I frowned at her jab. “And if he finds out?”
“Well, it’d be in his best interest to keep it a secret because of his family business.”
My brows knit together. “What do you mean? What family business?”
Of course, I didn’t know what Nash did; I didn’t know thefirst thing about him. For all we knew, he could be part of the New York mafia or a member of the underground cockroach fight club.
She smacked her lips in satisfaction of what she was about to divulge. “I did you a favor and looked into him.”
I tilted my head, fingers going to my forehead. “Of course you did,” I murmured.
She shrugged. “You don’t think I’d just push you on some stranger without getting a background check first, do you? Iamstill your guardian, after all. I need to keep you safe,” she scolded in her playful, meddling way. “Nash is a fairly rare name, and putting that together with contacts in the art world, it turns out he’s the son of Mr. Jeffrey Beaumont.”
“Beaumont?” I questioned, that name rang several bells. “Of the Beaumont Auction House?” I sat forward.
“Yes, Nash is a modern art specialist there.” She crinkled her nose. “He will certainly know a lot about PERL because of that; that’s for sure.” Her gaze rose to my studio doors. “I suggest we get a lock for that room and make sure he doesn’t see it if you ever let him in your house. Hide all evidence at all costs. And don’t mention that you’re a painter. Pretend you don’t even like art if you have to.”
“Well,fuck,” I swore under my breath.
Dr. Cat stared daggers at me. She was old-fashioned, and I loved that about her. It was fun to ruffle her feathers with a well-placed swear word.
She clicked her tongue at me in reprimand. “So, this is tricky, but I don’t see it being a reason to avoid Nash. He knows the value in keeping PERL a secret, and itaffects any future auctions that may happen pertaining to your art, which could affect his father’s company and his legacy. He wouldn’t want to risk that. Besides, I kind of like this romantic prose for you—art auctioneer meets secret artist.” She was eyeing my book again, a sly smirk on her face as she touched the cup to her lips to hide it. “Delightfully kismet.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re acting like this is a done deal and we’re getting married.”
“Mark my words—” There was condescension in her response, “—I know what a man in love looks like, Sybbie. The way he looked at you the other night at the show. I saw it. Looks like that don’t happen every day. Besides his dedication these past few weeks?” She sighed, adopting a wistful look. “It’s so incredibly romantic. I’ll bet my practice on you two ending up together one day.”
“How very fairy godmother of you, Cat.”
She winked.
“Did you learn anything else about him other than his name and occupation?” I pushed.
She glanced away demurely. “He’s single, never been married, thirty-five years old with a degree in art history. No criminal record, only a few parking tickets—all paid.”
I could tell there was more she wasn’t telling me, but I wasn’t in the mood to pry it out of her. It would be about as fun as pulling gum out of the carpet. I loved the woman, but her wit and devious ways gave me a lot to be wary of.
She leaned forward to get up, ending any further conversation on the matter. She had to rock forward a few times to gain momentum. I could tell she was trying her best to be gracefulabout it, despite the cushions.
I jumped out of my seat. “Here, give me your cup,” I offered, reaching and taking it from her hands. I set it on the coffee table before turning back and helping her to her feet.
Mr. Beans was lying across the back of her chair. He yowled in protest, having enjoyed our quiet conversation, and mad that he could no longer lord over us.
“Sybbie, I won’t always be here,” she threw out.
I scoffed. “You’re still in your sixties, Cat—and healthy.” She was always self-deprecating in this way.
She laughed. “Yes, I know I will yet be here for some time—but someday, you’ll need more than me. I’d like to see that come to fruition while I still have lots of time to enjoy it.” She nudged me with her elbow, adding a playful wink. “Maybe be a grandmother?”
I gave her a doubtful look. “Procreating probably isn’t a smart move. My genes don’t need to pass down to another generation,” I quipped, then turned the tables on her. “And what about your love life?” I ventured.
“What about my love life?” she challenged with mirth. “I still get around; I just don’t tell you about it.”
My laugh echoed. “Well, you should! You might give me some pointers.”
“Ha!” she barked, jabbing a finger toward my coffee table. “I learned more skimming over a single page of that book of yours there. I’m not sure my pointers would be up to your expectations.” She stood straight, flattening her shirt. “Now, give me a hug before I go.”
I leaned in and wrapped my arms around her, rememberinga time when hugging was a challenge for me. It was difficult to get used to hugs, or even accepting a compliment—a lot of things were.
