“Thanks,” I say, my mind going blank. “Um, that was fun last night.”
“Fun?” his voice drops, sexy. He moves closer, reaching to stroke along my collarbone. “I was thinking more ‘mind-blowingly sexy.’”
My pulse races. “That too.”
There’s a noise outside, a dull roar. St. Clair gives a rueful smile. “That’s my cue.”
I follow him out, in time to see a helicopter appear above the trees. An actual helicopter. “Wow, you really go big to get away from your dates,” I say, giggling so he knows it’s a joke, but also wondering if I’ll ever see him again.
He leans over and kisses me, soft and deep. I melt against him, until finally, he pulls away. A car is waiting with a driver. “I have a busy week ahead,” he says. “But I’d like to see you next weekend?”
“I’d like that too.”
He smiles. “I’ll call you.” He kisses me again, and then heads away toward the helicopter. I watch him effortlessly climb inside, and then a moment later, it rises up over the treeline and buzzes off into the distance.
The ride back to the city is much less interesting without Charles to look at. Despite the fog rolling across the bay, I feel content and excited to see where this thing with Charles goes. Imagine, less than a week ago I was desperately trying to claw my way into the art world, and now I’ve been flung into it headfirst, romantically and professionally. I helped with an appraisal yesterday! I feel proud as the driver drops me off in front of Carringer’s, and I hold my head high as I walk through the doors.
My pride doesn’t last long. “Thank God you’re here.” Stanford materializes the minute I’m inside.
“How do you do that?” I ask. “Just appear, like you knew I’d be here.”
“I’m omniscient,” he cracks. “Now I need you in the basement today, the police left everything a mess. Start with the floors, and work your way up.”
I sigh. So much for feeling on top of the world. “Okay, okay.”
I’m glad that at least my day-old clothes won’t be noticed if I’m scrubbing floors. I take my cleaning supplies up the back stairs and begin the first day of a week of sweeping, mopping, and wiping down walls, but despite the drudgery of my tasks, nothing can shake my happy glow. I have memories of St. Clair to keep me company as I clean: his smile, that body, his tongue…
I don’t hear from him all week, and by Friday, I’m wondering if I should be worried. I know it’s probably just that he has so much else to deal with, that his lack of contact doesn’t mean he’s no longer interested, but I can’t help getting anxious. I mean, he runs an international finance corporation! He must be juggling a million balls at a time, right?
Right?
Everyone seems on edge at work, too. Stanford is wound so tight that even me yawning makes him snap. “If there is something you’d rather be doing, Grace, by all means, go ahead and do it.”
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I’ll get back to work right away.”
“We don’t need any attitude,” he says. “Not today.”
“Did something else happen?” I’ve noticed lots of stressed out looking people running around here this week, plenty of hushed conversation in hallways that break up when someone passes. But even with the insurance spike, this seems like something bigger.
“You mean on top of a robbery that’s left our international reputation in tatters?” he asks, sarcastic.
I guess not. “Do the police have any leads yet?”
“Nothing.” Stanford sighs. “And I’m sorry for snapping at you, it’s just the members of the board are seriously worked up over this theft, and they’re taking it out on Lydia, and guess who she’s taking it out on?”
“You.”
“Exactly. I’d stay out of her way, if I were you,” he adds, glancing around as if Lydia’s about to come striding through on the warpath. “She’s got that look in her eyes, like she hasn’t eaten carbs all week and is just itching to fire someone.”
“Thanks, I’ll try.”
I stay hidden down in the basement, cleaning for the rest of the day, but I can’t help check my phone every five seconds. St. Clair said he’d call before the weekend, but Friday afternoon is cutting it awfully close, isn’t it?
Finally, my phone rings. I jump, heart racing, hoping it’s him, but it’s Paige instead, calling via a long-distance app from London. “Hey, you!” I exclaim happily, putting down my mop and sitting on a rolling crate.
“She’s alive!” Paige laughs. “I’ve been waiting all week to talk, but you’re never online anymore.”
I groan. “I know, sorry. This place has me working all hours, and then I’m pulling night shifts waitressing at the restaurant too.”
“It’s okay, I just wanted to see how you’re doing at your shiny new job. Things must be crazy there after the robbery,” she adds.
“How do you know about that?” I ask. No wonder everyone’s tense; they were trying to keep it hush-hush, but obviously the word’s gotten out.
“The painting was insured with my company,” Paige explains. “They don’t want to have to take the hit and pay out.”
“People are freaking out here, too,” I tell her, lowering my voice to a whisper.
“Is St. Clair upset?” she asks.
“No. He seems weirdly calm about the whole thing.”
“I guess he didn’t actually lose any money on it, lucky bastard.”
“He loved that painting, Paige. It’s not about the money. He’s…not like you think.”
Something in my voice must have given me away, because she sucks in a breath and squeals. “What happened?” Paige demands. “Tell me everything!”
“What? No!” I say, wondering how she knew. “Nothing happened!”
“Oh my God, you little minx!” She laughs. “Don’t even try to deny it—you know you can’t keep anything from me. I want details.”
I finally giggle. “Okay, something did happen. It was amazing—”
I stop. Lydia is standing in the doorway, looking furious. Shit. “I have to go, Paige. Call you back.” I hang up and jump to my feet.
“Taking personal calls at work?” Lydia gives me an icy glare.
“I’m sorry,” I say pocketing my phone. “It won’t happen again.” I grab my mop. “I’ll get right back to work.” I’m realizing this is the second time I’ve been caught off my game at work today, and a wave of guilt washes over me.
“Wait.” Lydia’s voice stops me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I pause. Is this a trick question? “Umm, mopping?”
She sneers. “I can see that. The question is, with what?”
I stare at her, totally confused. “A mop?”
“These!” Lydia yells, kicking at the bottles of cleaning solution with her pointy-toe pumps. “Are you an idiot, using harsh chemicals in rooms where the art is stored? Do you know the kind of damage you can do? Even just releasing the toxins into the air can damage the canvas!”
My heart races. “No, these are the supplies I was told to use.” By Stanford, I silently add, but I don’t want to get him in trouble too right now, so I just stay quiet.
“Those are for the lobby! For the offices!” Lydia’s face turns pink and she points a white-tipped nail at my face. “There are special products for these rooms. Everyone knows that.” She glowers at me. “Or everyone should.”
I feel like the idiot she thinks I am, getting yelled at like I’m back in kindergarten and I accidentally took someone’s crayons. But this time I know she’s wrong. “Lydia, these are the correct chemicals,” I say quietly. “If you just check with—”
“Do you think I don’t know the difference?” she cuts me off.
“No, of course, not. I just think—”
“You just think you know better than I do?” Her face is deep red now, her eyes squinted in anger, and this seems so overblown, I think something else must have happened to make everyone so jumpy, so upset. It’s probably best to keep my mouth shut until this all blows over.