There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(33)

“Finish your shift,” Cole says, dismissing me imperiously. “Then we’ll talk.”

I finish out the brunch shift, feeling his eyes on me everywhere I turn. My skin burns and I fumble through tasks I could usually perform in my sleep.

“What’s with the camper?” Arthur asks me.

“Sorry—he’s waiting to talk to me. He owns my studio.”

“Oh, a rival boss, eh?” Arthur snickers, peeking around the corner to observe Cole closer.

“He’s not my boss.” I toss my head, irritated.

“He looks rich,” Arthur says. “You should ask him out.”

“No fucking way.”

“He is rich though, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” I admit.

“I knew it.” Arthur nods, wisely. “I can always tell.”

“He’s wearing a Patek Philippe. You’re not exactly Inspector Poirot.”

“You better lose the sass, or he’ll never date you.”

“I DON’T WANT HIM TO DATE ME!”

Arthur looks at me pityingly. “Women always say that.”

I wish I could slap Arthur and Cole at the same time, with both hands.

“Well, go ahead then,” Arthur says. “I’ll handle your closing duties.”

“Thanks,” I say, not actually grateful.

Taking off my apron, I plop down in the seat opposite Cole.

“What should we order?” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar. You must be starving after working all night.”

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to ignore the sensual shape of his lips and those outrageous cheekbones. Trying to focus only on the cold brilliance of that stare, harder than diamond.

“I knew you were spying on me,” I say.

Cole shrugs, unabashed. “It’s my studio. I know everything that goes on inside.”

“What do you want from me?” I demand. “Why are you fucking with me? I know you are, don’t deny it.”

“Fucking with you? That’s a funny way to say thank you.”

“I told you, just because you gave me that grant doesn’t mean—”

I’m interrupted by Arthur, who has apparently decided to wait a table for the first time in a decade so he can have the pleasure of observing my annoyance up close.

“GOOD morning!” he trills. “What can I get for you two fine people?”

Cole turns toward Arthur with a smile of such startling sincerity that I can only gape. His entire face transforms, suddenly animated. Even his voice softens, becoming warm and humorous.

“Mara was just telling me how hungry she is,” Cole says. “I want to treat her to all her favorites—I’m sure you know what she likes.”

“My goodness,” Arthur says, eyes wide behind his spectacles. “How incredibly generous.”

If I wasn’t sitting down, he’d be elbowing me in the ribs right now.

“I am generous,” Cole says, his grin widening. “Thank you for noticing.”

Arthur laughs. “And to think Mara didn’t want to eat breakfast with you.”

“Silly Mara,” Cole says, patting my hand in a way that makes me feel murderous. “She never knows what’s good for her.”

Arthur is enjoying this so much that he doesn’t want to leave to punch in our order. I have to clear my throat several times, loudly, before he departs.

As soon as he’s gone, I snatch my hand back from Cole.

“I don’t need you,” I inform him.

Cole snorts.

“The fuck you don’t. You’re flat broke, no studio, barely making rent. No connections and no cash. You absolutely need my help.”

I really wish I had an argument for that.

All I can do is scowl and say, “I’ve gotten along just fine so far.”

Cole lets out a long sigh of annoyance.

“I think we both know that’s not true. Even putting aside how we first met—which was hardly your finest moment—you’re not doing so great in the real world either. But now you’ve met me. And in a few short weeks, you’ll be showing at New Voices. I could personally recommend you to several brokers I know. You have no idea the doors I could open for you . . .”

I cross my arms over my chest. “In exchange for what?”

Cole smiles. This is his genuine smile—not the one he showed Arthur. There’s nothing warm or friendly about it. Actually, it’s pretty fucking terrifying.

“You’ll be my protégé,” he says.

“What does that mean?”

“We’ll get to know each other. I’ll give you advice, mentorship. You’ll follow that advice, and you’ll flourish.”

The words he’s saying sound perfectly benign. Yet I get the feeling that I’m about to sign a devil’s bargain with a hell of a hidden clause.

“Is there some kind of sexual implication here I’m missing?” I say. “Are you the Weinstein of the art world?”

Cole sits back in his chair, sipping his mimosa lazily. This new position shows off his long legs and his powerful chest flexing beneath his cashmere sweater, in a display that is absolutely intentional.