Chapter 7

Meadow

As I close up the gallery, Shannon types on the laptop. I kick off my flats and slip into my high heels, hoping they’ll make my short legs look longer. I’m only a couple inches over five feet tall, and I’m so jealous of the supermodels with legs like saplings.

Shannon gives me some major side-eye. “Somebody’s trying to make a good impression.”

Nothing gets by him. Sometimes that’s good, like when I need a hug or support. Sometimes it’s a fly in the ointment when I don’t want a lecture. “It’s not like that, this is just a business meeting.”

“Business meeting, my fine ass.” He chuckles and his nostrils flare. “Those are red bottoms.”

“You’re reading way too much into it.”

Shan clucks his tongue and words aren’t needed to decipher his feelings. He knows. “You’re the one wearing fuck-me shoes to a business meeting. Do you have condoms?”

I shake my head. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Thank me for calling you out on your bullshit? Helping you walk the straight and narrow? Making sure your tender heart doesn’t get trampled to death? Making sure an artist’s spawn isn’t implanted in your moldy uterus?”

I snort. “You’re too much.”

“And you wouldn’t want me any other way, girlfriend.”

“You’re probably right.”

He snaps the laptop closed with a resounding click. “I hope you have fun tonight with Mr. Garrison. And I want all the juicy details. Please make sure there will be juicy details.”

“There will be details, but none of them will be juicy.” I smooth some invisible wrinkles on my jeans. “We’re just ironing out a few things for his big show.”

Shannon waggles his eyebrows. “And then he can iron out a few of your kinks. Ever heard of yoni massage?”

“Shannon, seriously!”

He playfully swats my butt. “We both know you’ve got a lot of kinks to work out. You could definitely use some kinky de-kinking.”

“Not in the slightest!”

His eyes twinkle, but his words are probably true. “But seriously, I like your look for today. You’re working those skinny jeans and that flirty blouse.”

Looking down at my outfit, I hope I’m not trying too hard. Something about this night seems more important than it actually is. It’s just dinner with a client, nothing more. “Thanks. I’m trying… but not in the way you’re thinking. I only want to make a good impression.”

“The night always begins with a good impression… then it ends up with a blow job.”

Flames of heat blaze my face underneath the force of my blush. He can’t be serious! That’s so unethical, I can’t even bear to think about it.

Except I can think about it. And I won’t admit even to myself that I already have. “Shannon!”

“Woman, these lush lips spit the truth.”

I ignore his lewd comment. “So, what are you getting into tonight? Please tell me you’re going to behave. Just like I am?”

He shakes his head. “No can do, senorita. I’m hanging out with Josh.”

My mouth forms a little oval of shock. “Really? I thought he was getting too serious for your taste.”

“I never said that I didn’t like him.” Shan leans back and crosses his legs. “I’m actually crazy for him. And it’s a little weird because I could see myself settling down… eventually. The key word in that sentence being ‘eventually.’”

“Of course.”

“But he made reservations at that new sushi place in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Sounds like fun, enjoy your date.”

“Enjoy yours too.”

I stop in place and put my hands on my hips to give my warning glare a little extra punch. “It’s not a date.”

“Henry is hotter than hell, Meadow. I’ve seen his pictures online. Of course it’s a damn date.”

The corners of my mouth tug upward before I can temper my expression. It’s not a date.

It’s not.

“Isn’t it possible for two people just to meet and discuss business over dinner?”

“Not in fuck-me heels with red bottoms, jeans that hug every curve of a luscious ass, and a cleavage exposing ruffled blouse. Not in my universe.”

I let out a laugh as we walk outside. I lock the door and slip the key into my purse. “I am looking forward to picking his brain a little bit.”

“Did you say, giving him head? You are so naughty.”

A woman on the sidewalk glares at us before she hurries by. “Clean your ears out, Shan. You know that’s not what I said.”

“Well, all I know is that if you don’t want to date him, I would happily make an attempt at converting him. Red Rover, Red Rover, send Henry on over.”

I laugh and shake my head. Any trepidation I had over this meeting flies away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Shannon.”

“Bright eyed and bushy tailed. With juice… bring Shannon the juice!”

I huff a sigh as we go our separate ways. Shannon heads toward the subway, and I cross the street to hail a taxi. The rush hour traffic winds and stalls around me, horns honking everywhere like little blasts of vehicular anger. I stand there for what feels like forever.

When a driver finally pulls over, I hop inside. He’s a middle-aged dark-skinned man who speaks with a Caribbean accent, “Where are ya goin’, miss?”

“Greenwich and Reade Street please.”

“Okay.” He weaves through traffic, honking his horn on occasion. I’m a little nervous with the way he’s driving, but it’s not like I haven’t seen it before. Taxi driving in Manhattan plays like a contact sport.

Twenty minutes later, he pulls up to the entrance of the restaurant. After I pay him and give him a tip, I slam the door shut and walk inside. The upscale restaurant has a warm ambiance with lit candles all around.

The host smiles when he sees me. “Hi, Meadow! It’s good to see you.”

“Same here,” I say. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”

“Julio.”

“Right.” I nod, glancing over heads to see if Henry’s already here.

“Do you have reservations this evening?”

“Two for Hughes.”

He punches something into the screen. “Why, yes. I see it right here.” He picks up two menus. “Right this way.”

He leads me to a booth near the bar before placing the menus on the table. “Enjoy!”

I pick up the menu and start to look at all of the delicious seafood dishes… halibut, red snapper, and seafood cobb salad. My mouth waters as I read the descriptions. But I’ve been here so many times that I almost don’t need the menu. Even though I’m a foodie, I’m not very good about venturing outside my tried and true favorites.

This is my go-to place for meetings with artists and wealthy clients. I try to see it with new eyes as if for the first time, and I hope that Henry likes the place. My unabashed need to impress him doesn’t go unnoticed by my critical conscience. Speaking of Henry, I check my watch. He’s running twelve minutes late.

Ten minutes late is fashionable. Twelve minutes annoys me because it says his time is more valuable than my time.

A waitress with short brown hair approaches my table. “Good evening, I’m Belinda. I’ll be taking care of you. I see that you’re waiting for a guest.”

I nod. “Yes. He should be here any minute.”

She stares at the empty bench opposite me like I’m some loser who’s been stood up. “Would you like to get started with anything to drink while you wait, perhaps some wine?”

“Who can say no to wine?”

“What can I get for you this evening?”

“How about a glass of Riesling and the bread basket.”

Carbs may not soften my anxiety, but I’ll give them a try anyway. I’m lucky that if I get a little extra food-induced padding on my body, it always seems to land in exactly the right places. As she walks away, I don’t want to check the time again, but I can’t help it. Now, Henry is fourteen minutes late. I send him a text that reads: “I’m here.”

I really wanted to type, “What’s taking you so long?” but decide to take a nicer approach, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot with Henry like a passive aggressive witch. I know that artists can be a bit temperamental and some of them can’t keep track of time if their lives depend on it. They get so lost in the work, some of them have no concept of time at all.

Just then, Henry walks into the restaurant wearing True Religion jeans, a yellow button-down that shows off his olive skin to perfection, and about a day’s worth of sexy scruff that highlights his chiseled jawline. My eyes drink in the sight of him, and I can’t help but notice how a bunch of female heads turn and do a double take. Some of the men at the bar even puff up their chests at the newcomer.

It’s not a date… not a date… not a date.

Part of me wants him to lift his proverbial leg and piss all over me to mark me as his.

I shake my head, eradicating that thought. Christ, Meadow, he’s your client. Nothing more. Stop putting the dude on a pedestal before you even know him.

Despite his urban vibe and rugged handsomeness, he glances around like a lost puppy. Usually, when I’m meeting somebody at a restaurant, I’ll wave to them and call out their name. But since I’m enjoying watching him too much without being caught, my hand stalls on the table. After a few moments, Julio points the way. My mouth tugs into a smile before I can stop it, and I’m grinning like a fool as he walks toward me, his eyes catching mine.

“Hi, Meadow.”

I have to crane my neck to look at him. “Hey.”

“So-so… sorry… I’m a l-l-it… little late. I had to… had to f-finish up in the s-s-studio…” He clears his throat, his mouth tightening into a thin line before he continues more calmly. “Then I had to shower, and well… you know how it is with us artists. I try really hard not to be late, I really do.”

Am I that intimidating? Why is he stuttering? And is he sweating? It’s cute, but it’s bizarre at the same time. How can such a hot guy be so shy? I bet he’s had more women than Dean Martin had vodka martinis. I look around for Belinda, wondering if it’s too late to change my glass of Riesling into something stronger. It’s going to take much more than wine for me to survive this meeting.

He possesses a raw sex appeal that practically pulses in the space that stands between us. I want to climb him like a tree.

Henry sits across from me, and in the process, he knocks over a glass of water on the table. It spills all over the floor, and his eyes grow wide. “I’m s-s-so… sorry. I’m s-s-sorry.”

Belinda hurries back to our table and uses a towel to clean up the mess. “Nothing to worry about. Accidents happen.” She stands up. “Can I get you anything to drink, sir?”

The muscle in his jaw ticks as the server and I both stare at him. His eyes flash with something I don’t understand when he finally says, “Lem-lemo–”

“Limoncello?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “L-lemon… ade.”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any lemonade. But we do have iced tea. With lemon.”

He nods. There’s such a tragic expression on his face, I don’t know what to do. I can’t figure out why he’s so freaked out, even though he totally warned me that he doesn’t enjoy the public. He certainly wasn’t kidding. “Okay. I’ll have an i-i-iced tea.”

“Sure thing. Sweetened or unsweetened?”

“S-swe… sweetened.”

“I’ll be right back with that.”

“And Belinda?” I look at her.

“Yes?”

“If it’s not too late can you please bring me an extra dirty martini with a splash of vermouth?”

She smiles while giving Henry a healthy dose of side-eye. “Okay. I’ll be right back with those drinks.”

She walks away. When she said right back, for my sake, I hope she means immediately. I take a deep breath, not exactly sure what to say. How to comfort him. I’m used to artists and their ever-swaying moods, but this is something I’ve never encountered in my years of being in the art world.

“I… I… don’t like it here… can we g… go somewhere else?” I can tell he’s having trouble articulating himself, and I wonder if he’s been drinking all day while he works. Or doing something harder. Shit. If he’s a druggie, I can’t tolerate it. I can’t have that associated with me or my gallery in any way.

I frown. “What’s wrong? Have you been drinking?”

The couple sitting at the table adjacent to us glances at Henry. It clearly makes him uncomfortable. But hell, it’s not their fault. Nobody told him to leave the house after he’d been drinking, and why is he stuttering? I’ve been to his studio and talked to him on the phone. He was able to articulate perfectly well on those two occasions.

He looks down, appearing to be suddenly fascinated with the tablecloth. He even flicks at a non-existent piece of lint.

“Henry, are you okay?”

Belinda comes back with our drinks and a basket of assorted bread. “Here’s your bread basket, Meadow.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip of my martini. Just the taste of the vodka calms me a little.

Henry doesn’t say a word as he takes a sip of his iced tea. I wish I could see inside his brain so I could help him. What’s going on in that mind of his?

“Do you need a little more time to look at the menu or are you ready to order?” Belinda asks.

Henry looks panicked. “I… I… I…”

I lean in his direction. “Do you like Manhattan clam chowder?”

He nods.

I glance at her. “Can you please bring us two bowls to start with?”

“Sure thing,” Belinda says before making her way across the room to check on another table.

“Henry?”

He looks at me, and I can’t see anything but fear inside the depths of his eyes. This is not the Henry Garrison I met at his loft. This is some bizarre imposter.

I reach across the table and take his hand in mine. “Are you okay?”

He nods but doesn’t speak again.

I rub his wrist with the pad of my thumb, feeling the rocket of his pulse. “If you go, that means I’ll have to eat dinner all by myself. You don’t want that to happen, do you? I’ll look like a loser that can’t keep a man’s attention long enough to share a meal. You don’t want me to look bad in front of these people?”

He smiles a little. “No.”

“Good.” I feel as if I’ve just entered an alternate universe where couples have digressed into complete role-reversal. I hand him a piece of bread. “Here, try this. It’s really good.”

He takes a bite and nods. “Good.”

I grab a piece and chew, trying to ignore the fact he’s now talking in single syllables like a Cro-Magnon man from the prehistoric era. “The bread here is delicious. But I like everything about this place. I always bring my artists here.”

“Yes?”

“And clients too. Especially the rich ones. The rich ones are the best.”

He smiles a little, and the sensitive artist crisis has been averted at least for the time being.

“I know you said that you wanted to leave, but I’m glad you decided to stay and give it a chance. I think it’ll grow on you. Who knows, this might become one of your favorite eateries just like it is mine.”