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“Poppy, are you leaving? I thought you might here to help with the final preparations for the show tonight?” Roberto calls out when I’m literally a hairline away from the door.
I take a quick, deep breath and turn to him, spreading a convincing smile. “Ah, no. Mr. Stone said I can still have the day off. I was just, ah, double-checking that he didn’t need me.” I know it’s mere seconds away before my cheeks turn pink and give me away completely, so I swiftly add, “I’ll see you tonight though. Bye.”
But then Micah pipes up, halting me in place again. “It was nice to meet you, Poppy. You’re pretty.”
The fresh smile that lights up my face is all genuine. “Thank you, Micah. You’re quite handsome yourself,” I reply, and he giggles.
Outside, the cool air comes like a godsend, temporary relief from the beyond-uncomfortable situation I was just made to suffer through. Yet, as I head toward the subway, all I can think about is the crazy mess that I’ve just left behind me.
This is on you, Poppy. You should’ve known better than to fuck your boss… repeatedly.
But if that’s true, then why don’t I regret any of it?
Chapter Twelve
Nathaniel
I stand in my office, frozen, for a good ten minutes after Poppy storms out. There’s a dead weight in my gut and tightness in my chest. I feel like I can barely breathe.
Part of it is anger. I’m pissed at Poppy for blowing this so far out of proportion. I understand that she’s hurt, but assuming the absolute worst of me after we’ve spent so much time trusting each other in other ways just… I can’t deal with this shit right now. The woman trusts me to spank her, to punish her, to tie her up and have my way with her body, but she won’t give me five goddamn minutes to explain myself before assuming the worst? Fuck this.
And fuck Vanessa too. Though not the way she wants.
Shit.
I’d meant to tell Poppy about Micah. I wanted to. I needed to be sure, though. I didn’t want to introduce her into Micah’s life and then find myself bored with her, tossing her aside the way I did so many other women. If she was going to be part of Micah’s life, I had to be sure how I felt about her. And I was there. I was just about ready to tell her and ask her to meet him.
To tell her everything.
Get your dirty, disgusting old hands off me!
Remembering her words is like a knife straight to my heart. Hearing her tell me that she’d only fucked me so she could have my money… I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time my money meant more than anything else, but I’d expected better from her. She hadn’t seemed like the using type.
And old? What the fuck? I’m forty, and I’m in damn good shape. Or had she forgotten how, time after time in my bed, my body had served her just fine? I’d made her feel things I knew damn well no one else ever had. I’d made her fantasies come true, made her feel comfortable with the darker parts of herself.
Old, disgusting man.
I’d never intended to open myself up that way again. I didn’t think it would happen with her. I thought we’d have a fun few weeks and then part with some good memories, maybe run across each other here and there if she made it in the New York art world. But this… this need to have her, to keep her… this pain she’d caused with nothing more than a few words and a disgusted glare… this is the last thing I fucking need.
I finally move, running my hands over my face as I walk toward the windows. I look out without really seeing anything.
I need to talk to her. Tonight. Once this opening is over, she needs to go. She can have her money, since it’s clear it’s all she’s ever really wanted from me, anyway. And then I need her out of my life.
***
The gallery is full. I usually love times like this, when people who don’t ordinarily come here show up to support an artist they know. There’s always the chance, during opportunities like this, to turn someone from a person who doesn’t “get” art into someone who truly appreciates it. A lot of these people are here to support Vanessa, but they aren’t all necessarily art people. I do my best to chat those people up, to try to help them see the more exciting aspects of her work.
I give it my all, but I’m just not feeling it tonight. I spent most of the afternoon alternately brooding and raging over Poppy, and then trying to appear as if I don’t care at all, knowing I’d probably see her here tonight.
And I have to give it to Poppy—she’s a professional. She’ll do well in this business, which is two parts art knowledge to one part schmoozing. She’s standing near the entrance to the gallery with a tray of champagne flutes in her hand, and she welcomes each person who comes in with an offer of a glass and a few words about the artist and her work. Considering what she walked in on earlier, she’s doing a magnificent job of sounding like a genuine fan of Vanessa’s work.
