We make our way out of the office and into the gallery. At the door, I hold it open for her when Pete slips in from the street.
“All right, Mr.—” His greeting abruptly halts. No doubt something to do with my glare.
“Mr.… I don’t know you,” he unhelpfully tacks on, his eyebrows disappearing into this sparse hairline.
Fucking idiot.
“Mr. Hartman,” Lavender says, drawing his attention as she offers Pete her hand. “I wasn’t expecting you, was I?”
“I was just passing,” Peter says in an officious-sounding voice that definitely isn’t his own. Was it thirty grand he owed last time? I wonder what he’s in for now. Nothing that the account has flagged yet, but I make a note to ask, just in case.
“I was just on my way out to a meeting. Will you be okay with Primrose looking after you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m sure I’ll be here next time.”
We exchange a glance, Pete and I. We both know there will be a next time.
“So you know Mr. Hartman?” Lavender doesn’tquiteask as I close the gallery door behind me.
“No, I don’t think so. Maybe it’s more a case of he’s familiar with me.”
“Familiar with your work?” she asks in a certain tone.
“That might be it.”
“So you’re not sending people to buy art from me.”
“No.” I look up from my phone. “I’m just sending Antonio Primrose’s order.”
“Right,” she replies unconvinced.
I take her hand, and we turn left as we make our way to a nearby café.
“I don’t have long to spare.”
“You’re the boss. You can take as long as you want.” I begin to swing her hand, making her smile. Lately, the weather has been unseasonably Mediterranean in London. I enjoy the feel of it on my face and the play of it through the sycamore leaves on Lavender’s.
“I know, that’s why I need to get back. I want to go through the numbers and compare them against this quarter’s projections. The figures should blow his socks off. Not that the whole quarter has been great. Just since we got married. Funny that, right?”
“Not really. I did promise to introduce you to people with more money than sense. People who want help cultivating their tastes.”
“Hmm.” Her eyes narrow. “I think you might’ve had a hand in things to a greater extent.”
“Nope. Probably just word of mouth,” I add with a shrug. “You’re not worried about seeing him, are you?”
“Not nearly as much as I was,” she says, shooting me a quick grin. “Good news is always easier to deliver.”
“You must mean our marriage.”
“Of course! What else?” Her laughter sounds so free and so fucking good to hear.
We turn into the café and are surrounded by brick walls, industrial-looking bare light bulbs, and a wall of plants.
“You know what I mean,” she says, bumping her shoulder against mine.
“Shall we sit outside?” A row of tiny bistro tables and spindly chairs crowd half of the narrow pavement.
