“It’s . . . ” I slowed and leaned in to the canvas. “Yes.”
Norman had shown me this piece last week. The artist, Olivier Bridet, worked out of Montreal. He used palette knives and varnished pigment. Called it “Kinetic Bodywork” and was doing a series on Canadian sports icons. Trying to capture motion through texture and geometric patterns in space.
I couldn’t believe I’d never seen his work before, but he’d apparently refused to consign or display in galleries. The painting in person was mesmerizing, constantly forcing my eyes to sweep in a wide arc instead of stick to the center.
Norman looked pleased. “And this is why you’re here. We need to secure Monsieur Bridet for the opening.”
What?My stomach twisted like a pair of leggings in the dryer. I thought all of the artists were already on board. And how the hell was I, a college student, supposed to attract an artist at that level?
I reached out for Logan’s hand. He turned to me, his eyes widening.Absolutely necessary.
The table he led us to was at the front, right next to his board members and the artist’s full display. I had no doubt we were about to meet Olivier Bridet himself.
But I couldn’t think about that because as we approached, a woman with a blond bob turned to greet us. Alice Kemp.
Her pearl earrings glowed under the chandelier. Her camel coat draped over her chair like a magazine cover. She smiled warmly when she saw us, her eyes flicking to her son with affection.
And then her husband, Logan’s dad, turned around. His hand on the small of her back, smiling at Norman like the friend he thought he was.
All I could see, the image flashing in my head, was Alice’s mouth on Norman’s, her hand on his jaw, the familiarity, the intimacy.
I wanted to throw up.
“Hey.” Logan leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I didn’t know you’d both be here.”
She squeezed his arm, beaming. “We wanted to surprise you.”
She was giving a lot of surprises at the moment.
Logan clapped his dad on the back as my insides folded themselves into origami.
“Logan Kemp.” A thin man with a tidy beard, wire glasses, and a French accent pushed himself to his feet, interrupting any chance for introductions. He clutched his wine glass like it was a microphone. “I didn’t think I’d get to meet you tonight.”
Logan dazzled with a smile. “Hey. Nice to meet you, Mr. . . ”
“Bridet. Olivier Bridet.” He reached out for a handshake. “I’ve been following you for years. Even before World Juniors.”
Logan stiffened almost imperceptibly. I felt it more than saw it. Some tiny hitch in his breath, a fractional tightening of his jaw.
“You were magnifique last season,” the man went on. “What was it—eleven points in seven games?”
“Four,” Logan corrected gently. “Two goals, two assists.”
“Yes! Yes, that’s right.” The man snapped his fingers, delighted with himself. “And the faceoff percentage. What was it, seventy-six percent?”
“Seventy-three.” Logan’s smile grew a little tight at the edges.
Since when did he not enjoy bragging about himself? He squeezed my hand, and I looked over to see Norman, watching the interaction like a hawk.
Then I understood. It wasn’t me who was supposed to clinch this contract. It was Logan.
“And the penalty kill,” Bridet continued. “Textbook perfect. I remember yelling at my television, ‘That’s how it’s done, that Kemp knows the position!’” He grinned, clearly expecting Logan to laugh.
Logan acquiesced, but Bridet didn’t stop there. “It’s been a joy watching your career since then,” he said, clapping Logan on the shoulder. “Remarkable. Though I’d much prefer you play in Montréal.”
“Thank you, that means a lot.” Logan turned to take two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, and Bridet finally turned to me. “You’re very lucky. He’s a true gem.”
I smiled, my mind whirring in the background. What was Logan supposed to do with this? How did Norman expect him to turn this into a gallery sales pitch?
