Chapter 3
“Avery Ross, you’re a heartless bitch.”
Jarred out of my concentration at the easel the next day, I glance up from my work in progress. “Excuse me?”
My studio mate Matt Hollis gives me a look that’s anything but serious as he walks over to my work station. “You heard me, blondie. Heartless.”
Since last summer, I’ve been sharing space with him and another friend, Lita Frasier, the tattooed, pierced, mixed-media sculptor who owns the small second-floor loft studio in East Harlem.
Matt holds a small collection of cleaned paintbrushes in his hand, which he uses to point at the gift-wrapped box that’s been sitting on the edge of my work table since it arrived via courier that morning. “I realize it’s your prezzie from the new man in your life, but when a friend gets a decadent box of hand-dipped French chocolates, it’s customary for said friend to share the love with those less fortunate.”
“What are you talking about? Of course, you can have some.”
He tilts his chin low, rolling his eyes. “You haven’t even opened the damn box yet.”
He’s right. I glance at the embossed gold paper with its red satin ribbon and bow, all still intact. There are few things in this world that I love more than chocolate, yet this particular box has been sitting untouched for more than an hour. As much as I appreciate Brandon’s lavish gift, I can’t think about France or knotted lengths of silken, scarlet fabric without thinking of him.
Not the man who sent this gift to me.
The one whose unexpected reappearance in my life last night has left me more rattled and confused than I care to admit, even to myself.
With Matt waiting eagerly for his chance to pounce on my chocolates, I unfasten the long red ribbon and tear the paper from the pretty box, holding it out to him. “Help yourself.”
He reaches in and pops a truffle into his mouth. His eyes close as he chews.
“Oh, my God.” His moan sounds practically orgasmic. “It’s insane how good this is.”
From across the studio, Lita swivels on her stool to face us. “I don’t know how anyone’s supposed to work around here with you two yapping and carrying on.”
I laugh, because it’s ironic she would complain about noise considering she prefers to work with a boom box blasting everything from Mozart to Metallica on any given day.
Lita gets up from the sculpture she’s working on. The complicated tangle of metal wire and hammered steel has been her obsession for several weeks, a prototype for the piece that’s recently been commissioned for the lobby of a high-profile corporate office in Brooklyn.
She saunters over in her usual black-on-black ensemble and combat boots. As of this morning, her pixie haircut is dyed platinum blonde with a dusting of cardinal red at the tips—the most traditional color combination I’ve seen on her in all these months. “Got any caramels in there?”
I shrug. “I think these two might be.” I point and she takes one of them, biting into it.
“Ugh! Not even close.” Her face scrunches, the little diamond stud in the side of her nose winking as she recoils. “What kind of animal puts frigging lavender in perfectly good chocolate?”
Matt chuckles and holds out his hand. “You’re hopeless. Give it to me, heathen.”
“Want to try a different one?” I ask.
“No thanks.” She’s still grimacing as she shakes her head and deposits her uneaten half into Matt’s open palm. “Give me an old-fashioned candy bar any day. This fancy shit is not for me.”
“Suit yourself,” Matt says. He tosses back her lavender-infused reject, savoring it slowly before making grabby hands at me for another sample. He sets down his brushes and leans against my work table, indicating he plans to stay a while. “So, when are you going to spill some deets about the big reception last night? Did you have fun hobnobbing with the academic elite and all your adoring critics?”
I haven’t told my friends at the studio that I ran into Nick. If they knew I spoke to him, I’d catch nothing but hell from both of them. They hate him because he hurt me, and they don’t even know the half of it. Only my best friend, Tasha, knows the truth—and only because it was her doorstep I landed on after I fled back to New York from Paris.
I shrug as I meet Matt’s questioning gaze. “It was okay.”
“Just okay? Evidently the night ended more than okay if your date is following up with a two-hundred-dollar box of chocolates today.”
I glance down, reflecting on how my encounter with Nick had shaded the rest of the evening. By the time I met the dean and made my little speech, he was gone. I know, because I couldn’t keep my gaze from straying into the crowd the whole time, searching for his face. I could still hear his deep voice ringing in my head, my hand still heated from his touch.
I hadn’t improved by the time Brandon took me home to my place. Instead of inviting him inside with me, I turned him away at the door with a lame excuse about a migraine and a chaste peck on the mouth. Not the first time, either. Yet rather than getting upset, Brandon sent me expensive chocolates with a sweet note and an invitation to dinner later in the week.
Matt pops another piece into his mouth, shivering in delight as he chews. “Damn, these are better than sex. Then again, maybe I just need to find a boyfriend like your hot nerd Professor. Do me a favor, Avery, when you decide to cut him loose, send him my way.”
“What makes you think I’m going to cut Brandon loose?”
Lita snickers while Matt rolls his eyes. “Please. Do we really need to have this conversation again?”
“What conversation?”
“What do you think is the longest you’ve dated anyone in the past twelve months?”
I don’t like where he’s going, but I lift my shoulder in a blasé shrug. “I have no idea.”
“Eighteen days,” he informs me. “Usually you don’t even give a man half that amount of time before you kick his ass to the curb.”
God, is he right? I’ve never kept track, but I doubt he’s far off the mark.
“I guess I’m not very good at dating,” I offer lamely.
“No kidding.” He smirks, but there is affection in his eyes. “You’re practically a monk, Avery. And why? With your looks and killer curves you could have your pick of any man in this city—and that was before you became the darling of the New York art world.”
“I’m sure you must have a point in there somewhere.”
“Yes, I have a point.” He eyes me in scrutiny. “How long can you actually go without thinking about him? I’m going out on a limb here, but I’ll bet it’s somewhere between one hour and eighteen days.”
“What does it matter?” He’s not talking about Brandon or anyone else I’ve dated recently, and I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “So, my social game sucks. That doesn’t mean it has anything to do with Nick. I’ve moved on. End of story.”
It’s a familiar refrain, a mantra I’ve used to galvanize myself for the better part of the past year. Until last night, I had almost believed it.
Now, I’m not sure what I think.
Are you happy, Avery?
Nick’s words come back at me for what isn’t the first time. Am I happy? It’s the one thing I haven’t focused on since we broke up. The one question I’ve refused to ask myself because I know I don’t want to hear the answer.
As always, he knows precisely how to cleave me closest to the bone.
“I’m over him,” I insist, ignoring the dubious looks I’m getting from both of my friends.
They may not believe me, but I mean it with every fiber of my being.
I’m over him because I have to be.
Maybe happy will come later. Right now, I just need to survive. I need to protect my heart.
And that means staying as far away as possible from Dominic Baine.