MARA
Manhattan welcomes me back with its usual indifference—the honking taxis, the crush of bodies on the sidewalk, the smell of hot pretzels and exhaust fumes mixing in the wintry air. I should feel relieved to be home, back where everything makes sense.
Instead, I feel strangely as if I left something behind in Boston.
Get it together, Mara,I tell myself as I unlock the door to my apartment, dragging my suitcase behind me. The space is exactly as I left it—the exposed brick wall in the living room, the carefully curated art pieces I've collected over the years, the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city on one side of the living room, a part of the space that made me want it more than any other apartment I viewed. My eclectic furniture, which I need to add to in order to fill this space. An antique store crawl is in order, for sure.
I drop my bag by the door and move to the windows, pressing my palm against the cool glass. The city sprawls below me, millions of people living their lives, and I've never felt more alone.
Alexander Volkov.
The name whispers through my mind like it has a dozen times since I left Boston. It’s insane and entirely unlike me—I had two conversations with the man. I barely know anything about him. I have a name, a face, a voice that made my skin prickle every time he spoke.
And his eyes.God, those eyes. I never thought I was into blond, blue-eyed men, but the icy intensity of them makes me feel slightly weak in the knees even now, so far away from him and the effect he had on me.
When he looked at me, I felt as if I were the only person in the world. Like he could see straight through every defense I'd ever built.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I grab for it too quickly, my heart making a stupid, hopeful leap. But it’s just Annie, texting to ask if I made it home safely.
Of course it is.He doesn't even have my number. This is ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous.
I text her back, then toss the phone on the couch like it's burned me.
This has to stop.
—
By Monday morning,I've almost convinced myself that I've forgotten all about Alexander.
Part of that is getting back into my usual routine. I’m up early, heading out despite the cold to the coffee place down the block, where I get a black espresso and sip it on the way to Central Park for my morning run. Earbuds in, I start my usual circuit, the music pounding through me as I feel mymuscles warm up and the familiar feeling of my feet striking the pavement brings me back into a place of zen.
An hour later, I’m back at my apartment for a shower and breakfast, before slipping into a black pencil skirt and cashmere sweater to head over to the gallery.
“Morning!” Claire’s bright voice greets me the moment I walk through the door. She’s in one of her usual boho dresses with a cardigan tossed over it, her dark curls pulled back in a silk scarf and her smile bright. She's been my assistant since I opened the gallery, and she's my lifesaver—sharp and organized, with an eye for detail that rivals my own. "How was Boston? How's Annie?"
“She’s good. Feeling much better.” I set my bag down and flip through the mail on the counter. Auction catalogs, invitations to gallery openings, a handwritten note from a client in Dubai. All normal and safe, everything back in its place. My life, returned to its usual pace, sans any disrupting men. "The baby's doing good, too.”
"That's so exciting!" Claire follows me into my office, tablet in hand. "Okay, so we have the Magnusson estate pieces arriving this afternoon for authentication. The Sotheby's catalog came in—I flagged three pieces I think you'll want to bid on. And the client called twice about the Monet. She's getting anxious."
“Understandably.” I sink into my chair and boot up my computer, trying to focus. "I'll call her this afternoon. What time is the estate delivery?"
"Three o'clock. And you have a meeting with the new client at eleven.”
I nod, pulling up my calendar. It's packed, the way I like it. No time to think. No time to wonder whathe'sdoing right now, if he's thinking about me, if?—
Stop it.
"Mara?"
I look up and see Claire watching me with a curious expression.
“I’m sorry.” I rub my temples for a second. “What was that?”
"I asked if you wanted me to pull the provenance files for the estate pieces before they arrive."
"Yes. Please." I wince. "Sorry, I'm a little jet-lagged."
“You got back what… three days ago?” Claire smirks. “Hell of a jet lag from just going from Boston to New York.”
