"Don't remind me. I had to block the phone calls from the bank."
"At least reglaze that one. I think it's flaking bits of newspaper. You don't want the health department in here," Jemma said, munching more popcorn.
"Fine," I grumbled. "I'm just over here trying to move the art world forward."
Jemma snickered. "You don't even like those paintings. Why don't you put up the cute one of the chunky raccoon?"
"Don't underestimate the power of coffee and a girl with a dream," I quipped, gesturing toward the painting that displayed the quote.
"You don't even drink coffee," Jemma reminded me.
"Don't walk all over my dreams. A billionaire art investor could walk in here right now and see the genius behind this painting of a baby in a vegetable patch," I said, gesturing dramatically to the almost-completed canvas.
"'I treat myself to French manicures because, when I snap my fingers, things happen,'" I quoted.
"Your fingernails are covered in paint," Jemma said, laughing.
"You don't know. I could be famous," I retorted, snapping my fingers. "Just like that!"
The door slammed open, cracking against the opposite wall. Jemma and I screamed and clung to each other.
The warm summer air blew in, followed by a man—a very attractive man. I gaped at him. Tattoos traced up his forearms and around his collar and disappeared into the dress shirt that was unbuttoned one button too many to count as professional. He had expensive-looking sunglasses pushed up on his head. Normally I would consider a guy who wore sunglasses at night to be a grade-A douche, but I would allow the infraction to pass this time.
He tilted his head slightly, and Jemma and I swooned.
"Hazel, I think you have a customer," Jemma whispered after a moment.
"Hi," I said breathlessly. Then I cleared my throat. I couldn't be the groupie of a guy I hadn't even seen before. He was just so attractive. His blond hair had this artfully messy style and hung a little in his face.
"Are you open?" the man asked after a minute of enduring our staring.
"I am very open, wide open; you might say, Spread open. I mean—" I coughed, the nervous sweat starting to bead on my skin. "Yes, my shop is peddling wares."
Jemma threw her straw at me.
"Would you like me to drink? I mean, would you like me to make you a drink?" My voice cracked. I always got tongue-tied around attractive men. Actually, tongue-tied was a generous understatement. I got awkward, weird, and frankly downright creepy around attractive men.
Get it together, Hazel. You're a small business owner—for a little while longer at least.
"I'll drink you, if you're offering," Sexy Sunglasses Man said. He didn't wink or anything, just stared at me like I was on the menu. I blushed from my chest to the roots of my hair. Trying to tell myself it was the summer heat, I ran to the bar.
"We have Monet martinis, Old Fashioned Norman Rockwells," I said, rattling off the list of artist-inspired cocktails. The attractive man seemed confused until he realized I was going through all the cocktails along with their descriptions and ingredients.
"That's quite the cocktail list," he said and jerked his head slightly at the chalkboard menu.
"Right, ha ha! I guess you can read. Sometimes you can't tell with really attractive people if they even bothered to learn or not."
You're blowing it, Hazel.
Jemma choke-laughed into her drink at the table. The man's eyelids lowered slightly, and he made this sort of growl in the back of his throat. Gawd, his voice was so deep! It was like theStarry Nightpainting—I just wanted to fall into it.
"I'll take the Old Fashioned," he said.
"Of course. Would you like to snack on me? Sorry, would you like me to make you a snack?" I gave him a pained smile.
His eyes swept down my form then settled back on my face. "Maybe later."
"We have—" I started to rattle off the bar snack menu.
