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She turns on her heels but stops not three steps away. “Your father’s criminal misdeeds have cast a shadow of secondhand embarrassment on the gallery. You are never going to get my job no matter what you do or your connections.”
The lowball shot to the gut is somehow not entirely unexpected, but it still hurts. “Trust me, Amelia, I’ve been blindsided as well. If you feel the need to hold his actions against me, do it. But let me remind you that you had no issue when he was buying fifty-thousand-dollar art pieces like it was a fire sale.”
It’s tempting to leave in a blaze of glory after burning the place down—metaphorically speaking. I’m just not sure that I’ll feel better after doing it because the reality is, she’s never been a great boss or a team player, but somehow, I’ve been oblivious to the fact that she was harboring so much hatred toward me. As much as I feel the urge to dissect our relationship for the past four years, that will take some time to work through, which is not now while standing in front of her.
“Money’s money, honey.” Her guard falls, her body seeming to find comfort between us as if we’re good friends. Mine remains firmly intact. She says, “I suggest you focus more on your career than a boyfriend, Marlow. You’ve been given a gift with that face but looks fade, so you better hone your other skills.
“Another word of advice,” she adds as if she’s doing me a favor, and I’m not still reeling from the last comment. “You should have slept with Casteleone. You’d be running his gallery in Madrid by now.” Her expression lightens as if she’s not full of rage toward me. “Instead,” she says, shrugging and raising a self-assured styled eyebrow. “You have a boyfriend while I have a new investor in the gallery.”
“Guess honing your skills paid off.”
“They always do, my dear.” She walks away like someone actually summoned her. They didn’t. She just needs the last word.
Normally, that would be me, but this conversation is already in the gutter. How much lower can we go? It’s just best if I leave as well.
Lola gingerly approaches, sympathy woven into her features and holding a large envelope for me. “I’m sorry, Marlow.”
“Don’t worry. I get it. You’re only doing your job.” I want to tell her to watch her back, but suddenly burning bridges doesn’t sound so appealing. I’ll sell more bags, which can get me by until I figure out my next step. I take the envelope.
She says, “You can drop by or mail it back. I’ll make up some excuse instead of holding you here to fill it out.”
“I appreciate that.” Sighing, I look around once more. This gallery has been a second home for years, and now I’m losing it, just like the apartment. I hear things come in threes. I think I’m on my fifth or sixth hit. A break would be nice.
We come together and hug. I say, “Thank you and stay in touch.”
“Keep me posted with what you get up to. I know you’re going to do great things.”
“Thanks.”
When she returns to her desk, I take the scenic route and walk the gallery one final time before pushing into the sunshine of this unseasonably warm January day.
Jackson has moved closer to the corner of the building out of the way of foot traffic. Staring down at the phone in his hands, he doesn’t see me yet, which gives me a chance to study him.
I once heard Rad say Jackson was six-three. He used to be lankier. Athletic with lean muscle. He’s gotten bulkier in all the right places with broad shoulders and hard bicep muscles. Strong and long legs. I don’t know why I find it so hot how his body engulfs me. It must be the desire for the knight in shining armor fantasy. I don’t need it in real life, though he’s been exactly that. I’ll happily take it in the bedroom, though . . . every single inch.
He didn’t shave, which I don’t mind anymore. By the way he rubs his hand over the side of his jaw, it seems to bother him. It’s funny how much he’s changed over the years. Sometimes, I still get a glimpse of that beer and flip-flop guy I’ve known since college. But lately, in the past year or so, he’s changing—becoming more serious, maturing maybe, stressed from work. It’s not like I miss the hard time he used to give me regarding my taste for champagne or the men I would date, not that that matters anymore, but the little remarks about me being only concerned with myself . . . wait . . . dammit. I thought I had changed. Although I’ve been knocked down all these pegs, the errors of my ways weren’t as prevalent to me.
