Emily

Garfield was right. Mondays sucked. He was also right about lasagna, but that was a whole other thing.

It was snowing, which usually made me happy, but today there was so much crap going on that I couldn’t stop to enjoy the sight of it through the front windows.

If one more thing went wrong, I was going to start dumping booze into my coffee.

Seriously, the fax machine broke two minutes after I walked in, someone on the crew dropped a piece while boxing it for shipping and damaged the frame—at least it wasn’t the actual painting but still—and I’d accidentally started a pot of coffee without the goddamn carafe under it, making a colossal mess all over the break room counter and floor.

And the phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

Arthur was fielding most of the calls since my patience was wearing dangerously thin.

It was only 10:30 a.m.

I want my weekend back, dammit. I want to go back to thinking about Conspicuous—Ethan—and that kiss, while food bubbled and sizzled on all four burners of my stove.

I want my wine back, too.

This is bullshit.

At least I’d made Arthur’s day when I brought in enough “leftovers” to feed him for a week. Some of my best work, if I did say so myself.

I took over the phones for him a few minutes later so he could grab more coffee and immediately regretted it. Most of the calls were about Ethan’s show—people who’d seen the photos online and wanted to buy pieces that were long ago sold and shipped out. It was flattering that the show had gotten so much attention, but I wished people would read the whole article before calling. It’s been stated everywhere that all the pieces sold.

Not everyone liked being told they were too late, either. Tactfully handling irate calls was the last thing I was capable of after the way my day started.

I answered my fifth call in as many minutes and glanced around for Arthur, willing him to hurry the hell up.

“Santoro Gallery, how may I help you?”

“Emily?”

My heart jumped into my throat at the sound of his voice. I knew the sound of it by heart, having spent my weekend replaying every syllable he’d spoken the night we met. “Ethan? Um, I mean Mr. Chase?”

He chuckled in that gravelly way men do. “You had it right with Ethan.”

“Hi.” Oh, Jesus, did I really just say ‘hi’ like a shy little kid? What the hell was wrong with me?

“Hi,” he echoed, the humor evident in his voice. “I’ve been thinking about that update I asked for. How about I take you out for coffee so we can talk comfortably—away from the gallery, you know, just in case.”

“You want to take me out for coffee?”

He paused. “You prefer tea?”

I don’t know why, but I found that insanely funny. I could barely answer without cracking up. “It’s not the beverage I was questioning. It was the invitation.”

“Oh, you’re worried your boyfriend won’t approve?”

Oh, crap. That was even funnier. “Is that your incredibly transparent way of asking if I’m available? Because it’s kind of lame.” I put my hand over the phone and busted out laughing. Arthur glanced over at me like he was worried I was losing it.

Maybe I was.

“Ouch, you don’t pull punches, do you?” A pause. “Emily, are you laughing at me?”

“No.” I cracked up again. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing, you have a great laugh. Maybe I can hear it again, say around twelve? I’ll pick you up at the gallery.”

That effectively put an end to the giggles. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Sorry, I’m having another one of those ‘this must be a dream’ moments.”

“You dream about coffee?”

I snorted. “Funny.”

“What’d I tell you about me and sarcasm?”

“You sprinkle that shit on everything.”

“Exactly. See you at twelve. Goodbye, Miss Emily.”

“Goodbye, Ethan.”

Holy crap. Ethan Chase was taking me out for coffee.

* * *

Longest ninety minutes of my life.

I kept my head down and trudged through a stack of paperwork I’d been putting off since before Ethan’s show, one boring form at a time.

I felt like I should tell Arthur I was stepping out, but I didn’t know how to broach the subject or if he’d allow it even if I did.

There was no specific policy on this as far as I knew. It was coffee with a client to discuss his exhibition, so that qualified as a work thing, right?

The fact that he’d already kissed me once, and I really hoped he’d do it again was irrelevant, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

I had no idea.

I ran to the restroom at a quarter till and checked that my hair and makeup—what little I was wearing—were holding up. Not runway perfect but close enough.

My hair was loose, hanging midway down my back in soft curls courtesy of a new styling wand Dana had gotten me for my birthday. I loved that thing. Especially today.

Any other Monday might have found me sporting a ponytail. The curls, they were so much prettier. And with my hair down, there was something for me to hide behind if I said something to embarrass myself.

You will, given enough time.

And there it was, that nagging voice. I wondered when Mother would show up.

Not today, you shrew.

I forced the doubt and anxiety to the back of my mind, silencing it as best I could, and returned to my desk.

At the very least, I should let Arthur know I was meeting with Ethan, so I could gauge his reaction.

The front door chimed just then, interrupting my train of thought.

When my eyes fell on Ethan, I was incapable of thought at all.

Gone were his slouched posture and hoodie. Today, he stood straight and tall in a pair of dark jeans, a deep red button-down shirt, and tailored black leather jacket that gave a great indication of how nicely he was built. His shaggy so-dark-brown-they-were-nearly-black curls almost touched his collar and—dear God—they looked so soft. Why hadn’t I run my hands through them the other night when I had the chance?

Who’s to say I won’t get another chance?

Now, that was a voice I didn’t mind having in my head. And it was all mine.

Ethan offered me a charming smile, removing his dark shades and pinning me with his piercing blue eyes as he made his way over. I would have met him halfway, but I was so busy gawking that I forgot my manners.

“Hello, Emily.” He reached for my hand and brought it to his lips, barely brushing them against it as he exhaled warm air across the backs of my knuckles. “You’re looking lovely today.”

He held my hand there, not quite touching it to his mouth but letting enough of his heat seep in that it gave me goosebumps.

Arthur noticed our visitor and cut in. “Mr. Chase. Nice to see you. Is everything okay?”

Ethan spared him a quick, reassuring glance before his eyes returned to mine. “Just fine, Mr. Murphy. I was so impressed with Emily’s work the other night that I thought I might like to talk to her about it over lunch, if you can spare her for an hour or so?”

“I thought it was just coffee?” I managed to say, my eyes still locked on his lips.

“We’ll go for coffee after.” He winked and shifted his gaze to Arthur. “It may be more like two hours, actually. But given that it’s a working lunch, I’m sure you don’t mind.”

So charming. So sure of himself.

So sexy.

“Of course,” my boss agreed, eager to appease Ethan. “Take all the time you require. I’m so pleased that the two of you got the ugliness from the other night sorted out.”

Ethan turned to him, suddenly serious. “There was nothing ugly about that night, not a single thing. Emily did an exceptional job with the exhibition. As a matter of fact, I’m considering working with this gallery for a show I’m planning after the holidays because of what I saw here.” His eyes returned to mine, and he smiled, slow and sweet. “But first, lunch.”

Arthur practically shooed us out the door after an announcement like that. He barely gave me time to grab my coat and purse. I would have laughed if I wasn’t so busy trying to pick my jaw off the sidewalk.

“Did you mean that?” I asked as a few snow flurries floated on the air around us.

Ethan motioned for me to hook my arm through his and slid his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt, slipping them on. “Of course I did. Why would I say it if I didn’t mean it?”

I shrugged, trying to focus on walking instead of noticing how hard his bicep was under my hand. “A lot of people say things they don’t mean.”

“I don’t. If I tell you something, it’s the truth.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like honesty was supposed to be a given.

“Okay,” I tossed out, not sure what else to say.

He stopped, tugging us both out of the flow of foot traffic and under the archway of a small sewing and embroidery shop. His shades slid down his straight, perfect nose revealing his eyes as they searched mine. “You don’t believe me. Why?”

“I don’t know. I just figured you wouldn’t want to work with the girl who called you the Unabomber,” I joked, fidgeting under his stare. He was so close.

“If that were true, what would motivate me to tell Arthur otherwise? Hell, why would I be here right now if I really felt that way?”

My eyes started to sting, damn them, and my mother’s voice was loud and vehement in my head. “Because you saw me having a meltdown behind the gallery and felt sorry for me. Or because you’re worried I’ll tell what I know.” I glanced around at the unending stream of unconcerned faces. “I signed an NDA right after the event, by the way, so you don’t have to worry.”

He shook his head, one corner of his mouth lifting in a ghost of a smile. “I didn’t ask you to sign anything, Emily.”

“Arthur did.”

“Because Arthur was covering his own ass, not necessarily mine. And I didn’t ask him to give you that NDA.” He leaned forward, bending slightly at the waist to bring his face closer to mine. “I told you I trust you, and I meant it. Just like I meant what I said about you handling another one of my shows.”

“Why?”

He smiled so wide I could see both rows of his straight, white teeth. “Because I like you. Knew I would from the first death-stare you shot my way.”

His goofy grin made me laugh, and I threaded my arm back through his. “You’re just being facetious now. Maybe you’ll give me the real answer over lunch.”

He steered us back onto the sidewalk and measured his pace so I could keep up. “I answered your question, beautiful. You’re just not hearing me. Yet.”