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“Sara, actually,” I hear instead. “I was wondering,” she says. “Is Faith with you? I seem to have written her number down wrong.”
I glance at Faith. “She is. Hold on.” I cover the phone. “Sara for you.” I offer her the phone. She doesn’t take it.
“Oh no. What’s wrong? I wonder if my work got returned? What if—”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I promise, stroking her hair. “I’d sense it, and I don’t.”
“God,” she breathes out. “I hope you’re right.”
“I am,” I say, handing her the phone.
She places it to her ear. “Sara. Hi.” She listens a moment. “Yes, actually I’m still here in the city.” She looks at me. “I’m staying with Nick all week.” She listens again, and those beautiful green eyes of hers light up. “I’d love to. Yes. Terrific. What time? Yes. I’ll see you in the morning.” She ends the call, and now her entire face is glowing. “She wants me to help her set up the show. Her right-hand person had a family emergency. This is such an opportunity to learn another side of the business. Oh, Nick.” She closes the space between us, her hands settling on my still-bare chest. “Me being here opened that door. Once again, my love of art takes on a new life because of you.”
My hand settles at her waist. “This had nothing to do with me. This is all you. All you. I’m just along for the ride and enjoying every fucking minute.”
She pushes to her toes and kisses me. “I am, too. The ride and you being on it with me.” She smiles, this sweet, happy smile, and then moves away to finish dressing. I grab my shirt and present Faith with my back, pulling it over my head as I endure my own conflicting reactions to what just happened. On one note, I’m happy as hell that Faith not only has another reason to embrace her art, but to be here, with me, where I not only want her but can ensure she is safe. On the other note, she’s embracing that art with Sara Merit, who knows I own the club and whose husband used to be a member. The ticking clock gets faster, and the balls I’m juggling multiply.
Inhaling, I turn around to find Faith perched back on the stool, staring at me with expectancy on her face, her mood back to sober. “We never finished talking about money. I don’t want it to divide us again. I really would like to finish that conversation.”
And the bullets just keep coming.
Chapter Thirteen
Faith
Nick’s response to my request to talk about money again is slow to follow, his expression unreadable, his energy dark. The wisps of his dark brown hair around his face are torn from the clasp at his nape, the aftermath of our turbulent encounter. Certain we’re about to have a repeat, I stand from where I’ve perched on the edge of the stool. But as surely as I’m prepared for another battle over the topic, yet again, his mood seems to lighten, and he steps in front of me, his hands settling on my neck, under my hair. “We do need to finish talking. Let’s go back down to the kitchen to talk, but bring your paperwork from Abel. I want to go over it with you.”
“I’d actually really like your thoughts before I form my own.”
He kisses me, and I hurry to the bedroom and then to the bathroom, where I’ve left my purse, which now holds the documents I planned to read on the plane. Finding it on the counter, I’m reaching for the paperwork when my hand hits the money clip I found in my yard Friday night. Still puzzled by finding it, I hear Nick’s footsteps sound. I set the paperwork on the counter and rotate to find him leaning on the doorway between the bathroom and the bedroom. “Is this yours?” I ask, holding up the gold clip with the imprint of an American flag on its side. “I mean, it looks like it’s souvenir-shop quality, and under your pay scale, but I thought it might be a sentimental thing.” He pushes off the doorframe, and I close the space between us, stopping in front of him. “Then again,” I add, offering him the clip, “you’re actually not exactly sentimental. It’s not yours, is it?”
“No,” he confirms, taking it from me to give it a quick inspection. “Where did you find it?”
“My front yard as I was leaving for the airport. It must have been the delivery person who brought the package you sent me.”
“Right,” Nick says, the look on his face oddly serious, but he says little more. “A delivery person makes sense.” He pockets the money clip. “I’ll have my assistant call the delivery service. Do you have your paperwork?”
I grab the documents on the counter and hold them up. “All set.”
“Well, then,” he says, “let’s go have that talk.” He backs out of the doorway, giving me space to exit. The idea that we’re going to sit down and have a formal chat is a positive signal to me that he plans to take my concerns seriously.
Once I exit to the hallway, Nick steps to my side, and side by side, we start down the stairs, my curiosity piqued. “I just realized that I don’t know much about your work life. I haven’t even thought about you having an assistant, which, of course, you do. And where is your office? How many staff members do you have?”
“Downtown. Twenty staff members. And my assistant is Rita, who is a mother and has been happily married for decades. She also tolerates my arrogance about as well as you do.”
I cast him a sideways look and a smile. “So I’ll like her.”
“Without question,” he says as we reach the living room, “and I’m fucked ten ways to hell if you two team up on me. That said, I’m brave. Once you know your schedule at the gallery, you should come to my office, meet her, and see the place.”
“I’d like that,” I say, stopping on this side of the island bar as Nick rounds it and steps directly across from me.
“How long do you plan to work with Sara?” he asks.
“She said this is just for this week, but I’d love to help her get to opening day.”
“That’s weeks away,” he points out. “And you have a show to prepare for. How much work do you have left to complete?”
“Two paintings,” I say, pleased that he’s aware of my deadline. “But one is half done, and the gallery will inspire me. I should paint today, though. I’d actually really like to get a brush in my hand.”
