“Most of the time, the artist sets the retail price. But it’s usually done in collaboration with the gallery. Aria and her team will tell you what the market can support in that room, and you’ll decide what feels right based on the work, size, materials, your time, and your story.”
She stared at me like I was speaking directly into the part of her that had been struggling alone. “So what should my prices be?”
She was letting me teach her, and she was absorbing it. That was so fucking sexy. Watching her listen, trusting the information, taking it seriously, letting herself be guided, hit some switch in me I didn’t want turned on in the middle of a business meeting.
Still, I kept it professional. “What sizes are you bringing?”
“Mostly twenty-four by thirty-six. Some bigger. A couple forty-eight by sixty.”
“For the twenty-four by thirty-six originals, you’re looking at two to four thousand, depending on detail and demand. For the bigger pieces—forty-eight by sixty—six to twelve thousand. Maybe more if it’s a standout and Aria positions it right.”
Rhythm froze. Then her lips parted like she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the air.
“The artist fee is ten thousand.”
Rhythm blinked hard. “Dollars?!”
“Yes,” I chuckled.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, with one hand going to her chest.
“You good?” I asked, even though I already knew she wasn’t.
“I’m—” She swallowed. “I’m fine. I’m just… Whew.”
She sat back too fast, caught herself, then smoothed her top like she was trying to remember she was in a professional setting.
“Do you need water?” I asked.
She giggled. “I would prefer a shot of tequila.”
My voice came out deeper and smoother than it should have. “You can have whatever you want.”
The air between us changed. Her eyes locked on mine like she’d heard the double meaning, like she’d felt it, like she was trying to decide if she wanted to pretend she didn’t.
I held her gaze because I wanted her to know that I had meant that shit.
Then I forced myself to stand. When I did, I noticed how hard my dick was. I turned my back to her, went toward the bar cart against the wall next to my desk, and discreetly adjusted myself.
I grabbed two glasses and a bottle of expensive tequila I kept for guests, then carried everything back to the desk and set it between us.
Rhythm watched me pour her a shot, then slid it toward her.
As she slowly swallowed the shot, I was jealous of the glass because it had the opportunity of feeling her lips.
“You good now?” I asked.
She nodded slowly, but her eyes told a different story.
“The business associates I told you about do not own small businesses. So, don’t shortchange yourself when you give them a price,” I continued. “Stay in the range of two to four thousand. For large statement pieces, you go eight to fifteen. If they want exclusivity or multiple pieces, you build a package. And ifsomebody tries to talk you down like you’re selling a couch on Facebook Marketplace, you let them know you can recommend prints instead.”
Rhythm stared at me like she was still taken aback. Then she reached for the bottle.
I watched, amused, as she poured herself another shot. “That’s… a lot.”
“It’s what you’re worth.”
She pressed her hand to her chest and took a deep calming breath. Rhythm’s eyes shimmered again with emotion.
