Park Avenue Prince(38)

“I’m sorry,” she said, wincing.

I squeezed her hand. “There’s no reason to be.” I moved her toward the door.

“I should have checked it out before bringing you.”

My chest tightened. I kept forgetting—this was a job for her. We got out into the fresh fall air, but I didn’t let go of her hand as we walked toward Seventh. I wanted to remind her we’d been more than just client and art consultant. “I enjoyed coming tonight,” I said. I wanted to know if she’d had a good time. Was it really all work for her?

“We were there for twenty minutes. You probably left the office early and—”

“Grace, I was happy to come. In fact, I was thinking maybe I need some more furniture.” I’d found myself enjoying her company tonight. The art hadn’t been important to me. And despite me knowing better, I wanted an excuse to see her again in an environment where it was clear it wasn’t just about work.

“I think most places are closed this late,” she said.

I ran my thumb over hers. “Not today, but if I were to say you could buy anything you wanted for my place . . .” I paused, as if I was having to steel myself to take the final step off the cliff. “Would you come on a date with me?”

“A date?” she asked. Always a question with a question.

“Yes,” I replied. “A date.”

“I thought nothing happens after the sex?” she asked. I wanted to be able to give her a reason for me asking. I wanted her to understand this pull I had toward her. Every movement she made was completely mesmerizing to me, the way she talked so passionately about art was so compelling I wanted to listen to her all day. Even though I’d spent my adult life avoiding connection and relationships, somehow Grace had slipped under my radar and now I felt as if I were on a one-way street—as if I didn’t have a choice other than to go deeper, spend more time with her.

“What can I say? I’m breaking my own rules.” I tried to make light of my change of heart but the low rumble in my gut told me there was nothing light about this one-way street I was on.

“Well, I guess I’m going to have to help you—shit.” Something had caught her attention in one of the windows. She stopped, then walked toward a glass storefront. Twisting her hand out of mine, she placed both her palms on the window. “I can’t believe they sold it.”

“What is it?”

“My painting. They sold my painting,” she said, staring into the darkened shop, her voice trailing off.

“This was one you had in your gallery?” I asked. She walked backward, looking up to read the store name.

“It’s Renoir. Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” she asked me as she stood transfixed at the window. I moved closer. “Look at her face.” It was a painting of a young girl looking up from her mother’s skirt, her hair tied with a red ribbon. She looked straight at us.

“It’s pretty,” I said, unable to think of anything else to say. The painting reminded me a little of the woman writing at the desk—the La Touche I’d bought from Grace. It had the same mystery about it. But Grace seemed almost upset by this picture. I wasn’t used to people being emotional around me. “You think I should buy it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. “Come on, let’s go.” She turned and continued up the street.

“Grace,” I said as I caught up with her. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She sighed. “It was mine . . . for a while. Now it’s not. I did what I had to do, and now I need to leave.” She sped up, keeping her head down, staring at the ground.

“Hey,” I said, grabbing her elbow.

“No. I’m done talking. I want to go home.”

It was like a punch to the gut. I wanted our evening to continue. I wasn’t ready to give her up.

Her arm shot out to a passing cab that screeched to a halt at the curb. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

I shoved my hands in my pockets as she pulled the door closed, leaving me on the sidewalk.

For the first time in a long time, I’d allowed myself to want more from a person, and here I stood in the taillight of Grace Astor’s cab. Not only had she not agreed to date me, but she’d run off within a few minutes of me asking. I glanced back at the picture that seemed to get her so upset. I wanted to make it better for her.





Chapter Twelve

Grace





Sam was supposed to be all about business. Yet here I was, sitting next to him in a limo, driving into the city on a Saturday night for our date. Was it a dare? A quid pro quo for the furniture buying? I’d lost track.

“I’m going to furnish your entire apartment. You know that, right?” I asked. “Office furniture, bedroom furniture, bathroom, rugs, light fixtures, the whole kit and caboodle.”

“Whatever you need to feel better about agreeing to this date,” he replied and grabbed my hand in his.

“That was our deal,” I said, grinning at him. “You can’t back out now.”

“I’m not. But you told me you don’t do anything you don’t want to. So, I know you want to be here, just like you wanted to get the tattoo.”