Chapter Three
Nathaniel
Once I have things settled with Roberto, I straighten my tie and take the stairs up to my office. I’m more than ready to get further acquainted with Ms. McAdams. Her feistiness—the way she’d stood up to me—was impressive. Not many people do that.
Honestly, it was more than impressive. It had me imagining all of the dirty, nasty things I could do to a little thing like that after hours; just her and me and an empty gallery. I bet she’d be a spitfire in the sack. Loud. Wild. Dirty. Based on her age, which I know is twenty, she’s probably not very experienced, either.
The idea of teaching her a trick or two has my dick almost painfully hard.
I take a deep breath and continue up the stairs, forcing my body to calm the hell down. Whether I want her or not, bending Poppy McAdams over my desk and hearing her scream my name would be bad for business. Her father is a decent man, a hard worker, and even if he wasn’t, mixing business and pleasure is never a good idea. I know this for a fact because I’ve made that mistake once already.
Knowing this doesn’t make it any less tempting, though.
I reach the top of the stairs and turn toward my office. Poppy is sitting in one of the chairs near my desk. I can see from where I’m standing that her legs are crossed, and she’s bouncing her foot as she waits. Nerves or an excess of energy? She has nice posture, and while I’m usually into long hair on a woman, the pixie cut gives me a nice view of her long, graceful neck.
I can just imagine biting it as I—
No. Not going there again.
I approach my office, and she turns around, a smile on her face. The smile vanishes when she sees that it’s me, and I fight back a smirk.
“Oh. It’s you. Where is Mr. Stone?” she demands. Clearly, I’ve made a great first impression on her.
I hold my hand out to her and smile. “Nathaniel Stone, at your service.”
She stands, and the blush that colors her cheeks is so damn pretty I decide right that moment that I’ll make her blush often. When she puts her hand in mine, her skin is so soft, so smooth, my first thought is to wonder if she feels like that everywhere.
Focus, Stone.
“Right this way,” I tell her, gesturing toward my office. She nods, and turns, walking ahead of me into the office. She’s damn pretty from the back, too, and I force my eyes away from her pert little ass and long legs.
Once we’re in my office, I close the door. She turns to me.
“I am so sorry about what happened downstairs,” she begins. “I didn't know that was you and—”
I hold my hand up, and she goes quiet. I smile. “It’s okay. You weren’t wrong. Let’s just do a restart on this whole thing, okay?”
She nods, relief evident in her eyes. “That sounds good.”
“Please, have a seat, and we can get started. If you want some coffee, please help yourself,” I tell her as I make my way around my desk. Instead of grabbing a coffee, she settles into one of the leather chairs on the other side of the desk. I spend a few moments getting situated, trying to get my libido under control. She smells just as good as she looks, a mix of citrus and vanilla, along with something a little sultry that I can’t quite identify. She waits, but her foot is bouncing again.
“So, you’ll be with us for two months, Ms. McAdams,” I begin.
“Please, call me Poppy.”
“Then please call me Nathaniel,” I tell her, and she nods.
“Over the next few weeks, you’ll learn about every facet of running a gallery. While most of your duties here will lean toward the administrative, you’ll also get some hands-on experience in actual art curation and museum management.”
“What types of administrative tasks?” Poppy asks.
“Answering phones, filing, running errands, coffee and lunch runs for myself and the staff. You’ll also assist with the installation of our upcoming exhibit and see more of the behind-the-scenes work that goes along with launching an exhibit like this one.”
“From what I read online, you have a fairly small staff,” she says, and I’m pleased. My last intern barely knew what we did here.
“Yes, it’s myself and my curator, Roberto. We have your father on staff, of course, two people on maintenance, and my administrative assistant, Jeanette, but she’s currently on maternity leave, so you probably won’t meet her.”
“Good timing for an intern, huh?” she asks with a quirk of her lips, and I laugh.
“It does seem to work out for me, doesn’t it?” She gives a small laugh, and the sound of it makes my gut twist. It’s a soft, almost breathy sound, but I have a feeling that if she were comfortable and relaxed, she’d have one of those great, loud, belly laughs. Another thing I want to make her do.
Why am I like this? I don’t even know this young woman, and I’ve already got a running list of experiences I want to have with her, and not all of them center around what I’d like to do with her in my bed. I need to get my head straight.
“Your father is a good man. I don’t know what I’d do without him,” I tell her. That should do it. Bring her dad into it.
She smiles, but it seems a little strained. “He’ll be happy to hear that. I know he likes working for you. He wouldn’t have even suggested me interning for you if he didn’t.”
“Protective dad, huh?” I ask, and she nods with a smile.
“Sometimes,” she says, and there’s that strained smile again. I wonder if she and Bruce get along as well as he’d led me to believe.
“Can you tell me a bit about your educational background and fields of interest?” I ask, glancing over the resume and transcripts she’s provided, and which I had waiting on my desk for this meeting with her.
She launches into a rundown of her focused areas of study, which, I'm happy to find, match up with some of my own interests. She’s gotten exemplary grades, and she’s already spent some time volunteering in art museums here in NYC, which speaks to her drive and passion for this kind of work.
After she finishes, I nod. “This volunteer work at the Met… was that part of a school assignment?”
She shakes her head. “No. I started volunteering there my junior year of high school. At first, I worked in the museum gift shop and the coat check, but over time, they started trusting me to be a gallery docent, which was a lot of fun.”
“So, this was something you did on your own?” I affirm.
“Yes. All of my friends wondered why in the world I would choose to spend my weekends and school vacations in an art museum,” she says with a laugh, and I like her a little more.
“Well, I don’t see anything weird about that.”.
“Let me guess. You did the same thing,” she says.
“Obviously. They didn’t know what they were missing. Nothing quite like answering the same question about your least favorite piece of art in the gallery for the forty-third time in a day.”
She laughs, then, a real laugh, and I was right—it’s perfect. Loud, clear, and she has a dimple on one cheek when she smiles wide.
I glance down at her paperwork again. I need to get myself together here. This woman is distracting as hell, and I don’t have time to be distracted. Or the desire to be distracted, for that matter. I’d told myself after Danneel died that there would never be another woman who turned me on even half as much as she had. But now… now my carnal instincts are betraying me.
If I didn’t have such a nice view of Poppy’s legs, avoiding distraction might be easier. Her legs are crossed, and the skirt she’s wearing has ridden up her thighs, just a little. So what was a fairly proper, just above knee-length, skirt when she was standing, now gives me a nice view of a smooth, lush expanse of thigh, which only makes me think more about what’s between those thighs.
I take a deep breath, and we spend more time going over her coursework, and she asks a few questions about the gallery.
“Did you always know you wanted your own gallery, or did you want to go into preservation or curation?” she asks.
No one ever asks questions like that. My admiration for Poppy rises a little more every time she speaks, and her personality paired with her beauty is a lethal combination.
“I always knew I wanted a gallery. There’s a certain satisfaction in curating as well, and I did some of that early in my career, but owning a place like this, being able to offer a personal touch to both the artist and my clients… that’s a thrill. And you can’t get more intimate, in terms of art curation, than providing a space like this and getting to experience the art up close, getting to know the artists and help bring their visions to life.”
Why the hell am I talking so much? This is her interview, not mine.
She nods. “That’s kind of what I was thinking, too.”
“So, you want your own gallery someday?”
She shrugs. “Right now, I think I’d be very happy as a curator. But who knows? Maybe that will change eventually.”
I nod. It’s a reminder of how young she is, despite her confidence and feistiness. I had no idea what the hell I wanted at twenty.
I glance up at her, and she’s looking at me, her dark eyes seeming to see far too much.
For a spell, I wonder how much she knows about my history. If she’s as intelligent as she seems, then surely she would’ve done some research on her new boss? But how far back, and deep, would her curiosity have taken her?
I’m inclined to think that if she knew about Danneel or Micah, I would’ve seen pity in her eyes. So, it’s best that she doesn’t know anything beyond what she needs to. I don’t want anyone’s pity. I swam myself back up into life after my wife’s death, and I don’t plan on loving a woman again. Besides, Poppy’s only here for two months. What am I even having such thoughts? She’s just an intern, and I’m just her boss.
Remember that, Stone. Keep it professional, and you won’t have any problems.