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I roll my eyes. Did she even read the fucking card? “I’m sorry.”
She stays silent.
“I acted appallingly and I regret it.”
She stays silent.
“But in my defense, this could have been easily avoided. Why didn’t you just tell him that you had a boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend, Elliot, you have made that quite clear.”
“Well, maybe you do,” I spit.
I scrunch up my face. Shit.
“Well, maybe my boyfriend is a fucking idiot.”
“It’s possible.”
“And maybe he better get his act together or else he’s getting dumped.”
I smirk. “Maybe you should be quiet now?”
“Don’t shush me, Elliot, and so help me God if you fucking ever flirt with someone in another language in front of me again—”
I cut her off. “You know I was only doing it to make you jealous.”
“It didn’t work.”
I can tell she’s smiling, I’ve nearly got her. “Maybe a little.”
“Elliot,” she snaps. “I swear to God, if you ever pull a stunt like that again . . .”
“Did you miss me last night?” I ask. “Because I missed you.”
“No, and I’m very busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Putting your roses through the shredder.”
I chuckle, I wouldn’t put it past her. “I have an art auction tonight, I’ll come over after.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll just see you tomorrow night.”
I sip my Scotch. I don’t want to get off the phone, this damn woman has me like a puppy. “Am I forgiven?” I ask.
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Elliot. I’ll think about it.”
I smile and I know that I am.
I hear someone talk to her in her office. “Who are they from?”
“My boyfriend,” she replies.
I wince . . . fuck . . . boyfriend, how did that happen? Slipped that one in under the radar, didn’t she?
“Call me later.” She sighs.
“Okay.” I hang on the line.
“Goodbye Elliot.” She hangs up and I smile into my glass.
Mission accomplished.
I stare at the painting on the easel in front of me.
Immortal
“Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” I say to Christopher as he stands beside me.
He scrunches up his nose, unimpressed. “Hmm . . . I don’t even know what you see in this artist. It’s just a painting to me.”
“Harriet Boucher is not just an artist, Christopher. She’s a genius.”
He rolls his eyes. “If you say so.” He glances at his watch. “How long is this going to take, I’m fucking starving.”
“The auction starts in twenty minutes.”
I look up across the crowd and I see the ballerina. My heart skips a beat.
She’s blonde and beautiful, a frequent visitor at art auctions, but she has always eluded me.
I have no idea if she’s an actual ballerina, but seeing as we don’t have a name for her, we’ve nicknamed her that.
What is it about this woman?
I’ve always gotten the feeling that I should know her, that she is somehow connected to something, although just what that is, I just don’t know.
Our eyes are locked across the crowded room, the air between us swirls with electricity.
Tonight, she seems different, her big eyes hold mine.
She’s not running, she’s not trying to escape; if anything, she’s trying to silently will me over.
I inhale a steady breath and drop my head.
Fuck . . . perfect timing.
On any normal day I’d be over there, pursuing her and persuading her to have dinner with me. Making myself known to her and wanting to know all about her.
I’ve always seen her across the room in the heat of an auction battle, but never once gotten to speak to her. She always disappears before I can find her. I’ve wanted her for so long. But it’s different now.
Kate.
My beautiful Kate is at home waiting for me and I am not going to fuck this up, so I drag my eyes from the ballerina and focus on the painting.
I can feel her looking at me.
“Holy fuck, look who’s here,” Christopher whispers. “It’s her.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and try not to look.
“Oh my God, she’s fucking perfect,” he whispers.
My eyes flick up to her, and he’s right, she is perfect.
I clench my jaw and drag my eyes away again.
“What are you doing, get the fuck over there,” he whispers. “This is your chance, she’s not running tonight.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not interested.”
“What?” He frowns. “Since when?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I whisper angrily as I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Why now, of all the times in the world she could want to talk to me . . . it has to be now, doesn’t it?
“What’s wrong with you?” frowns Christopher. “You’ve wanted her for years. Go fucking get her.”
“Shut. Up.”
I don’t need this shit.
The auctioneer walks into the room and I am momentarily distracted. I look back over to the ballerina and she’s gone. This time, instead of disappointment, I’m relieved.
Good . . . fuck off back to wherever you came from, I don’t need temptation. Even if it is from someone that I’ve wanted for a long time.
