Selling Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 1) (3 page)

Unfortunately, the only artist that came to mind was Bob Ross, and while I did enjoy pretty little clouds, I didn't feel especially aroused by brown afros. I groaned and sank a little further back into the couch.

After another minute, Salem rose from his spot on the floor, jumping easily up to the couch (hah, and the doctor said that he was fat!) and settling down on top of my outstretched ankles. Despite the bumps of my shins and feet, he managed to get comfortable, curling up and purring like a buzz saw.

"Thanks, buddy," I said down to him, leaning back against the pillow beneath my head and closing my eyes.

Just a few minutes here, I told myself. Then, I'd get up and go get my clothes ready, pick out an outfit for working as an art gallery curator, set up my coffee maker, get ready for bed. I just needed a few more minutes of laying here with my eyes closed, listening to the background babble of the television, not thinking about any bad part of my life...

Chapter Three

*

"I'm here, I'm here!" I panted out to no one in particular, tottering into the Halesford Gallery in a mad, off-balance scramble.

Behind the front desk, my uncle looked up at me. "Ah, good, you're here," he said mildly, not commenting on the fact that the clock behind him already read nine-fifteen in the morning. "I thought that I'd show you the ropes, and then leave you to handle the rest of the day. How does that sound?"

"Sounds good, Uncle Preston," I answered, dumping my purse on the other side of the reception desk and taking a long gulp from the take-out coffee cup in my hand. "Again, I'm really sorry that I'm late-"

"No worries," Preston cut me off, waving a hand. "The gallery doesn't get a ton of foot traffic." He paused. "Not that this should keep you from opening on time in the future, of course."

"Of course not," I nodded, making a note to circle back later to that 'not many customers' point. Hard to earn commission if no one came in to buy anything.

Once again, Preston walked me through the basics of handling the gallery; taking phone calls, ringing up sales, where to file any sales papers in the back so that the artists who came in could find out that they'd moved one of their pieces. It didn't seem too hard, and Preston even gave me a nod of approval as he observed my outfit.

Thank goodness, I thought to myself, rewarding myself with another big gulp of coffee, loving the warm trickle over my tongue, the little buzz of caffeine heading straight to my brain.

I'd woken up this morning with a sudden start, sitting straight up on the couch - and then immediately wincing as pain cut across my lower back. My lumpy couch definitely didn't have the same support as a mattress.

Panicking over the lateness of the hour, I'd staggered into my closet with my brush still snarled in my unkempt hair, my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth. What in the world did an art gallery manager wear? Eventually, deciding that I'd rather be overdressed than under-dressed, I went with a pencil skirt, a blouse that hung loose enough to cover up some of the post-marriage stress eating, and a pair of high heels.

It wasn't until I rolled out of my truck and dashed to the front door of the gallery that I realized that, while looking halfway decent, a pencil skirt and high heels wasn't the best combination for moving quickly. I'd come dangerously close to twisting an ankle as I hurried to try and not show up too late for my first day of work.

"So, that's about everything," Preston finished, as we arrived back at the front reception desk, having taken a loop through the four areas of the gallery. "You should be about set."

"Great," I said, hoping that my uncle couldn't hear the note of hesitation in my voice. Buck up, you've got this, I told myself sternly, willing the words to magically become true.

Preston started towards the exit, but then paused and wheeled back around. "Oh, but there are two people that you should keep an eye out for. The VIPs, you might say." He chuckled to himself.

"Who are they?" I asked after a moment of silence.

"Oh! Right. Carter James, and Onyx."

I frowned blankly back at my uncle. Were those the names of two people, or three? And Onyx? That wasn't a name, surely - hadn't he said something about Onyx the other day, when I visited? Was Onyx linked to the stone genitalia?

"And those names, then, who are they?" I asked.

"Well, Carter James is the real estate agent for many of the commercial properties in the area," Preston answered. "He tends to buy quite a lot of art from us, mainly so that he can sell the building owners on having local artists featured in their lobbies and waiting rooms. He probably generates the most regular sales for us, so keep on his good side!"

I nodded, trying to keep my eyes from lighting up with dollar signs. "And the other? Onyx? Didn't you mention him the other day?"

"Yes, he's our local celebrity artist," Preston said. "He does the black stone carvings, and he's been featured in several national magazines and exhibitions. He brings us a lot of our publicity, so we need to make sure that he doesn't even think of leaving our gallery for another! Whatever he wants - moving his statues, putting in a new exhibition, changing the lighting, whatever he demands - make it happen."

I nodded, repeating the names to myself in my head. Carter James, and Onyx, no last name. Other artists sometimes gave themselves one-word monikers, I supposed. Madonna, Prince. Maybe this Onyx fellow figured that he was at the same level as them, and so he just went with the one word. What did he write on checks?

"There's more info on them in the notes on your desk," Preston went on, pointing down at the receptionist's desk at the front of the gallery. "You should have plenty of time to read up on them."

"Okay," I said, again frowning as I considered the implications of his words. Preston had told me previously that his art gallery was profitable, but that didn't necessarily mean that he was raking in cash hand over fist. Could I really earn enough here to pay my bills, or was this just a little short-term exercise in futility, a way for me to take a month before leaving my uncle's little play-business and finding a real job?

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.