“Will do.” Sonia disappears to find me sustenance, for once without judging my low tolerance to spicy food, while I take a last look at the lots. People in suits and black dresses rush around me, getting last-minute tasks done.
A samosa comes into my field of vision.
“Yeeees. You’re the best.” I grab the food and take a bite into the warm savory pastry. “Remind me to tell you what Mom said about Gavin later,” I say, mouth still full and eyes still on the document in front of me.
“What did Mrs. G say about me?”
Chapter Eleven
I choke on the bite and jerk my head up at the deep sound of Gavin’s voice, instinctively slamming the books in front of me closed so he doesn’t get any trade secrets. “You.”
My reaction is half because he’s trespassing and half because of the almost kiss we had last time we spent time together. Which I clearly still haven’t recovered from.
“Who me?” Gavin looks innocent.
“You can’t be back here. Where’s security?” I’m glad to slip back into our adversarial relationship from before the charity event. I scan the room to see if there’s anyone big enough to physically eject him out of the area.
No one here that I can see.
“I’m a guest. Have to keep up with what the competition is doing.” He holds up a paddle to prove his claim.
“Sure, so you can be out there.” I point to our salesroom. “Feel free to enjoy all the snacks your incredibly fit belly can handle. But you still can’t be in this area.” I wave my arm in a circle to indicate the bid room we’re in.
“Hmm. I guess I’m trespassing then.” The snark is heavy in his tone.
One more reason my impulsive trespassing adventure wasn’t the greatest idea; now I’ve lost the moral high ground.
“Well, you can still get out now.” I make shooing motions.
He holds up his hands, either to placate me or ward off my shoos. “I just wanted to wish you luck.”
I put a hand on my cocked hip, not responding to that ludicrous statement with words. My eyes have a thing or two to say though.
My suspicions are validated by the fact that his eyes are scanning our room, especially our flyers with buyer information.
“Thanks.” I clutch the binders to my chest with my biceps to free my hands so they can turn Gavin around and push him out of the room.
When I make contact with his back, my body melts like a candle during a blackout. He feels so good under my hands, it doesn’t take a lot for my mind to imagine us finishing what we started last night in front of my building.
In my fantasy, he’d be a victorious Hercules, naked except a lion skin (which would be fake—I’m not a monster, even in my fantasy), carrying a club.
I’d be wearing something loose and white, in the best Grecian tradition. He would still be pulsing with adrenaline from holding up the world or killing a hydra, and he wouldn’t even wait long enough to get me all the way undressed.
“Twenty minutes,” a coworker yells, a timely reminder why it wouldn’t be a good idea to complete that kiss.
Gavin’s giving me a questioning look over his shoulder, which I ignore. Pushing harder with renewed urgency, I get him out of the room.
“Good luck then, Riya.” Gavin gives up and leaves me to my last-minute preparations.
After our interactions from the last few days, I’m more nervous than annoyed by seeing Gavin at my sale. I don’t know if there was a particular moment when the change happened, but I don’t like it, and I’m going to ignore it.
But first, Sonia should be bringing me a samosa as well.
“Now we have our last lot. It’s the final opportunity of the night to go home with something, so let’s make it count.”
I motion to my left side, where our art handlers are bringing out the painting.
“And we couldn’t ask for a better piece for our finale:Self Portrait in the Sculpture Studio at Peckham (After Mocetto) II, by Raqib Shaw. I like it so much the winner may have to pry it from my sticky little fingers.”
