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New lock. New paintings...
“I can’t sign with the Astor Gallery now.” Another hurt-filled cry leaves me at the thought. I’ve put so much of myself into each finished piece, forgoing a life outside of my studio, and this is the repayment. Elise made the contact for me and if I accept, I’m using her. I’d be as pathetic as she claimed. Grabbing my cell phone from the countertop, I send out a quick message and turn it off. “This is going to hurt my career.”
9
Theodore
I’m going to have to politely decline your offer. I apologize for wasting your time. ~Gabriella
Her polite refusal incenses me, but more so because the words come across as lifeless. Almost bitter, and I have an idea of the why, and the culprit. Because Gabriella thought Tero left and drove toward my location, but the truth is, he didn’t.
Under my instructions, he stayed. He watched her house, and I was right in doing so.
Miss Scott just doesn’t understand the meaning of the word not interested. Not by the subtle rebuff, and much less by my outright hostility during brunch.
But then again, women like her live in a false reality where everything is catered, and the word no isn’t in their vocabulary. I’ve known her kind in the past. Have seen many versions over the years, but the most consistent is the one stepping on those closest to them while climbing social ladders.
“What do I do, boss?” Tero asks, tone curt. He’s very old-fashioned in that sense, believes that a man chases and the woman has the right to refuse or accept, while I’m in the somewhat alluring middle. I’ll never force Gabriella, but I will romance her—seduce and then cherish. “Because from the small argument outside, Miss Scott was here to warn her off and threaten the deal.”
“Is that so? Interesting.”
“That she believes she has sway?”
“That she showed her hand so early.” There’s more to her reaction. To her pursuit of me—the unwanted flirting—when I know of her behavioral problems in the past. I’m not the first gallery owner or rich man she’s flirted with; however, I am the first to show no interest or fuck her. “When will the report be ready? I need to be sure before I make my next move.”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Then head home. We’re done for today.” Sitting back in my chair, I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office and catch the final rays of sunlight. With each moment that passes, the bright colors turn dark and while the world starts its nighttime routine, I let the chips fall where they may right now. “There’s nothing we can do until we talk to her face to face, and I’d like to have some proof of my suspicions before then. Gabriella’s too sweet and would never think bad of her friend, no matter how hurt she is, but she needs someone to watch out for her.”
“And that’s you?”
“Yes.”
“As you wish. Good night, boss.” The line disconnects and I toss my cell aside, thinking through my options, the first being how to accidentally bump into her and start the conversation in an organic manner where she’s not on the defensive.
Moreover, I can only think of one option where this might be plausible...
The bakery she went to with Tero is his favorite, and I was told her sweet tooth is a weakness—something I’m banking on her imbibing in. Emotions can be a dominating thing and after the rough day she’s had, my best bet is to think she’d go through the desserts and want more.
This is my in:
Bump into her at the bakery.
Or buy her an obscene amount and deliver them later that evening.
I’m not going to hound her, but the power of persuasion is a beautiful thing when used at the right time. And that’s not now. Maybe tomorrow or the next day and if not a week later, but one thing is for certain—I’m not giving up on her. She’s too talented and beautiful, and I admire her stubborn streak that believes by taking my offer she’s indebted to her friend.
I’ll let her sleep on it.
“Tomorrow is another day.”
I’ve been sitting inside the bakery shop for the last two hours, nursing my drink. The place is packed, the tables full, and yet I have the perfect view of the front door.
I also have incredible luck when at fifty past nine, Gabriella steps through the door with an AirPod in each ear and a slightly grumpy expression on her face. Not a morning person, I see.
She’s wearing a Ramones crop top that leaves just enough skin on display to tempt and a pair of cargo pants that have seen better days low on her hips. They’re paint-stained and have a hole at the knee, but with the way she walks to the counter and orders—the way heads turn her way and the cashier smiles—you’d swear she was on a catwalk.
So beautiful. So unaware.
