Chapter 3

Standing like an idiot, I glanced around the table. Sitting on the left side were Peter and Henry. Together, they owned Chicago's hottest art gallery, where people paid insanely high prices for original artwork, created by established names, along with a few rising stars, like the ones selected by my dad's foundation. 

On the other side sat Andy, the foundation's clerk, who would be doling out the award money, once a decision was reached. Next to him sat Claude, the ancient art critic who'd discovered my dad thirty years earlier.

And then, there was the stranger, who stood, watching me with those amazing eyes.

I stiffened. Forget the eyes. And forget his body, too, while I was at it.

I didn't care how hot the guy was. And I didn't care how much money my aunt had paid him. And I sure as heck didn't care that Derek was obviously in on the whole thing.

All I cared about now was avoiding this whole fiasco and getting the heck out of here, preferably without making a fool of myself.

Probably too late for that.

Still, I took a deep breath and summoned up a nervous smile. "I, uh, think we've seen enough." I forced some brightness into my voice and added, "So, should we call it a day?"

For a long, awkward moment, no one said anything. Finally, it was Andy who broke the silence by saying, "Actually, we haven't seen anything yet."

Right. And I didn't want to, especially with Derek sitting next to me, shaking in silent laughter.

I looked toward him and hissed, "Just shut up, okay? It's not funny."

Still shaking, he replied under his breath, "That's what you think."

Idiot.

I looked back to the stranger and said, "Sorry, it's not you. It's me. My schedule. I um, have another meeting, so…" With a growing sense of panic, I looked toward the door.

If I bolted now, what exactly would happen? Would the show go on without me?

Doubtful.

After all, I was the birthday girl. Probably, he'd chase me down and strut his stuff on the front lawn. Cripes, it wouldn't be the first time.

Lucky me.

Hoping to end this now, I looked back to the stranger and said, "It's okay. You can go. I'll make sure you're uh, compensated, if you haven't been already."

But the guy didn't go. Instead, he looked toward Derek, who I suddenly realized was no longer laughing. When I looked, I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion.

Derek was leaning back in his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head. He was staring straight at the stranger, and smirking like he knew something the stranger didn't.

My gaze shifted from Derek to the stranger and back again. I felt like I was missing something. But what? Had Derek hired the guy?

Before I could make any sense of it, Derek called out to the stranger, "Aw c'mon, don't be shy. Show us your stuff."

What the hell? I turned to glare at him. "Seriously, stop it, okay?"

I gave a nervous glance around the room. If the others were in on the joke, they were doing a pretty good job of hiding it. They looked as clueless as I felt.

Near the front, Andy cleared his throat. He consulted his paperwork and said to the guy, "It says here that you're a painter?"

In a tight voice, the guy said, "That's right."

My mouth fell open. Oh, my God. So he wasn't a stripper?

It was official. I was the biggest idiot on the planet. And here I was, still standing.

Crap.

Next to me, Derek gave a self-satisfied snicker. Mortified, I looked behind me and spotted my chair a few feet away. I yanked it back toward the table and plopped my butt back down, wishing I could magically disappear.

Derek leaned close and whispered, "Oh man, you should see your face."

"You jerk," I hissed. "That wasn't funny."

"You kidding?" he whispered back. "It was hilarious."

It wasn't hilarious to me. I looked to the front of the room, where the guy was still standing. His mouth was tight, and he was staring straight at us.

Of course he was. We were being incredibly rude, and not only because of that awful misunderstanding. I gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

With a slow shake of his head, he looked away. Apology not accepted.

Well, that wasn't humiliating or anything.

Andy looked to the guy and said, "If you'd like to show us your portfolio, we'll get started."

The stranger said, "What portfolio?"

Andy hesitated. "Surely, you brought one?"

Before the guy could answer, Derek spoke up. "What'd you think? That you'd just waltz in and get painting?"

The stranger gave Derek a hard look. "Pretty much. You got a problem with that?"

Derek laughed. "What, you want us to supply the paint, too?"

The stranger's gaze drifted over the room. "That was the deal, right?"

Derek called out across the table. "Hey, Andy, you see any paint around here?"

Watching this, I was utterly horrified. Unless the stranger was a total idiot – and it was pretty apparent that he wasn't – he'd obviously been misinformed.

This had to be our mistake. And what was Derek doing? Mocking him for it.

All of this was so wrong. Before I knew it, I was on my feet again. "It's okay," I assured the guy. "We can reschedule."

Next to me, Derek called out, "But it's gonna cost you."

I whirled to face him. Through gritted teeth, I said, "No. It's not going to cost him, because obviously, there's been a mistake."

Derek laughed like I'd just said something hysterical. He turned back to the guy and called out, "Speaking of mistakes, wanna hear something funny?"

The guy's muscles were corded into visible knots. "I dunno. Do I?"

"Oh yeah," Derek said. "Get this. When you came in, she–" He flicked his head toward me. "–thought you were a stripper."