“What about you?” St. Clair asks. “What made you fall in love with art in the first place?”
“My mom was an artist,” I reply, smiling. “She used to take me to the city all the time, to museums and galleries. She’s the one who taught me how to paint.”
St. Clair raises an eyebrow. “So you’re an artist too.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Just for fun. I’m not as talented as my mom. I love to see the masterpieces up close. That Rubens yesterday…” I trail off, thinking about the beauty of that canvas.
“I can’t agree more,” he says. “It’s going in my permanent collection. Thank you again,” he adds. “I’m glad you didn’t let it get away.”
“I still can’t believe I bid that high!” I shake my head.
“I had an instinct about you,” St. Clair grins. “I knew you’d come through.”
“I heard the other bidder talking about how he just wanted the art for its investment value,” I admit. “He didn’t care about the work itself. It seemed wrong to let him take it.”
“Andrew Tate?” I nod. St. Clair grimaces. “I’m usually not one to speak ill of anyone, but that guy is an asshole.”
I laugh. “I called him Asshole Andrew in my head all night.”
Charles laughs. “I’ve said it to his face many times. He always tries to beat me out at the auctions. I got to see the Rubens collection in Paris a few years ago,” he adds. “Actually, it was an entire Baroque exhibit. You would have loved it.”
“Don’t make me swoon,” I say and he laughs again, the genuine laugh that’s full of the kind of joy that’s so sweet and innocent it makes you laugh too. “I would love to go to Paris.”
“You haven’t been?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t been anywhere. I was planning to study abroad in college, but...that didn’t work out. I’ve never left the country.” I stop, wondering if that makes me sound unsophisticated, but St. Clair is still looking interested.
“Where would you go if you had the chance?”
“Where wouldn’t I?” I laugh. “Italy, Spain, Greece…just think of the art. Renaissance paintings and classical sculpture…”
“A true romantic,” he says, and the lights dim suddenly, casting the room in deeper blue shadows.
I squint at him. “Did you plan that?”
He smiles, dimples appearing in his sculpted cheeks. “You’ll never know.”
“A man of mystery,” I say, hoping that won’t be true for too long. This is fun, getting to talk and joke about art with someone else who cares as much as I do. Now that I’m relaxing, I realize I haven’t laughed this much in years.
“What happened to your plans?” he asks, sipping his drink. “You said you were set to travel. What changed? If you don’t mind me asking,” he adds.
I pause, deliberating. “My mom got sick,” I finally tell him. “I dropped out of college and came home to take care of her.”
“That’s an incredible sacrifice,” he says, reaching across the table to take my hand. The weight of it is comforting, even as the touch sends electricity racing across my skin.
I shrug, uncomfortable. “It wasn’t a choice. You would have done the same for your parents.”
St. Clair gives a wry smile. “Perhaps. You must love her very much.”
My heart aches. “She didn’t make it,” I admit quietly. “She passed last year.”
Charles is silent for a moment as he squeezes my hand. “I am so sorry. I lost my brother when I was sixteen,” he says gently. “I know it sounds trite, but I understand how hard it can be, going through something like this. If you ever need to talk…” He looks at me with openness, like we share something, just the two of us. “I’m here for you if you want me to be. I mean it.”
It’s suddenly too much. Revealing so much of myself to him, feeling like he sees me, understands me, after I’ve been all alone for so long. It’s overwhelming.
“I’m sorry, will you excuse me for a minute?” I bolt up from my seat.
“Is everything all right?” he asks, standing as I stand like a perfect gentleman.
“I’m fine, I just need to visit the ladies’ room. Be right back.” I walk away like I’m not having a panic attack inside. What am I doing here? Who do I think I am, out at a fancy restaurant in designer clothes with a gorgeous, smart man – not to mention, worth billions?
But it’s not about the money, it’s about him. He’s kind, and perceptive, and actually cares about what I think. That’s about as rare as a unicorn in this city. There has to be a catch. It’s not insecurity, it’s just plain common sense that makes me wonder what he sees in me.
In the bathroom I run cold water and splash a little on my cheeks and on my neck to calm down. I take a deep breath and see myself in the mirror, eyes still rimmed with kohl pencil, hair still pinned and loosely falling like a prom ‘do, like I’m dressed up for a ball where I don’t really belong.
St. Clair sure seems like Prince Charming, except this is real life and not a fairy tale. Not everyone gets happily ever afters here.
“You can always choose to be happy,” my mom used to say.
“No you can’t,” I retorted once, after a first boyfriend broke my heart. “What if they leave you behind?”
“You can always make the choice to see the bright side, the bright spot that lets you get up tomorrow. Choosing to be happy doesn’t mean you get up and dance whenever things go wrong. It means you refuse to allow the sadness to rule your life, refuse to allow other people’s actions to dictate your emotions.”
She hugged me.
“Do you have to wait for happiness to find you?” I said. “Or can you chase it?”
“You can chase it, baby,” she said, smiling wide. “Chase it your whole life.”
I wish my mom were here, but I know what she would say about this freak out: it’s just fear. And she’d be right. Don’t give up on this happiness because it seems too good to be true.
I head back out to the table determined not to let my insecurities ruin the sparks between St. Clair and me, but my heart sinks when I see him standing by the exit, his phone in his hand. The table’s been cleared, and he has an apologetic look on his face.
“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m going to have to cut our evening short,” he says. “Something urgent has come up at work.”
“I understand,” I lie, forcing a smile. “No worries.”
The waiter comes over with bags of food, packed up in to-go boxes.
“I didn’t want this delicious feast to go to waste,” St. Clair says. “My driver will take you home. It’s the least I can do for disappearing on you.”
As we take the elevator down together, I wonder if there really is a work emergency. But St. Clair seems genuinely regretful for bailing like this. “At least you didn’t spill coffee on me,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m still waiting for you to get even.”
“Damn! That was on the agenda for later.” He grins and moves closer to me. “I guess we’ll just have to do this again sometime.”
I let my body drift closer. “I might be into that.”
St. Clair rests a hand gently on my arm, and then he’s leaning into me, so close I can feel his breath on my lips the moment before his mouth finds mine.
He kisses me slowly, taking his time as if savoring me like a fine wine. His lips roam over mine, and then he grazes my lower lip, biting lightly. My whole body comes alive, demands to touch him, and I press against him, eager for more. He eases my lips open and slides his tongue into my mouth, and I melt at the sensuous feel of him—
Ding! The elevator doors open and I blink back to reality, the spell broken.
St Clair. clears his throat. For a moment he looks dazed, before regaining his composure. “My, uh, driver, will take you home and get your number.” He lands a brief kiss on my forehead. “Sweet dreams, Grace,” he says and then he’s gone.
His driver appears and leads me to the limo, but I barely notice a thing all the way home. I’m lost in the memory of his kiss. Our first kiss.