“Likewise.” I peer down at my shirt again, mostly as an excuse to not have to meet Dane’s eyes. I know what I’ll find there, but I don’t know whathe’llglimpse in mine. “Well, please ignore my attire while I take you to Curator Pruitt’s office. I’m sure he’s eager to meet you.” I skirt around him, desperate to end this humiliation.
Maybe if I just don’t?—
“Cat.”
I spin toward his voice, drawn to him like a magnet.
He shrugs off his navy suit jacket, revealing thick arms strangled by white shirtsleeves. “Here. Wear this.”
I don’t have much choice if I don’t want to leave in the middle of the workday. He holds the jacket open as I slip my arms through the sleeves. As I do, his fingers brush my shoulders, the touch hotter than the forced air pumping through the vents above us.
I retreat the second I can without appearing overly rude. “Thank you.” My voice pitches high courtesy of my shallowly expanding lungs. Did we just go up a few thousand feet? I can’t seem to get enough oxygen.
The scent of his cologne—cedar and citrus—washes over me. While fastening the buttons, I subtly sniff the collar.
Dane smirks as he adjusts the jacket over my shoulders. “A perfect fit.”
He’s a damn handsome liar, I’ll give him that.
Though the jacket hides the coffee stains, the sleeves swamp my hands. Rolling them up, I lead Dane to Curator Pruitt’s office while stroking the soft wool with my fingertips.
Julien Pruitt sits behind his ornate wooden desk, surrounded by knickknack-laden shelves and frames full of artwork stacked against the walls. With pale gray hair pulled into a ponytail above his narrow, androgynous face, he could pass for half his sixty-odd years.
Though he’s eccentric—like most artists—he’s always treated me kindly. In a way, he reminds me of my father, with those same crinkles around his eyes and a similar expression of paternal pride.
Curator Pruitt hired me right out of university as a general assistant, then promoted me two years later to serve as his executive assistant. He understands my love for art and depends on me to fix his appalling attempts at organization.
When we enter his office, Pruitt blinks owlishly as he rises to his feet.
“Caterina, there you are. Who have you brought along?” Six-foot-five and rail thin, I’m pretty sure he survives on turpentine fumes and paint chips.
Once I introduce the two men, Curator Pruitt wastes no time in gushing over Dane’s painting. New artwork is just about the only thing that spikes his heart rate. Any other time, he’s chill as can be.
Which is nice, as far as bosses go. I’ve never had to worry about him snapping or writing me up over little mistakes.
As impressive as the artwork is, I can’t seem to look away from Dane Ryder’s hands as he discusses the gallery redesign with my boss.
His smooth voice rises and falls in pitch, catering to Pruitt’s excitement without ever climbing too far from a gentle, velvety murmur. Every few moments, his eyes flick to where I stand behind Pruitt’s desk. My chest clenches each time our gazes meet.
I really can’t deal with all this attention. My role has always been to serve from the shadows, supporting my father and brother from behind closed doors.
People rarely give me more than a cursory glance, so Dane Ryder’s focus unsettles me.
“Mr. Ryder, the Cosmopolitan would be honored to display a J. Rochelle.” Pruitt raises one thin gray eyebrow at me. “Don’t you agree, Caterina?”
Shit. What did he say? “Oh, yes, honored.” I bow my head like a dork.
“This, in fact, is my favorite piece.” Pruitt beams like he personally donated the painting.
“My mother feels the same, Curator.” Dane smiles that gorgeous, heart-stopping smile again. “She says it’s haunting but?—”
Pruitt snaps his fingers. “Avante-garde!”
Dane and Curator Pruitt laugh like they’re sharing some private joke. I don’t understand why, but Dane’s laugh—deep, hearty, and a little smoky—is enough to keep me going for the rest of the day.
Dane shakes Pruitt’s hand, gives me a wink, and leavesRain on Jupiter, a gorgeous abstract piece by any expert’s standards, with us. Not a Jean-Michel Basquiat, and not worth millions of dollars, but still more than worthy of the Cosmopolitan’s walls.
I realize far too late that Dane left his jacket with me. I should try and run after him or get his number from his donation paperwork…but I can’t bring myself to relinquish the soft wool just yet.
