and forced nods of the workers, it was more likely a public execution in progress.
“—and remember, we are not a craft fair. If I see one more poorly lit social media story of the art tonight, I will personally throw the offending phone into the Hudson.”
He spotted me over the rim of his glasses and his gaze flicked instantly to my jacket.
“You didn’t.” His voice dropped into a deadly register before he let out a disapproving sigh. “You did.”
I smiled sweetly. “Good evening to you, Martin. I’m just going to drop my things off in the back room and get set up at the front desk.”
“That jacket screams thrift store, Roxie,” he hissed, taking a deliberate step toward me. “Do you know how hard I worked to get this guest list? People in this room could buy your entire apartment building without blinking.”
“Well,” I said lightly, brushing past him toward the back, “then maybe one of them can buy enough art tonight so that I can get the fuck out of here.”
I heard the sharp exhale behind me, a sound that usually meant I’d personally given him a tension headache. I didn’t care. I had a blister the size of Rhode Island and exactly zero emotional bandwidth for his theatrics tonight.
In the staff prep room, I dropped my bag and checked the final list for tonight’s show. I spotted Michelle Granger’s name toward the bottom with an unnamed plus one marked next to hers instead of her husband.
Michelle had always been one of my favorite customers.
She was the first one to make me feel like I was good at my job.
Like I actually knew the art, and she trusted my judgment and went with pieces I’d curated specifically for her home.
She was sharp, old-money, always dressed head-to-toe in elegance, and blissfully low maintenance compared to the usual roster of high-maintenance collectors.
If she was bringing a plus one, it was probably some impossibly well-bred friend or family member, especially with how connected she and her husband, Elliot, were.
I had barely slipped my earpiece in for the evening when it buzzed. “Yes?” I asked, tucking my clipboard under my arm.
“Ms. King?” One of the usual workers Martin always brought in for show nights asked. “Michelle Granger is here.”
She was early.
Of course she was. She did nothing below her highest standard.
“Perfect,” I said into the earpiece. “I’ll be right out.”
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and plastered on my best smile. The kind Martin liked to call “warm but not over-excited,” which basically meant “don’t scare the rich people.”
I slipped out of the prep room, weaving between servers balancing champagne flutes on silver trays and workers fidgeting with the dimmers.
I motioned to them that the lights were perfect, if only to save them from Martin’s wrath.
The noise of an already-forming crowd hit me in waves—laughter, clinking glasses, the slow throb of jazz from the hired quartet in the corner.
Michelle looked radiant in a floor-length navy gown with diamond drop earrings that probably had their own insurance policy or were on loan for the night from a high-end dealer.
Her posture was perfect with her chin lifted, shoulders back as if she’d been born to have her portrait painted at any moment.
God, I want to be her.
And then I saw him.
Standing just to her right, hands casually in his pockets, tall enough to make the room feel suddenly too small.
Charcoal suit that looked far too good on him, crisp white shirt that hugged the muscles of his chest that I had spent all week trying to erase from my mind, and no tie, leaving his collarbones exposed because of course, the top button was undone.
Sebastian Whittaker.
The man who had waltzed back into my life only to cause destruction, it seemed, after ten years of not having run into him once in this city. And now he won’t fucking leave me alone.
My stomach dropped straight to my heels. Then the drop turned into a spark of white-hot annoyance that spread to my ears. Hallie might have been right about warning me away from murdering anyone before the champagne ran out.
Michelle caught sight of me and beamed. “Roxie! There you are, darling.” She reached for my hands like she’d been waiting all night to see me.
“I want to introduce you to a dear friend of mine. He’s been dying to see this show ever since I told him about it.
He’s looking for some new pieces for his place. ”
I didn’t trust myself to look at him yet, so I kept my gaze firmly on Michelle. “Of course. Always a pleasure to see you.”
And then she turned to include her guest, because I had yet to address the man standing next to both of us with his piercing green eyes staring a hole straight into the side of my face.
Her hand, with nails flawlessly painted, swept toward him, as though presenting a work of art.
In my humble opinion, he was more like a catastrophe.
“Roxie, this is Sebastian Whittaker.”
Finally, I looked at him.
He was already watching me, his expression unreadable, though there was the faintest curve to his mouth, as if this little surprise was all his idea. As if he’d planned to waltz into my place of work with my favorite client just to see what I’d do.
The room seemed to narrow until it was just the three of us, Michelle blissfully unaware that I was calculating all the ways I could smash calamari in his face without losing my job. But I knew I couldn’t make a scene. Not here, in front of not only Michelle, but Martin too.
“Sebastian,” I said, my voice smooth as glass. “What an … unexpected surprise.”