Nineteen
Ava
When Dagen said the meeting would be fast, he meant it. We stop outside a building I’ve never been to, a tall one with “Kline, Inc.” emblazoned on the sides, where he parks the car right in front in the no parking zone.
“Wait here,” he says. “If you don’t mind. Larry is behind us already and will keep an eye out for trouble.”
“Are we allowed to park here?” I ask, glancing around.
He laughs. “Yes. Of course, I can park here. I own the building.” He tugs his dirty suit jacket off and tosses it behind the seat before rolling up his dress shirt to his forearms. The makeup stains are bright against the white. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
True to his word, I get exactly five minutes to stew in my thoughts. I watch cars drive past us, uncaring about my world as they move through their own struggles. None of them look malignant or like a threat, but part of me worries. I’m sitting in this car alone, an easy target even if it would be bold to attack me in Dagen Fox’s car with a security guard behind us. It had been bold for him to grab me while I was with coworkers, too.
I’ve successfully worked myself into an anxious mess when the driver’s side door opens again, making me jump at the sudden sound. Dagen drops into the car with barely any sound. He looks over at me and takes in my tense shoulders and the expression on my face.
“Are you okay?” he asks, studying me carefully.
I nod, but don’t say anything, afraid my voice will reveal just how stressed I am.
“Will you come somewhere with me?” he asks.
I nod again and he puts on his seatbelt before pulling back into the lane. We don’t go far, only a few minutes down the street, before he pulls to the valet spot. I glance at him in surprise.
“The Natural Museum of Art?” I ask. “Do you have a meeting here, too?”
Rich people buy art. Everyone knows that. Maybe he’s here to purchase something.
“When I feel anxious, art calms me,” he supplies helpfully. “Maybe it’ll do the same for you.”
Oh. This is for me. Which doesn’t put me at ease. Instead, I’m intensely aware of how dangerous this is. We’re dancing along a fine line between professionalism and intimacy that I’m not prepared for. I should refuse, ask him to take me home. Better yet, I should ask him to send me home with Larry. That’s safer.
While I debate the danger I’m in, he steps out of the car and comes around to my door. He opens it and offers me a hand. When I hesitate, he waits patiently.
“It’s just art,” he says. “Museums never hurt anyone.”
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I reach up and take his hand. The feeling of my fingers in his is comforting and I like it far too much. I shouldn’t be touching him, and yet here I am, letting him help me out of his expensive car.
“I probably look a mess,” I murmur, wiping at my face again.
“You look beautiful,” he replies as he hands the keys to the valet and takes the ticket. “Besides, no one will be paying attention to us.” He shoots me a smile. “Unless they mistake you for one of the works of art.”
My heart stops. “I. . . uh. . .”
His smile turns charming. “Still wholly unable to accept a compliment, I see.”
I flush. “You just do that to mess with me.”
“You’re not wrong,” he admits. “I do so enjoy ruffling your feathers.”
There aren’t many people inside the museum, but I should have expected that for a Wednesday afternoon. The few groups meandering around are mostly made up of older couples and small children on field trips. We’re the only ones dressed in business attire and Dagen is right. No one pays us any attention.
Dagen offers me his elbow and I take it carefully before he leads me deeper into the museum. Gentle music plays over speakers above us, so soft it’s almost impossible to hear unless you focus on it.
“So, you like art?” I ask, glancing up at him as he pulls me towards a large painting and studies it. It’s of a woman draped over a chaise lounge, men fanning her.
“I do,” he nods. “I suppose I can blame my mother for that. She dragged me to one too many art gallery openings as a child and left me to my own devices. I had no choice, but to study the art or else suffer my boredom.” He glances at me. “There’s something about the brush strokes that calm me. In them, I find peace.”
“Do you paint yourself?” I study the painting in front of me as we move further in, the strokes creating the image of a baby that looks a little too much like an adult in the face.
