AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He offered his hand and I shook it, feeling the solidity of it. This was really happening.
Austin moved back to the rain painting, the one that I’d namedStormlight.He crossed one arm over his suit, holding his elbow, the other hand pressed to his lips.
“The photos didn’t do them justice…” He gave his head a shake, then shot me a curious look, as if he couldn’t reconcile the painting and its painter. “Monday, then.”
“Right,” I said vaguely as he walked out, his shoesclippingsmartly against the concrete. “Monday.”
Sunday, the rain was getting worse, and there was still no word from Ambri. I was several thousand pounds richer on top of the money he’d already paid me, and it felt like I’d stolen from him. Whatever my complicated feelings, we’d made a deal and I owed it to him to keep my end.
That afternoon, I headed to his place in Chelsea. Jerome was manning the front desk and watched me approach from under bushy white brows.
“Mr. Matheson.”
“Hi, Jerome. Hey, is Ambri—uh, Mr. Meade-Finch in?”
“I haven’t seen him in several days, but I can try to ring him for you.”
“Great, thanks.”
Jerome picked up his desk phone and hit a button. He listened for a few moments, then hung up. “It would seem Mr. Meade-Finch is out.”
He was out, all right. Out fucking humans, doing whatever it was he did to feed their lust and gluttony. I ignored the pang in my chest.
Get a grip and be professional.
“Do you have any stationary, Jerome? I’d like to leave him a message.”
He wordlessly handed me a piece of paper, envelope, and pen, all embossed withChelsea Gardensin gold. Hastily, I scratched out a letter.
I cursed at myself. TheYourshad flown out without thinking. And did I—a grown man—draw an actual smiley face?
Why don’t you dot all the i’s with hearts while you’re at it?
I added my cell phone number at the bottom, sealed the letter in the envelope, and handed it back to Jerome. “Could you…?”
He smiled stiffly. “I’ll see that he gets it, sir.”
Sunday night, I got a text from Austin that said Jane would meet me at noon at the Isabel Mayfair, an uber posh restaurant a few minutes’ walk from the Royal Academy. I used to pass by the place on my way to the Tube, wondering if I’d ever be able to afford to eat in its gold-lit atmosphere. Impossible at the time. I’d been too poor to afford even a drink at the bar.
“You’re not in Kansas anymore,” I murmured and stepped inside.
I’d worn my best outfit—jeans, a dark sweater, and the coat from Ambri. Like wearing a reminder that whatever happened at this lunch wouldn’t have happened if not for him. But he still hadn’t contacted me, and I was about to walk into a lunch with Jane friggin’ Oxley.
Hello, imposter syndrome.
I gave the host my name and he smiled. “Your party is already here.”
“Shit, am I late? I left twenty minutes early—”
“Not at all. Right this way.”
The idea that Jane Oxley was waiting formeseemed surreal, but the host led me to a table where a woman who resembled Jessica Lange sat—early-sixties, shoulder-length blond hair, hazel eyes, sharply dressed. Everything about her was sharp, including the way she studied me as I came in and shook her hand.
“Cole Matheson,” she said with a polished accent. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Same, Ms. Oxley,” I said, taking a seat across from her and feeling like a colossal fish out of water.
“Please. Call me Jane.”
