I nearly smirk. “Trying to play master of the universe now?”
“I’m going to try my damned hardest, yes,” he says assertively.
“Which means what exactly?”
I half expect him to say he’s planning to clone himself. That seems more realistic than his actual answer.
“I think it’s beyond time for you to produce a legitimate heir. Preferably more than one.”
I laugh incredulously. His demand is utterly absurd.
“Have I missed something amusing?” he asks with a biting tone, looking briefly to Wilson for backup.
Smartly, Wilson keeps his mouth shut.
I lean back in my chair, far too cavalier for his taste, I’m sure. “I’m sorry to say, but you hold no jurisdiction over my life beyond work.”
He concedes this with a shrug then steeples his fingers on top of the table. “You should take my wishes as a strong suggestion for now. Perhaps in the future, I won’t be so lenient.”
“Is that a threat?”
I was wrong earlier—maybe this is The Godfather.
“To be certain,” my father confirms boldly just as the first course of the tasting menu is swept into the room on silver trays. No matter that I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
I’m in a foul mood when my driver pulls up in front of Morgan Fine Art Gallery, so much so that I don’t get out right away. I stare through the backseat window with a deep-set frown, taking in the gallery. It’s not very inviting, though that’s intentional. Part of the psychology of these contemporary galleries is in their design. They’re often composed of bare rooms with white walls. They’re meant to scare would-be patrons away, to create an elitist threshold most people don’t dare cross.
“Would you like me to circle the block?” my driver asks, likely aware of the tension emanating off me like great blooms of smoke.
“It’s fine. Park close. I have no idea how long this will take.”
I push the door open and step out of the car, buttoning my suit jacket as I approach the gallery. The door is locked until a security guard grants me entry with a press of a button. I nod to him in thanks as I walk deeper into the space, my shoes echoing on the concrete.
There’s a low hum of classical music playing, but beyond that, utter silence. No one is manning the white reception desk.
From a side room, Lainey appears, dressed in a pair of tailored black pants and a soft silk blouse the color of cream. Her long hair is down and pin straight, tucked behind one ear as she looks at a small ledger, ferociously flipping back and forth between pages. “I’m sorry, I don’t see an appointment on the books for—”
Then she looks up and sees it’s me, and her sentence stalls.
“Oh.”
Her cheeks flush with color. Pink and enchanting. Her worried eyes flit to the desk then back to me.
“Are you here to see Collette? She just went to lunch.”
Her gaze drifts to the front windows, as if she’s hoping her coworker will suddenly reappear.
“If I were here to see Collette, I would’ve been sure to come when she wasn’t at lunch.”
My answer makes her frown.
Clearly, I haven’t completely cooled from my discussion with my father.
“Are you here to peruse then?” She’s flustered as she closes her ledger and grips it tightly against her chest. “We don’t have anything new since the show on Friday, but I could pull from our other artists if you’d like.”
There’s a long beat of silence in which I simply look at her, absorbing the sheer existence of eyes the color of sage, and then the answer tumbles out of me.
“To be honest, Lainey, I’m not sure why I’m here.”
I sound utterly defeated, but she doesn’t let that stop the corner of her soft mouth from tipping up.
“Oh dear. If you’re lost, I’m sure you have the Google Maps app on your phone. Or I could draw you a simple map of Boston?” she teases.
I can’t help my grin from spreading.
I approach her gently, aware of her hummingbird heart and her tendency to flee. “You didn’t let me answer your question the other night. I do remember you.”
Her brows furrow. “Well to be fair, it took you a minute.”
“You’ve changed.”
I want to let my gaze trace along the lines of her body, but I don’t.
“I’m older,” she says with a confident lift of her chin.
“Still young compared to me.”
She smiles. “Yes, only now I don’t seem to mind.”
“And what else is different?”
She takes a step back and sweeps her hand around the room. “Oh, now I hide out in art galleries instead of libraries.”
“Not often though. I’ve been told you’re only here a few days a week.”
She lays a hand on her chest. “Talking about me around town? Should I feel honored?”
I step toward her, trying to reclaim the space between us. “What do you do with the rest of your time? When you aren’t here?”