Page 75 of Taking Turns

“Why?” she asks. “This is the most exciting thing to happen to me since Jordan Wells fucked me at a concert last summer.”

“I have no idea who Jordan Wells is, but—”

“My friend knows him. Holy shit. I think he’s a member of that Club too and I bet my friend is swapping with him—”

“Michell,” I say, squeezing her shoulders harder, giving them a shake for good measure. “Listen to me. I don’t want people to know about it, OK? I’m uncomfortable dating two guys at once.”

But it’s like she’s in a trance. She just stands there, gazing off into space as she imagines all the sordid things I’ve been doing on my days off.

No. Stop, Chella, I chastise myself. She doesn’t know any of that.

“Will you introduce me?”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “Smith Baldwin really is an asshole. I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again.”

“Then just Bricman? Can you introduce me to—”

“Did I just hear my name?”

Yes. Hell has come to claim me early. Because Bric is standing in the open door of the employee break room looking—looking like a goddamned God in that five-thousand-dollar suit, that subtle stubble all over his perfectly square jaw, and wearing a smile that might knock Michell over dead.

He’s staring into my eyes like he wants to fuck me right this second. And Michell does not miss this. Her mouth is open and she is finally speechless.

“Mr. Bricman,” she says, snapping out of it before I can even be thankful she stopped talking. She walks towards him with her hand out. “So nice to properly meet you. I’m Michell Stadington, Chella’s assistant.”

Bric, being the hot motherfucker with all the moves that he is, takes her hand and brings it to his lips. “So very, very nice to meet one of Chella’s friends, Miss Stadington. Tell me, you’re not related to Victor Stadington, are you?”

“Yes! He’s my father.” Michell beams.

“Well, this is all very special,” I say, moving towards Bric. “But Mr. Bricman is here to talk about his purchase.” I shoot Michell a stern, back-away glance. “You remember, his fifty-million-dollar purchase?” And then I look at Bric. “Why don’t we take this conversation up to my office, Mr. Bricman? And we can sort out the details.”

I press my hands on his chest as I scoot past him through the door and do not look back to see if he follows.

But he does, excusing himself politely from Michell, whom I imagine is standing there looking at him like he’s meat.

I finally look over my shoulder when I get to the bottom of the stairs that lead up to my loft office, and yes, Bric is right behind me. I ascend and let him follow.

“Your ass looks fuckable in that skirt today, Chella,” he whispers softly, so the gallery visitors can’t hear him.

“Shh,” I hush him as we climb. My office is not nearly private enough for any conversation I might have with Elias Bricman, but it seems exceptionally open right now as I take a seat at my desk.

Bric settles into one of the two chairs in front of my desk and crosses his legs, like he’s gonna be here for a while and he might as well get comfortable.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“My purchase.” He laughs. “I need to sort out the details.”

“No, really, Bric,” I say, looking down the stairs to see if any visitors—or God forbid, Michell—are listening. “Why are you here? It’s not your day.”

“Is that a rule?” he asks. “We’re not allowed to see you? On our days off?”

“I don’t know, but it seems logical to me.”

“Because it keeps things… simple?” Bric asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Exactly. Simple is far better than trying to explain my plural relationship with three men to my co-workers.” Three very hot, well-known men, I don’t add.

Bric just smiles.