I rolled my eyes. “It’s not for me. Just get me a to-go mug, will you please?”
“All right,” he said, waving me off. “I don’t want to guess what you’re up to.”
When he returned, I put my finished cup on my desk and marched outside to confront my shadow. There on the side of the building, looking like Secret Service in a dark suit and overcoat with sunglasses, was the man who had followed me from Soho to the office.
“Here.” I held out the travel mug. When he didn’t take it, I added, “You can tell Griffin I don’t need a personal security guard.”
Finally, his posture shifted from immovable man to oh fuck I’ve been caught.
“You might as well take it and follow me inside. It’s too cold for you to be out here all day.”
“Ma’am, that’s my job.”
“And a job I didn’t ask for, but that’s not your fault. Come in or I’ll freeze to death and how will you explain that to your boss?”
After taking his hand and securing the mug in it, I went back inside, confident he’d follow me.
“Get him a chair,” I announced to Anderson, waving in the general direction behind me.
My assistant nearly lost his tongue down his throat as the big man came in behind me.
“I don’t need a chair,” the security man said.
I spun. “What’s your name?” I almost giggled, thinking about how Striker had asked me that question and I’d dodged it for no good reason other than to protect my heart.
“John.”
“Okay, John. Stand if you want, but you’ll have a chair if you’d like.”
Anderson bustled in with a chair.
“Put it anywhere except in front of the windows. I don’t want to scare away potential customers.”
There was plenty of foot traffic because of the name of the street, but most of my real clients came by appointment. Those who wandered in typically hightailed it out once they heard the price of one piece.
Anderson did as I asked, and I snapped my fingers while gesturing toward my door. “My office.” When he came in, I leaned on the rim of the desk. “Sorry for being a bitch. I don’t mean to take it out on you. Let’s just do the morning wrap-up and I can get my shit together.”
“First order of business is you’re going bankrupt.”
My jaw dropped, and I waved at the wide-open office door.
Anderson covered his mouth before dramatically removing it as if he could be seen through the wall, but he spoke loudly enough to be heard. “Of course, that’s relative. I mean, bankrupt for you is like buying one Chanel bag instead of five.”
I groaned as he closed the door and closed the blinds on the sidelight window.
Anderson whispered loudly, “Sorry about that. But to be honest, you didn’t break even this past month. As much as I like my job, I hate that you’re spending your trust fund to keep this place afloat.”
Location was everything, even when I worked by appointment. Being on Fifth Avenue gave my gallery a prestige my surname couldn’t buy.
“I know things aren’t great, but I have a plan.” It was unconventional on short notice, but I was banking on curiosity to drive sales.
“I hope you do, because I really don’t want to go job hunting, but I will.”
“I have more art from Haven, which sells.”
“At a considerable cost to you. That deal you made—”
“Gave me exclusivity. It brings buyers in. And I might have a lead on a promising unknown.” That was where I could make money. An unknown would be willing to take less to get their art on a gallery wall. “Just work on the showing this weekend. I have some calls to make.”
Normally we would promote the hell out of a show for weeks in advance. Still, marketing it last minute as an exclusive first look could work on buyers who wanted to be in the know first. I could pitch it as an opportunity that had come up last minute. There were possibilities—if I could pull it off.
When Anderson left, I made a call to Kalen’s office before remembering he was out of the country. I sent him an email asking if he knew the artist whose work hung on the walls in my temporary apartment in Soho. In an hour, I had an email. Apparently, the place belonged to his brother. Kalen gave me his email and said Connor liked his privacy, so Kalen wouldn’t give me his phone number.
To: Connor King
From: Elizabeth Monroe
Subject: Help
Mr. King, my name is Elizabeth Monroe and I’m currently staying in your condo in Soho. It’s great by the way. I’m contacting you today in regard to the beautiful art on the walls. I own a gallery and I’m having a showing this weekend and would love to contact the artist to see if I could get a few pieces for the show.