Last night I’d decided that repeatedly reminding Holden I was just here thanks to a mysterious encounter was not helping me in the least. “All the evidence does indeed point to our being a couple.”
“I like how you say that as if it’s a terminal diagnosis.” He walked my way, his brown eyes an unbanked fire, only to stand so close to me his arm caressed mine. “I’ll ride that romantic high all day long.”
Though Holden’s face held that ever-present grin, only a brainless dimwit would miss the undercurrent of faint hostility. “I just need a little time to…adjust.” He’d recently shaved, and I could smell the evidence on his skin. His beard was an adjustment, and I thought of smooth-faced Wyatt and how different the two were. Wyatt was as preppie and clean-cut as Holden was not. Had Holden been this strikingly attractive in college? I didn’t think so. But the boy I’d known had certainly grown up into a man physically blessed and exuding a raw charisma I’d gladly deflect.
“What is it you do for a living?” I asked. “Besides refurbish old houses?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
I nearly spit out my coffee. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I work in my uncle’s firm downtown. He’s been on medical leave the last six months due to cancer that’s now in remission, so I’ve been handling both our workloads. It doesn’t leave me a lot of time for the house, but this renovation is a starting point for a side gig I’ve been wanting to try for years.”
“Which job do you prefer?”
Something shuttered in his gaze, as if he’d suddenly pulled down the shades. “Both have their perks.” Holden lifted a hand and traced a spot at my temple. “That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got there, Mrs. Thomas.”
My breath caught in my throat as a heated sensation danced across my skin. Had he felt that?
Stop it, Annie. It was the fatigue and head-smacking. And the loneliness of being here combined with the aftershocks of Zachary’s breakup. That was all. “You’re standing very close.”
His smile turned a little sad. “This is my place. Right here by you. If you want me to take the day off, we can stay home, lay low.”
I stepped away, grabbing my cooling coffee. “Not necessary. I feel fine. And I have an important meeting with my boss this morning.”
“The interview for the promotion. So you remember that, but not me?”
“Did I mention the job to you?”
“Yeah, you’re up for senior curator.”
I doubted even Zachary could’ve come up with my title at the museum. “That’s right.”
“If you hear from the interview, let me know.” And before I could wave a penalty flag, Holden leaned in and brushed his lips over mine. “Go show them what you’ve got.” He gave my backside a playful smack. “But not too hard. You’re wounded.” Then he disappeared, leaving me standing in his dated kitchen, clutching a mug of coffee, and wondering why I was wearing a smile.
Chapter Ten
The museum in the morning was my idea of heaven. Sunlight streaming in through architectural windows. The smell of freshly mopped floors and centuries old artwork. The hush of a quiet space waiting with expectation for patrons to filter in. My favorite spots changed as the exhibits did, but my current hang-out was the orange bench right in front of Rosie the Riveter. Rosie was casual, but stylish. She got stuff done. And that one arched eyebrow reminded me that with hard work, determination, and a generous amount of sass, anything was possible.
Like my promotion. “Wish me luck, Rosie,” I said as I left my bench and made the long walk to my office. Our senior curator had left for a museum in Philadelphia, and I’d essentially been doing his job for months anyway. It seemed only natural that I’d officially step into the role. I was currently an associate curator, which meant I came up with exhibits and dreamed up ideas for the museum.
“Hi, Chief.” Testing my status here, I waved to Reggie “Chief” Millikin, head of daytime security and a retired Houston police chief who was not unashamed of his love for textiles and water colors.
“Good morning, Annie!” He gave me his usual high five as I passed, and I whooshed out a deep breath of relief that not only did Chief recognize me, but perhaps my plot twist hadn’t infiltrated my work life. “I’m rooting for you on that new job.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.” As he was the fourth person to recognize me, so far things looked totally normal at the museum. Did I dare hope the only thing that had changed was just my relationship status? I absently wondered where Zachary the Cheater was, but my time spent trying to track down that Christmas train left me no time to dig around Zachary’s business. Hopefully, he was applying first aid to a burning rash on unmentionable parts and regretting some life choices.
This museum had been my home for the last four years. After grad school up north, I’d completed a two-year internship at the MET, then happily accepted a position at the Ozark Museum of Art in Bentonville as an education specialist, moving to the neighboring map dot of a town, Sugar Creek. When I’d shared the news with my mother, she’d turned up her nose at my living in Arkansas again. But the museum was generously funded, and the traveling exhibits were on par with any national museum. Within months, I moved into an assistant curator position—where I’d been stuck, despite the senior curator position opening at least twice.
“Good morning, Selma.” I smiled at one of my favorite docents, happy to see her in her ever-present red glasses and spiky blue hair. The woman was hipper at sixty-five than I’d been at sixteen.
“Hey, there, Annie. Looking sharp, girl. This job’s got your name all over it.”
“Thank you. See you at lunch?”
“I’ll be there with my sad little salad, and we can celebrate your new title.”
Senior curator. It had a nice ring to it.
The air in the museum seemed easier to breathe, devoid of the anxiety and disorder of home. Would my boss mind if I slept in the lobby tonight? Here I had peace, calm, a vending machine that sometimes gave me two bags of chips for the price of one, and excellent Wi-Fi. What more did a girl need? Besides a one-way ticket back to my real life.
I’d barely sat down and crossed my legs beneath my desk when Mr. Strickland poked his head in the doorway. “Can I see you in my office in five?”
“Yes, sir.” This was it. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. Two to three years here as senior curator, then if I wanted to move to a bigger museum, I could write my own ticket. But, much to my mother’s disgust, I loved it here. Why would I want to leave a place that made me so happy?
Four minutes and ten seconds later, I sailed past Mr. Strickland’s assistant and knocked on his door.
“Come on in, Annie. Take a seat.” He stood and gestured to the chair opposite his desk, then ran a hand over a silk tie that would never dare to step out of place. “I’ve given the position of senior curator a lot of thought over the last week. Your interview was stellar, and as always, you’re a great communicator.”
“Thank you.”
“I love your enthusiasm and affection for the museum, and nobody knows her stuff better than you. You’re a team player and a staff favorite. Your vision for the museum is forward-thinking and bold, yet tempered with an appreciation for the community and timeless standards we will always uphold.”