“That’s brilliant.” Stephen grins at me and scrawls a final note on his tablet. “I think the lighting here will really make your landscapes pop.”
We’ve spent the last two hours walking through the gallery and reviewing the best placements for my paintings. I’m deeply gratified at the time he’s putting into making the arrangements. It’s nearly ten PM.
“I’ve kept you too long,” I say. “If that’s everything, I’ll get out of here so you can lock up.”
“It’s been a pleasure getting to know you better,” he replies, dismissing my assertion that I’ve taken up too much of his evening. “And it’s always exciting to meet an emerging talent. We’re lucky to be the first gallery to feature your work.”
I duck my head. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
“I mean it.” He sounds sincere. “Come to the office with me for a minute. We’ll have a drink to celebrate. I have a beautiful fifteen-year-old whisky. Do you like whisky?”
“Not really,” I equivocate. I don’t know if it feels entirely appropriate to have a drink at the gallery. “I like sweeter drinks.”
His broad smile doesn’t waver, and he gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t tell anyone, but I do too. I have plenty of soft drinks we can use as mixers.”
“With your nice whisky?” I attempt a polite way to decline his invitation. “Isn’t that basically a crime in the U.K.?”
He laughs. “I think it’s considered a crime anywhere in the world, but I can keep a secret.”
“All right,” I capitulate. “Just a little splash for me, please. I really don’t like the taste of alcohol.”
This is my first big break, and I don’t want to offend the young man who’s taking a chance on me. His father owns this gallery. It reeks of nepotism, but I’ve been genuinely impressed by Stephen’s knowledge and eye for detail. I’m confident leaving my work in his capable hands for the summer.
I follow him back to his office, and I wish I had my phone to text Dane that I’ll be late. He’s expecting me back at the penthouse around this time, and I don’t want him to worry.
But my phone battery died weeks ago. Dane didn’t bother to bring the correct charger from America once he messaged my friends to allay their concerns.
He’s assured me that I’ll have my phone back as soon as we return to Charleston, so I haven’t been too concerned about it.
But it would be good to text him now. I’d rather not have him break into the gallery to get to me if he thinks I’ve stayed too late.
Even as I think it, a small smile plays around my lips. He might be overbearing at times, but my fiercely possessive lover would do anything to protect me.
Still, it’s best to make this a very quick celebratory drink.
I don’t actually want Dane to kick down the door.
“Please, sit.” Stephen gestures at the small couch in the cramped but tastefully furnished office.
I oblige him, sitting down while he goes behind the desk to retrieve his stashed whiskey.
“Just a tiny splash,” I reiterate when he pulls out a half-empty bottle.
His brow furrows, and he looks confused for a moment. Then he smacks his hand to his forehead.
“Idiot,” he mumbles. He offers me a rueful smile. “The cups are in the kitchen with the soft drinks. I hope you don’t mind a mug.”
“You really don’t have to go to all this trouble,” I say, giving him an out. “I’m fine without a drink.”
“We have to toast to your success,” he insists. “I’ll be right back.”
True to his word, he’s gone for less than two minutes before he returns with two mugs filled with soda. One has a pug dog with a monocle, and the other features kittens dancing on a rainbow.
He tips the tiniest splash of whiskey into the kitten mug for me. That amount of alcohol should be easily manageable. The ride back to the penthouse will take less than ten minutes, and there’s a taxi rank right outside the gallery. I can get back to Dane quickly once I down this drink.
“We used to have a mug that said, ‘Gough hard or Gough home,’ but I smashed it last week,” Stephen says as he presses the kitten mug into my hand.
Our fingers brush accidentally, and I almost spill my drink in my haste to withdraw from the awkward moment.
