I take a long look at the work, not exaggerating about wanting some extra time with the piece before it goes. “Don’t worry, our burly art handers are on your side, and they’ve had years of practice prying things from my sticky little fingers. Let’s start at five hundred thousand, shall we?”
“Five hundred...” A paddle goes up and I stumble over the number when I see who it is. Gavin Carlyle. What is he doing?
The thought is enough to do something that hasn’t happened in the six years I’ve been doing real auctions: distract me from the sale. Now the tension in my body is for a completely different reason, one that has nothing to do with getting the highest price.
I clear my throat, hoping no one else noticed the fumble. “Five hundred thousand. Do I have five twenty-five?”
The price gets higher and higher, Gavin responding every time someone beats his bid. I know the piece is important, but I want to ask him why he wants it so badly. It takes everything in me, but I refrain from stopping the sale to have a sidebar where I harangue him for the truth.
And a good thing I don’t stop the auction, because the numbers steadily climb higher than what we thought we’d get for it. It’s most thrilling for me and the other staff, since no one else in the room knows what our internal estimate, the lowest amount we would have sold for, was. But it’s a number we’ve surpassed a while ago.
I finally slam my gavel down at $1.5 million. Not bad for three minutes of work.
Gavin does win the painting. He better not be faking, planning to not pay. Then we could offer it to the next highest bidder, but they have no obligation to buy. I doubt he would, because it would destroy his reputation. Still, he’s never mentioned this love for Shaw to me.
By the end of the night I sell every lot we have, called a white glove sale. Sonia comes up at the end and presents me with the ceremonial white gloves, but all I can think about is food.
I did eat the samosa Gavin brought me. I didn’t even consider that he might have done anything to it until after I finished eating. Proving that even an almost kiss with Gavin has dulled my edge, and if I want to stay sharp and run this auction house, I better stay away from him.
I rush to the back and get my stuff. Everyone is buzzing from the amount we took in, making me dodge and duck behind cubicles so I can avoid celebrating people and get food in the least amount of time possible.
Coat and purse in hand, I exit through one of our warehouses on the ground floor. The cool night air inundates me as I open the door, a nice change from the heat of the bright lights and the crowd of the salesroom. I take a moment to lean against the building, closing my eyes and taking in deep breaths of crisp city air.
“Nice job. For a second-rate auction house.”
“I can’t even take a breath in peace.” I keep my eyes closed. The way the last few days were going, I should have expected him to be here. He’s been showing up around me like he’s trying to serve me a subpoena.
“Is that any way to talk to your biggest buyer of the night?”
“My biggest buyer is a masochist. That’s the only reason I can think of that he won’t leave me alone.” Apparently, I’m not getting rid of him by keeping my eyes closed and wishing him away, so I open my eyes.
He’s doing the arrogant, hold-up-a-wall-with-his-shoulder thing again. Someone should tell him the building’s been standing for decades; I think it’ll be fine without his massive shoulders.
I start walking. His nonsense is not going to keep me from my destination for the evening.
“Where are you going?” he asks, falling into step with me.
“A hot date,” I say back before I think better of it. I could have a hot date, if I wanted. My thoughts are depressingly defensive and my mother’s voice floats through my head, saying she doesn’t want me to end up alone.
Gavin laughs. “Yeah, right.”
He doesn’t have to sound so disbelieving. I shoot him a dirty look tinged with a bit of hurt I can’t hide, and walk faster.
He stops laughing when he realizes I’m ahead of him, and rushes to catch up. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“There’s a limited amount of ways that can be taken.” Up ahead, I see the crosswalk indicator count down. Maybe if I can outrun him past this block, he’ll be stuck wandering Midtown until some nice tourist family from Wisconsin takes pity on him and calls him an Uber. Because he’s probably too spoiled to find his own way home without a team of support staff.
“So where are we really going?” he asks, having made it past the pedestrian signal with me. Damn Hercules tree trunk thighs.
“Why is it so unbelievable that I could have a date?” I’m not moving past that without an answer.
“No. It’s not that you can’t have a hot date. It’s that I never see you with guys, so I didn’t think you were interested in dating.” He stumbles over the explanation. He’s going to have to put in a lot more effort than that if he wants me to get over this. Effort...his least favorite thing to do. And the one thing he can’t ask his employees to do for him.
“Just because I don’t parade my partners around like we’re at the Westminster Dog Show doesn’t mean that I don’t date.”
“You can date. Every day. Twice a day, if you want.”
I wince. Even for the sake of this argument, I can’t pretend that two dates a day isn’t exhausting. One date a day is exhausting.
