Melody Anne's Billionaire Universe: One Sweet Summer (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Love by the Numbers Book 1) (2 page)

“He’s back there.” Marta gave him an indulgent smile and waved toward his father’s office.

Kane blew her a kiss and settled into the cramped chair opposite his father’s desk, narrowly avoiding a jumble of receipts, an empty picture frame, and an ashtray full of stubbed butts. After a lifetime of lectures from both him and Bev, his father still hadn’t kicked the habit.

“Surprised to see you up so early.” His father’s pale blue gaze never left the laptop screen. Kane tried not to sniff as the faint scent of cigarettes the clung to the room like a shadow.

“Sarcasm was never your strong suit, Pops. We both know I’ve been up before sunrise the past few weeks. The backyard’s so well-manicured, you could putt on the back lawn, if you wanted.” He yawned and stretched his neck. “Mom said you wanted to see me. Here I am.”

At that, his father swiveled in his seat. An itch pricked between Kane’s shoulder blades as Carson Maverick’s frosty stare moved up and down, inspecting him like he was sizing up a Cezanne restrike. “It’s time you gave thought to your future, son.”

“I’ve thought about it.” Kane shrugged, dispelling the need to crack his knuckles.

“Not enough.” His father’s eyes hardened, twin marbles of ice in an otherwise stony face. His hand reached for a stubbed-out cigarette, then, finding none still lit, withdrew. “Not if you intend to make a living here in Seattle. You can’t play the lawn-boy forever, son.”

Kane sighed. If this was going to turn into another lecture about responsibility, he was out of here. All sorts of people moved on from their first “real” job, and
Kane Is Able
had technically been his.

“I’m working on it. I realize you think the world revolves around money and art, but the truth is—”

“I’d like you to take over The Maverick.” His father, as usual, hadn’t waited for Kane to finish his thoughts. Just plowed ahead as if his son’s opinion didn’t matter.

“Why? What possible reason could you have for wanting me to take over the gallery?” They both knew he hated it indoors where he couldn’t see the sky or feel the dirt beneath his fingers.

“I have every reason.” Carson straightened in his swivel chair. “Your mother and I aren’t getting any younger. It’s time you learned the family business. Made a name for yourself…with your shirt on.”

It was a pointed jab, one that struck the very tender wound in Kane’s ego.

“The family
business
is shipping. That’s where the money comes from. You turned the profits into portraits from long-dead artists. I’m not interested in doing the same.” Seattle was alive with upcoming artists—with technology and music. Too bad his father was too blind to see anything but tradition, which to him meant doing the same thing year after year.

“I’m well aware of your interests.” Carson flicked a disgusted glance at him, and suddenly Kane knew who’d heard him stumble in past two a.m., drunk and smelling like tequila. Who’d opened his bedroom window shortly thereafter. Who’d wanted him to
know
that he’d been discovered. “And your contemptible work ethic.”

“My work ethic is just fine, Pops. I put in some damn long hours doing what I love. Quitting the show wasn’t completely my decision. My contract was up, and I told you how the producers are.” His anger bubbled in the pit of his stomach. Kane rubbed a hand over the dark scruff on his chin—another mandate from the producers who had claimed the Lumbersexual look was ‘in.’ He’d meant to shave it off last week, but somehow the days had slipped away from him.

His father’s neck turned red. “You traded a degree from Berkley and a decade of a family prestige to grow half a beard and take your T-shirt off on national television.” Carson jerked out of his chair and stalked across the room. “You were my son, Kane. You could have had anything. Been anything.”

The words sounded so ugly, so cheap. A low blow, even for Carson.

“Everyone in Seattle has a beard, Pops.” Kane raised an eyebrow at his father’s clean-shaven face. “Everyone who’s anyone.”

Carson, excess energy apparently expended, sank back into his chair. He steepled his hands gracefully before speaking. “I’m so pleased to hear you’ve kept your sense of humor. And that you’re keeping tabs on what’s hip.” His father’s eyes shone like light playing on the edge of a razor.

“Oh?” Kane crossed his arms. “Since when?”

“Since I’ve decided to take a new approach with The Maverick. I’m serious about you taking on more responsibility around here.” His father swiveled from the laptop to face Kane. “Earning your keep, so to speak.”

“Earning my keep? I still make a decent income, Pops. Mom
begged
me to move back.” How clueless
was
his father, anyways?

He’d made a better-than-decent income from his stint as America’s Favorite Lawn Guy, and even better residuals from the advertisement and commercial spots. Those wouldn’t dry up for another six months, by his reckoning, which was more than enough time to latch his star onto a new venture. Something good, something authentic, something like…

“You’re curating the summer show at The Maverick.” Carson leaned back in his chair.

“What?” Had his hangover plugged his ears? “You want me to choose what gets displayed in the gallery?”

“On a trial basis. Yes.” Carson nodded. “Sales are down. People just aren’t as interested in the classics and old originals. You seem to be in touch with what’s popular. I want you to tap into the upcoming generation of young adults. Millennials. Get them interested in The Maverick again.”

Kane exhaled noisily. “Since when have you cared about what’s popular?” His father had always selected pieces for the gallery based on his personal preferences. It was a perk of being a Maverick; their shipping income meant that the gallery didn’t have to make a huge profit.

Carson didn’t answer. “I want you to coordinate and handle the artists. Evaluate the applications. Make some decisions, for heaven’s sake.”

“Seriously?” Kane exhaled noisily. If he’d been a gambler, he’d staked his bank account that his father would never give over control of his precious gallery. Not while he still considered Kane to be such a failure.

“Absolutely. I want your input on the pieces to put in front of the jury.” His father clapped him on the back. “This is a chance for a new start, son. For both of us.”

Kane’s lungs felt like they were being squeezed like a damp sponge. His father sounded so…
proud
of him. It was unreal.

“Does this have anything to do with the press trying to track me down for interviews since I left the TV show?” Excitement warred with suspicion. The vultures had stalked him for weeks trying to get a front page picture. He wouldn’t put it past his father to cash in on the extra publicity if it meant bringing in a customer.

Carson pierced him with an even look. “You have a great eye for color and balance, Kane. A certain
je ne sais quoi
. Your mother and I have always thought you had more potential than you utilize.”

“That almost sounded like a compliment.” Kane dragged his hands through his hair, reeling a bit.

To him, it had seemed pretty obvious that his father considered him little better than the hired help. He got his hands dirty. He was irresponsible. Unsettled and frivolous. Practically blue-collar. He wasn’t the guy you put in charge of your pride and joy art gallery.

What was happening here?

“Coordinate with Marta for space constraints and budget, but you should be familiar enough to get started. She’ll give you the files to get you up to speed.” Carson’s fingers drummed lightly on the edge of his desk while Kane struggled to find the words to respond.

“If this…if this is what you really want.” Jeez. His heart pounded in his chest like a pendulum.

His whole life he’d hated the stodgy, lifeless pieces represented by The Mav. In college, he’d fantasized about taking the gallery into a new direction. Something different, something fresh and trendy. He’d never dreamed he’d be offered the chance to resurrect the reputation of his family’s gallery. Not while his father still drew tobacco-laden breath.

But here it was, happening. His hard-ass, heavy-handed father had just asked him to transform The Mav. Was this the start of a new career for him or at least a new start for him and his father? Carson handed him a file folder stuffed with applications and slides.

“Here’s the current list of applications, Kane. See what you make of it. Over a hundred applicants to be vetted and not much time left. We need to notify them within the next two weeks to get the press lined up.”

“Yes, sir.” Kane straightened his shoulders. Hope and enthusiasm, emotions he’d thought had been drowned out by alcohol and crushed expectations, surged inside him. He was willing to give this a shot if his parents were. “I won’t let you down. You’ll see.”

“See that you don’t, Kane. We’re all counting on you.”

When had his parents ever counted on him for anything? The words rang in his ears all the way out to the front displays. If this was some kind of trick to keep him from partying...

But no, his father wouldn’t risk The Mav’s reputation on a whim. Carson must have thought over this long and hard before offering Kane a chance at it. He was still mulling this over when he nearly bumped into a curvy brunette toting a huge artist’s portfolio struggling to enter the gallery.

Faded jean overalls hid her figure, and her hair was fashioned in a slapdash bun on top of her head. She wrestled with the weight of the glass and steel door, trying to keep her black portfolio balanced on her hip. She was short, frazzled, and completely unlike his usual dates.

“Whoops, sorry ‘bout that. This thing is heavy.” She glanced up at him, her eyes an indescribable blend of greys and blues and browns that reminded him of the rocky beaches on the bay.

He felt like someone had tossed him into Puget Sound face-first. A man could get lost in those eyes.

“Let me get that for you.” Her head barely reached his chest. A hint of golden skin peeked out of the tight ivory shirt she wore under her smudged overalls. One of the buckles on her chest was undone, and the faded jean strap dangled down her back as she struggled with her portfolio.

“Thanks,” she said breathlessly, as he propped the door for her. “I’m here to submit my work.” She straightened, still bobbling the large black case of slides.

Kane let the door close behind them as she stepped inside. “For the summer show?”

Her eyes widened a fraction. “Yes.”

“I’ll take them.” He held out his hand expectantly.

A frown formed between her brows. “You? I thought…” She shook her head. “Isn’t Mr. Maverick available?”

No way was he handing this beauty over to deal with dear ol’ Dad. Besides, this was his job now.

“He is. And he’s right here.” Kane extended his hand again, this time in introduction. “Kane Maverick, at your service.” He gave her his best smile.

“Kane Maverick?” She didn’t budge. Her teeth worried a full bottom lip just made for kissing. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you the home and garden guy?”

The smile dribbled off Kane’s face. The tips of his ears were probably smoking. “I am the guy in charge of selecting pieces for the summer show.” He crossed his arms.

“Oh.” She turned her face to the plate glass windows as if considering her chances. A smudge of something, charcoal perhaps, marred the top of her cheek, and a parade of light freckles danced across the bridge of her nose.

Even without a speck of make-up, she was easily the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. “I’d be happy to consider what you have to offer, Miss...?”

“Thomas.” The curve of her breasts behind the bib of her crooked overalls expanded and contracted as she inhaled sharply. She thrust her portfolio out to him like a peace offering. “Annabelle Thomas. I’m a sculptor.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Annabelle. Let’s take a look.” Didn’t she know The Mav never took on 3-D work? Best to let her down graciously. Kane gestured to the black leather seats near the door and unzipped the black binder.

“Call me Anna.” She jerked on her overall strap, fingers moving briskly to fasten it. Kane forced himself to focus on her portfolio and not the places her fingers were skimming. Probably pointless, but he’d do his due diligence. As he cracked open the black case to the first set of images, his mouth dropped open.

Kane shook himself and shut his jaw with a snap.

She was a master sculptor. Images of human and animal forms rendered out of metal and glass practically leapt off the page. A boy reposed under what might have been a haystack crafted from bronze and copper wires. A goose in a bonnet, complete with twisting neck, beak open in mid-hiss. A crowned frog resting on a lily pad with rusted cattails.

“What do you think?” She fidgeted on the edge of the seat next to him.

“Very poetic. A strong blend of the old and the new.” He flipped the next page. Oh, she was good.
Very
good. Her sculptures were more than just metal, he realized. She’d transformed old, rusted junk into nursery rhyme characters.

“Nice work. I like it.” Like was an understatement. It was like nothing he’d ever seen.

“Nice?” She repeated the word like it was an insult. “You
like
it?”