What was I mad about again?
Chapter Two
“Yes? Can I help you?” the man asks in a gravelly voice. He’s got a hint of Southern accent, like he just stepped off a farm. Horses were probably involved, if I had to put down money. Chickens, maybe. Cows, definitely.
He mumbles something into the phone he was talking into and ends the call, looking at me in question. Ah. So he wasn’t insulting me directly as an employee of this auction house.
“Um.” I remember being mad for a good reason. I don’t necessarily remember what that reason was, but it felt very right in the moment. In the past. When I thought he was talking to me.
I look around, hoping the answer will be hiding behind one of the works of art.
Wait, it’s the art I was mad on behalf of. Phew, because the silence has dragged on for an uncomfortable amount of time.
“This art does cost a lot, sure, but it’s worth it. It’s a venue to explore, refine, or criticize the world around us, bringing joy or wisdom to anyone lucky enough to experience it.” I purse my lips at him to let him know he’s not appreciating the honor he’s being bestowed.
“All due respect, ma’am, art can’t feed you, house you, or keep you warm on a cold night. Unless you burn it.”
I reel back, barely suppress a gasp, and clutch my metaphorical pearls at the thought of burning any of this. His unsmiling mouth quirks up a bit, and I think that was more to poke at me than any real art critique. I hope.
I’ll respond like it was real. Just in case. “Artcanbe food, or a unique architectural design, or a blanket. And it can still bring entertainment and happiness and intellectual growth. Are those things not necessary in your sad little determination of what a person needs in life?”
“None ofthisis necessary.” He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow, getting comfortable in how right he thinks he is.
I get a flash from his wrist and look down to see what caused it. I frown at the hypocrisy. “Neither is that Rolex, yet here we are.” I indicate the watch, crowing. Inside, like a classy lady.
He uncrosses his arms immediately, tucking the hand into the pocket of his winter coat. “It was a gift from my mother,” he mumbles, red staining his cheekbones.
“Hmm. That’s a really pretty, really expensive glass house you’re throwing stones from.”
“I still think spending this much on art is a waste of money, when that same money could be used to buy new orchard ladders.” He looks frighteningly earnest now.
“Are you comparing the sum of humanity’s artistic accomplishments toorchard ladders?” The man is attractive, but he’s clearly lacking in taste. What a shame.
“Yes,” he says, but sounds less sure about it.
I point to the badge hanging off the bottom of my blazer. “Well, I’m Sonia Gupta. And I worked on this ‘useless’ show, so do let me know if you have any questions I can answer.” My voice dips lower than the winter temperatures outside the building as I bare my teeth in a sharp smile.
Silence fills up the space between us at the awkward (for him) turn of events.
“I’m Beau Abbot.” He tries a smile that’s more a grimace and reaches his hand out abruptly. I take it. It’s a warm hand. Calloused. A strong grip that engulfs my admittedly small hand. A not unpleasant experience.
Oh man, do I not have time for this. Just like I don’t have time for the way I react to Beau’s body. But a Rolex is a Rolex. And expensive.
The mercenary Gupta genes aren’t going to let me pass that up.
“If you don’t like art, why are you here? At anartauction house?”
He rubs the back of his neck with the hand I was just shaking. “It’s not that I don’tlikeart. It’s fine. In museums or whatever. I just didn’t think it would be so expensive.”
“They’re pieces of history. How much do you think history should cost?”
“Sure, history. But I need to decorate some new offices and don’t really have a budget to buy Napoleon’s chair.”
“There’s a lot of options between plastic folding chairs and an emperor’s furniture.”
“I’m an engineer and a farmer. I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”
An idea forms. I do love decorating. And Priya hasn’t let me take on projects that focus on one client, to decorate whatever space they need, because she always has her plate full of auctions that she’s excited about. Even more on her plate now that the Dads of Loot and Carlyle’s are drawing out the merger of the two auction houses and dragging her into every argument. And Chacha just hates change.
