Fixer: A Bad Boy Romance (27 page)

I didn't have a chance to voice any of my concerns, however, as Preston retreated back towards the door. "Got this under control?" he asked.

Be positive. "Yes, I do," I answered confidently, meeting his gaze and giving him a firm nod. That was the kind of answer that a real art gallery manager would give, I thought to myself.

"Good. Keep them happy," Preston reminded me, and then turned and ducked out the front door. "Give me a call if there's trouble!" he called over his shoulder, his voice growing fainter as he slipped out the door.

I nodded, waving goodbye to my uncle - but then paused. "Hold on, I don't know what either of these men look like!" I shouted out, suddenly seeing the hole in his suggestion.

My words, however, came out too late. Preston was already gone, the bell above the door tinkling softly as it finished swinging shut.

Drat.

I considered giving my uncle a call, or running out after him to get descriptions of these two men. A little twinge from my toes, crammed into the high heels, voted against the whole "chasing after my uncle down the street" plan. And besides, he'd only just left! I couldn't go ringing him up for help this early.

"No, I can handle this," I said aloud, giving a little nod and tugging at my blouse. I moved around to take a seat behind the front desk, trying to project an air of control and brisk efficiency. I ran my hands over the papers in front of me, straightening a disorganized pile of notes and carefully placing pens in a row alongside the stack.

I dug through the stack of papers, looking for the notes that Preston had said were waiting for me. I didn't find anything on Carter, unfortunately, but I did come up with a little promotional brochure about the Halesford Gallery, including little half-page promos on several of the artists whose work was on display here.

I read through all of the promos, not learning much. They didn't include pictures of the artists, unfortunately, so the brochure didn't help me in identifying Onyx, should he come wandering in. With a name like that, maybe he had dark skin? Or maybe that name just referred to the fact that he made all his erotically charged statues out of black stone. Was onyx a type of stone?

I did learn from the brochure that Onyx came from Mexico, that his family had been stonecutters for hundreds of years, and he simply carried that tradition forward into a new method for expressing himself. He talked about how he used the very same tools that his father had used to chisel bricks, how the tools that crafted his pieces had been in his family for hundred years.

All very touching, I considered to myself, but a part of me wondered whether his father and other ancestors would be alright with their tools being used to shape large penises out of rock, shapes that tourists then bought for thousands of dollars. The whole thing seemed intensely silly to me - but then again, maybe it would make more sense as I grew more experienced at working as an art gallery manager.

And that was my job, now, I reminded myself. I could do this. I shouldn't think any more negative thoughts - I was the manager of this art gallery, and I could totally handle anything that came through the door. Whatever customers arrived, I'd easily handle them, make sure that they left happy, loaded up with artwork and with a considerably lighter wallet.

All I need now, I said to myself, are some customers.

They'll come walking in.

Any moment now.

Any moment...

Twenty minutes later, I got up and tottered over to the front door, opening it and experimentally trying the handle on the other side, just in case it had been locked this entire time. Maybe Preston had accidentally-

Nope. The door was unlocked, and easily swung open from outside.

I frowned. Maybe the sign wasn't right? But when I stepped outside, the sign on the door read OPEN, no problems there.

Where were all the customers?

Well, maybe this was like a pot of water, I decided after another twenty minutes of sitting behind the front desk and glaring at the door. Customers would only show up if I wasn't watching for them. A watched pot never boils, and all that. Not that I ever boiled water, afraid that I'd end up burning the whole apartment down, but I understood the general principle.

Instead, I decided to familiarize myself with the art a little better. Wincing a little as my high heels clicked across the wood floors, squeezing my toes with each step, I moved around the gallery, reading the little artist descriptions next to some of the pieces. My efforts, however, were hampered by the fact that, by the time I finished reading all the descriptions on one wall, I'd already forgotten the previous wall's facts and names.

With a sigh, I moved around in the back rooms. Maybe I could just look at all the art pieces and commit them to memory, instead of remembering the names and text.

Big painting of a cow on that wall. A black statue carved like a dick over here. A weird twisted metal sculpture standing on a pillar. Several really boring looking pictures of farm scenes, all done in black and white. And around the corner-

I stepped around the corner, but with my eyes up and on the artwork on the walls, I didn't see the little wooden ridge that separated the floor of the two rooms. As I swung my shoe forward, that ridge caught at my squished toes, and next thing I knew, I was tipping forward!

"Shit!" I scrambled to try and catch my balance, but the damn high heels couldn't find any purchase on the slick wood! I flailed my arms, not caring if I accidentally ruined a valuable piece of art. I just didn't want to face-plant!

I pitched forward, my foot twisting at the ankle as my shoe slipped on the floor. But then, just as I closed my eyes and braced for the moment of impact, something solid but yielding caught me. My hands wrapped instinctively around the object in front of me as my face ran into something warm, soft, and surprisingly good smelling.

"Well, I don't get women falling into my arms every day," a voice commented above me.

Oh my god. The first customer must have come in while I was busy looking at the art.

And I'd just fallen right into him.

Of course.

Chapter Four

*

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" I called out, my voice slightly muffled as I pulled my face out from the man's shirt. Good god, I'd just fallen right into the arms of one of my customers! I could already feel the blood rushing to my cheeks; I'd be blushing scarlet when I stood back up.

"No worries," the man replied, his deep, rich voice sounding amused. "Here, are you okay?"

I started to shape the words that yes, I was totally fine, but my ankle twisted dangerously as I tried to put weight back on my feet. "Er, my ankle's a little twisted," I said, still not able to see anything but white dress shirt in front of my eyes.

"Here. Loop your arm over my shoulder, and I'll get you back over to the desk at the front."

I did as commanded, reaching up with my arm. I felt it slide across broad shoulders, and the man's arm curled around my waist, the heat of his skin soaking in through my blouse. I turned and glanced up at him, and felt my breath catch in my throat for a moment.

Wow. I'd certainly picked the right man's arms to fall into, I thought distantly to myself with the part of my mind that wasn't busy tracing hearts on the inside of my eyeballs. My rescuer smiled down at me, showing off perfect teeth from beneath a head of brown hair that, despite clearly having had a comb dragged through it this morning, still gave off a slightly shaggy aura. He was clean-shaven, revealing a strong jaw and features that wouldn't have looked out of place on a movie screen. I could practically see him as he piloted a boat with one hand and rescued a damsel in distress with the other. His shoulders were strong beneath my arm, and he seemed to hold me up without much effort. I felt his biceps shift slightly as he adjusted his grip.

"Hi," he said, smiling down at me.

I struggled against the rush of hormones that flooded through me at the sight of that smile, sending a quiver through my already shaky knees. "Hi," I managed to reply, sparks electrocuting my brain and running down my spine to collect in the pit of my stomach.

"Alright, here we go." My mysterious rescuer helped me move back over to the chair behind the front desk. "Now, how's your foot feel? Can you move your toes?"

This man, this gorgeous man, was looking down at my toes! Toes which, I realized with a pang, hadn't seen much attention from me in the last few weeks. I hadn't painted them in a while, and my last pedicure was months ago, back when I was still a married woman. Hastily, I gave my toes a wiggle to confirm that they still worked.

"Yep, yep, everything's fine," I quickly answered, pulling my feet down before he could see their disreputable condition. "I think it's just the shoes, actually. Shows me what happens when I wear high heels."

He nodded. "Too bad. They look nice on you."

Oh god, he's going to be gay, a little part of my head thought, as the rest exploded into hearts and started drafting up the wedding invitations. No straight man looks at shoes and thinks about how they make a woman appear.

Still, I could hold out hope that maybe he was straight, and single, and interested... I didn't see a ring on his finger, after all! I also didn't know his name - something that I intended to change as soon as possible.

"Well, thank you for rescuing me," I said, sitting up a little straighter in the chair as I kicked off my stupid high heels under the desk. I held my hand out to him. "I'm Rebecca Grace, the manager of the Halesford Gallery."

"Grace?" he repeated back to me, raising his eyebrows. "Are you sure that's your last name?"

Here came the blushing again. "Yes, it is - and yes, it's ironic," I admitted, desperately fighting against the blood flowing to suffuse my face. "But that's my name. If it helps, you can just call me Becca."

"Becca," the man said. Oh wow, my name sounded amazing when he said it. "I don't think I've seen you around here before, Becca."

A little part of me observed that he still hadn't revealed his own name. "I actually just started," I said. "My uncle is Preston Halesford, the owner of the gallery - but he's hoping to move away from some of the day-to-day handling of the business, and he thought that I'd be perfect to run it." I was ad-libbing a bit, of course, but maybe these thoughts had passed through Uncle Preston's mind, instead of him only focusing on how I desperately needed a job to get back on my feet. No need to tell this sexy, tall drink of water in front of me about my current divorced situation.

"Ah, that makes sense. Preston mentioned that to me recently And how are you liking things so far?"

Hold your tongue a bit, I told myself. Don't go spilling everything to this man. The thoughts, however, melted under his sexy, warm smile like an ice cube under a blowtorch.

"Well, given how this gallery's attacked my ankle on my very first day, I'm not thrilled," I admitted. "And I guess we don't get a lot of customers, given how no one else has come in all morning. And the customers who do come in, I'm supposed to be bending over backwards to keep them happy."

"Really?" The way he raised his eyebrows made me replay my last words in my head. Oh god, here came another blush.

"Not literally, not like I'm supposed to flirt with them or sleep with them," I stammered out, my face growing more red by the word. Get ahold of yourself, Becca! Get this under control! "But I'm supposed to watch for these two guys, Carter and Onyx, and do whatever they ask because they keep the gallery afloat. It just seems rather demeaning."

"Have you met either of them yet?" the man inquired.

I shook my head. "But from what I've heard, they're probably both stuck-up jerks, all full of themselves and expecting me to jump through whatever ridiculous hoops they hold up."

The man didn't respond to this, just biting his lip slightly. My lord, was he intentionally trying to melt my skirt right off of me? "Anyway, I don't think I caught your name," I went on, desperately trying to change the topic. "What was it, again?"

His smile widened. "I'm Carter James."

Oh shit.

Carter burst out laughing as I squeezed my eyes shut and, just for good measure, dropped my forehead down onto the stack of papers on my desk. "And yes, I can tell you right now that I am totally a stuck-up jerk. I can't wait for you to go jumping through all of the ridiculous hoops that I hold up."

"Oh my god," I groaned, still pressing my forehead against the cool papers on top of my desk. I'd be beet red when I lifted my head back up. "Oh shit. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you-"

A finger tapped on top of my own hand on the desk, and I lifted my head back up. The top sheet of paper clung to my forehead, and I brushed it off. Carter, fortunately, was still smiling at me.

"Relax," he told me, patting the back of my hand with his fingers. "If I hadn't met me, I'd probably think that I was a total jerk, too."

"Yeah, but I also fell on you, made you carry me back to my desk," I pointed out. "That's about the worst impression that I could possibly make."

"No - you could also have insulted my mother," Carter said. "Although if you're still planning on slipping that in now-"