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“What the fuck!” I yell.
Dale looks over his shoulder and I can see he’s searching for something to say.
I can’t believe it. His first reaction isn’t to immediately stop what he’s doing with a woman whose every body part has been enhanced.
From the dyed platinum hair (top and bottom), to the implanted ginormous breasts. And I will bet large sums of money that flat stomach is the result of a surgeon’s scalpel.
“We are sooo done!” I say, in my most outraged voice. In fact, I can’t get out of there fast enough. I’m stunned.
Stunned because he’s with another woman. Stunned because Robin was right, he had no plans to marry me. Stunned because he hurt me.
Really hurt me.
“Hey, baby. Don’t go,” Dale calls out.
I’m moving as fast as I can, gathering up my stuff as I go. There is no way I’m leaving behind a fifty-dollar bottle of wine and a hundred dollars’ worth of steaks for this asshole.
As I pack up, Dale is hopping up and down on one foot, trying to get his other leg into his trousers, while attempting to explain that this little romp means nothing.
“We met on the plane, baby,” hop, hop, hop. “ It's just sex.”
I, of course, ignore all his pleas and force myself to hold back the tears. With my arms full, I head for the front door.
“Come on, baby, you’re my world.”
“Well then, from now on your world will be empty!”
Throwing his keys at him, I walk out.
Chapter 3
Blake
“Of course, ladies, I’d be happy to show you my private collection,” I say with a smile I’ve plastered on for the occasion.
“If it’s half as good as what’s hanging on these walls, you’ve got a buyer.” The brunette responds in what has to be the breathiest voice I’ve ever heard. I think she said her name is Monica.
Her friend, the redhead, hasn’t let go of my hand since I gave her my card when she walked through the gallery doors.
“Blake, what a sexy name.” Monica is practically purring as she looks me up and down. “It goes with the whole package.”
I’m feigning interest, because a sale, after all, is a sale. It’s clear these women don’t have a clue what it takes to be an artist. What do they think? I just throw paint on a canvas? Even Pollock had a plan.
I hate being here, up close and personal with prospective buyers. Apart from an opening night, I’m not one to hang around galleries. I’m getting restless and would rather be out on the street with the crowds.
My agent, Beth, brushes by and whispers in my ear, “Keep smiling.”
“I’m working on it,” I say through a clenched toothed grin.
But I’d rather be outside. The Fall air is crisp, the sky crystalline, and the streets full of people. It’s the one week every year when hundreds of New Yorkers go elbow-to-elbow with tourists as they tromp, wide-eyed, up and down the cobblestone streets of the West Village, in search of their next art acquisition.
“You’ve chosen one of my favorites,” I hear Beth say.
By the intonation of her voice, I know we’ve made a sale, and I turn and smile in earnest. After all, money is money.
I feel I deserve a reward, and decide on a triple espresso.
“I’m out for a coffee,” I call over to the Beth and her assistant. “Want anything?”
