Oh no. That echoes my first instinct a little too close for comfort. And how can he go from talking about a peeing dog to him naked and doing things to me? I fight the urge to tug at my collar.
“The point of this bet isn’t to give you something you’d enjoy. And you would enjoy that.” I give him a level look, faking the confidence that statement needs, and enjoy the flash of triumph that rises when he’s the one affected this time, if the clearing of his throat is any indication.
“You better go prepare your apartment for my future leaky baby.” I turn my attention back to my computer, so I don’t have to think about Gavin Carlyle asking me out. I do a quick search for bulldog puppies and keep the image result page open next to my Word document. For inspiration. And distraction.
The picture of the future Baby Gupta is set up, but Gavin’s still here. “You should go. You’ll need the extra time to prepare.”
Gavin rolls his eyes and leaves without saying anything else. I let myself enjoy the sight of him walking out of the door. Why are his pants so tight in the butt area? It’s a hazard for my concentration and I don’t like it, because I like it too much.
Seeing the man three times in twenty-four hours is clearly messing with my brain. And him telling me he thinks I’m attractive and asking me out isn’t helping the situation at all. It takes me an entire three minutes to get focused on work again after Gavin leaves the room, which is unacceptable.
The next time I see him, I resolve to throw myself in the closest landscaping feature or under the nearest desk to avoid having to interact with the man.
When all the words on my computer start blurring together, it might be time to give it all up and live as a squatter in an empty mansion in Long Island.
But the amount of work it would take to move all my shit makes me pause. However, I can put my head downjust for a secondto rest my eyes.
Then that second grows to a few minutes, and I start imagining how I would decorate a Gilded Age Mansion on Fifth Avenue, if I could have gotten one before most were demolished. I liberally steal pieces from Loot, Carlyle’s, and all the museums I’ve been to, a wistful smile on my face.
When I’m filling the second library, Sonia barges into my office. “You won’tbelievethe gossip I just heard.”
“No! The red damask wallpaper will clash with the pink Louis XV chairs.” I jerk upright.
Sonia reels back. “What happens in your brain?”
I’m still groggy from the nap I was torn from, so I don’t dignify that with a response. “What did you want to tell me?”
Sonia leans over without missing a beat and wipes the corner of my mouth with a tissue she pilfered from my desk. “Carlyle’s is trying to do a female artists throughout the ages kind of thing, before yours comes out.”
“What?” My voice rises two octaves in disbelief. “Female artists? Throughout the ages? That’s my thing. I’m doing it.” I stole Stella for it.
“Yes. But so are they, apparently.”
“What pieces do they have?” I run through the list of the items I already have, the ones I’m sure I’m getting, and the pieces I’m reaching for.
I’ve been ignoring the show a little for Harrison’s last-minute project, but I frantically find and scan through the spreadsheet now.
“I don’t know. How would I know until I see a catalog?” Sonia comes to my side of the desk and looks over my shoulder.
“I need to see what items they have.”
“How are you planning on doing that? They’re locked up in a storage room, hidden away from the prying eyes of the enemies.” She gives me a meaningful look, in case I was wondering who those rivals were.
Then there’s only one way to see them. “Well. If the mountain won’t come to me, I’ll go to the mountain.”
“What does that—oh no! Priya, no.” She looks horrified. Which is a tad overdramatic, since it’s not like I want to steal firemen’s pensions or whatever CEOs are doing now.
It is nice that my right hand knows what I want to do without me having to incriminate myself. Just a little light entering, and hopefully no breaking.
A little sneaking. Right into the Carlyle’s storeroom.
“But what’s the worst that could happen?” I ask. “Really?”
“Jail. Death by falling out of a tall window if surprised. Death by falling down some stairs when fleeing. Death by severe embarrassment when people find us.” She counts off all the possibilities on her fingers as she lists them.
“That’s why we gotta be really sneaky.” I lower my voice as an example of the primo sneaking she can expect on this caper.
“No,” she firmly says.
