"I didn't sleep well, either." It’s not a lie. I dreamt abouthimlast night. When I woke up, I felt like I hadn’t slept hardly at all.
In the dream, we were back at the museum, but it was empty, just the two of us in that gallery with the paintings surrounding us. He'd backed me against the wall, his hands on either side of my head, his body close enough that I could feel the heat of him. He'd leaned in, his mouth inches from mine, and said,"Tell me you feel this too."
I'd whispered back,"I feel it."
And then, before he could kiss me, I'd woken up, my heart racing, my skin flushed, alone in my bedroom with the early morning light streaming through the windows.
"Well, you look tired," Claire says, not unkindly. "Want me to get you a real coffee? Not that crap from the place on the corner that you always send me to."
I stifle a laugh that threatens to turn into a yawn. We have a coffeemaker in the break room, but somehow neither Claire nor I ever actually use it. "The corner place is fine."
"The corner place is convenient. But it’s notgood." She heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Drew texted me. He wants to know if you're free for dinner this week."
Fuck. Drew is Claire's boyfriend's friend, and she’s been trying to hook us up for months now. He’s good on paper—a lawyer, nice-looking, perfectly pleasant. I met him at the gallery Christmas party last year briefly, although I was too busy to talkto him for very long. I’ve told Claire a number of times that I’d think about going out on a date with him and then promptly forgotten about it every time.
"I'm pretty swamped this week," I say, not looking up from my computer.
Claire’s frown is palpable; I can feel it without even looking up at her. "That's what you said the week before last."
"It was true then, too."
Claire makes a noncommittal sound. "You know, it's okay to have a personal life. You're allowed to do things that aren't work-related."
I look up long enough to shoot her a glare. "I have a personal life." I’m just not interested in adding men to that personal life who are probably going to just disappoint or cheat on me.
"Name one thing you did for fun in the last month that didn't involve art or Annie."
I open my mouth, close it, then open it again.
"That's what I thought." She grins. "I'm getting you the good coffee. You clearly need it."
After she leaves, I try to focus on my emails. There's a message from a collector in London about a piece that might be coming on the market, and then another from the auction house about the upcoming Impressionist sale. A few messages down, there’s a reminder about a gallery opening I'm supposed to attend on Thursday.
I respond on autopilot, doing my best to focus and keep my mind from wandering back to someone it shouldn’t. My phone is sitting on the desk next to my keyboard, and I glance at it.
No new messages.
Why would there be?He doesn't have my number. I didn’t give it to him, because there was no point. But I suppose some small part of me hoped he’d found it some other way, which is ridiculous. Thatwouldbe stalker behavior, and I don’t wantanyone stalking me, not even an objectively gorgeous man with stunning blue eyes.
I pick up my phone with the intention of searching social media for him, and then remember that Annie and I didn’t find anything on the first try. Why does it matter, anyway? I don’t want to see him again.There’s no point.
I toss the phone back down and force myself to focus on the estate inventory. There’s four pieces coming in—two oils, one watercolor, and one mixed media. They’re all mid-century American artists, and all potentially valuable if they're authentic.
This is what I'm good at. This is what I know. All a distraction like Alexander Volkov can do is pull me away from what is safe and right and what I’ve spent my whole life working toward.
This makes sense. He doesn’t. And I need to forget about him.
—
The client meetingat eleven is with a hedge fund manager named David Ellis who wants to buy the Diebenkorn we got recently for his new penthouse. He's in his fifties, wearing a suit that probably costs more than most people's cars, and he clearly knows nothing about art beyond its value as a status symbol.
"I'm thinking it would look good in the dining room," he says, gesturing vaguely. "Really tie the space together."
I resist the urge to wince. The Diebenkorn is a stunning abstract landscape, all blues and greens and geometric shapes, with a deep history if anyone cared to look into it. It deserves better than to "tie a space together."
But business is business, I remind myself as I take a breath and look across the desk at Mr. Ellis.
"It's a remarkable piece," I say, pulling up images on my tablet. "Diebenkorn's work from this period is highly sought after. It’s often used in art history classes to explain the way deeper meaning can be found even in abstract paintings, which is hard for some students to grasp, especially those who?—"
