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Brea’s heart thumped. “What’s that?”
“I’m just so curious about this painting. I assume there are no photographs taken of it?”
“There are some photographs back at the office,” Brea said. “Want to walk that way? I can run up to grab them.”
“Okay. But I don’t want to go in there,” Neal said. “I’m not a fan of those artsy folks.”
Brea laughed. “I know. They have a terrible air about them, don’t they? I’ll just bring them down, and we can hit up that bar near the office so you can get a full look. But we have to be careful! Nobody else at the bar can see them.”
“Of course,” Neal said. “We’ll be discrete.”
At the office, Brea hurried upstairs, found the folder of photographs in Oriana’s drawer, then returned to the street, panting. Nobody had said a word to her in the office. After all, she was just an assistant. She hardly existed.
“Brilliant! You’re brilliant. I’m buying you a drink,” Neal said.
They entered a dive bar, where they could sit in the corner to pore over the photographs. Brea placed the folder of photographs on the table and did a small drumroll over them to up the drama.
“Put the beers on another table,” she ordered Neal. “If we spill beer on these photographs, Oriana will have my head.”
“She’ll never see these photographs again,” Neal pointed out. “The painting is sold! The deal is done!”
Brea grimaced. He was mostly right. “Still. She won't be happy if she notices that I took them out of the office.”
“Whatever.” Neal placed both beers on a separate table, then opened the folder, his eyes widening. In the first photograph, there was the painting in all its tragedy— greens, violets, and blues in wild dashes to illustrate something that could have been a face but probably was not. “My god, Brea. You weren’t kidding.”
Brea leaned forward, trying to see the painting as though for the first time. “Right? It’s sort of…”
“Atrocious?” Neal tried. “The dashes of a madman?”
Brea chortled. “I know.” Under her breath, she added, “Can you believe someone is willing to pay four million for it?”
“It’s insanity,” Neal said. He then leaned back in his chair, cackling, leafing through the photographs. “Why are there so many? There’s one taken of every angle!”
But as Neal laughed and carried on, he leaned a little too far back in his chair, then fell completely into the table with the beers on it, thus knocking both beers to the ground. Immediately, Brea sprung up, panicked, eyeing the bartender. “Shoot! Shoot!” Neal was on the ground, and Brea was beside him, helping him up as the bartender approached.
“Are you okay over here?” The bartender hurried with a rag and then sighed at the mess. “I’ll grab a mop.”
“I can help you,” Brea heard herself say, ever the people pleaser. Quickly, she tugged Neal back to his feet as Neal mumbled words of apology.
“I’m such an idiot! I don’t know what came over me,” he said, smiling a sloppy, handsome smile.
“Don’t worry about it,” Brea said. “It can happen.”
“I guess I was just so overwhelmed with this silly painting,” he said as he stood up, adjusting himself over the table.
“I understand.” Brea chuckled and hurried to collect the mop. By the time she got back to the table, Neal had cleaned himself up, placed the photographs back in the folder, and begun to apologize profusely to the bartender.
“It’s a rare thing that my customers make a mess and offer to clean it up for me,” the bartender said with a shrug. “As far as I’m concerned, you both have earned free drinks from this.” He then set about pouring them another round.
“Let me do that,” Neal said, extending a hand to take the mop.
Brea couldn’t remember the last time someone had offered to do something for her, to go out of their way to make her life easier. Her cheeks hot, she passed the mop over and watched as he swept it over the beer, whistling. When he finished, the bartender returned with their “free” round, and everyone was smiling.
“To my favorite customers,” the bartender said.
“Man,” Neal said as he sat back down. “You really weren’t lying about that painting.”
Brea sighed. “I wish I had been.”
