And Dad died.
Emery continued, oblivious, “She used to carry it into the library before bed, obsessing over it. Then, she lost it one day and went absolutely berserk.”
“It was your mom’s?” I clarified, because What. The. Fuck.
I'd found it in Gideon’s office after hearing him talk about the company’s finances. Balthazar even said, as long as there’s no evidence of embezzling…
My eyes glimpsed out the window, confirming a lack of flying pigs. A window cleaner bobbed his head to music, standing on a metal contraption suspended by wires. His hands held a rag and a squeegee.
He inclined his chin to me as if to say, “‘Sup.”
Just my mind exploding. Nothing to see here, but you’ll have some chunks of brain to wipe off the windows by the end of your shift.
“Your mom had a notebook like this one?” I repeated, knowing it changed everything.
Fucking. Everything.
“Yes.” Emery's lips quirked up. “Do you need Q-tips? I bet I can find some.” She folded her lower lip into her mouth, taking her time to wet it. “When Virginia lost it, she tore apart the house to look for it. Her eyes rimmed with so much rage and panic, I assumed she wrote about her affairs in there. She and Dad were always done. Their marriage was the shotgun type after she got pregnant with me.”
Her eyes returned to the ledger and she continued, “Actually, she was convinced someone on the staff stole it. She wanted to fire everyone, including your parents. Called it a clean sweep. Dad convinced her not to. Told her she could find another notebook. He was always good like that.”
My foundation rocked.
Everything I thought I knew morphed.
I stood on a cliff in the middle of a landslide.
The only way to go was down.
Ida Marie and I stared at a painting, our heads tilted, trying to figure out if the subject’s V tapered to an oddly shaped penis or a flesh-colored loin cloth.
As soon as the curator had told me the Triumphant Sisyphus was still available for sale, I’d requested for the gallery to be emptied and reserved today.
Proof Nash Prescott had become a household name in North Carolina.
“Are you lonely?”
Ida Marie’s question rocked me. She wasn't even supposed to be here. No one was, but Chantilly had turned it into a field trip once she’d overheard my call with the curator.
“What?” I swapped my view of the penis-shaped loin cloth or loin-cloth-shaped penis for Ida Marie’s doe eyes. “Why would you say that?”
“We’ve been working together for, say, two months now? I haven’t heard you talk about anyone. No family. No friends. No boyfriend.”
“Gee, thanks.”
My attention drifted to Nash. The curator fawned over him, exhibiting an array of paintings and sculptures he clearly gave no fucks about. He wore the same scowl he usually did. The type of face you’d make if you stepped in dog shit.
Chantilly trailed after them, her mouth moving at Formula 1 speed. Two gallery employees hovered at the fringe of the ovular room, gawking over Nash.
I hated that look.
Girls used to do it because bad boys excited them.
Now they did it because his money excited them.
Maybe his attractiveness came into play, but I’d bet it was never for the part of him that mattered most, because no one understood him except himself.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Ida Marie grinned. “I just mean, the rest of us jump around from location to location. It’s part of the job. We all know how to adapt, meet new people, and live social lives in spite of it. I’m just worried you’re having trouble adapting, being new to this.”
“I’m okay.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and decided the painting depicted a loin cloth-shaped penis. “I promise I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Everyone thinks you and Nash are sleeping together,” she blurted.
I froze. As if that wasn’t a sign of guilt. “What?”
“Um, yeah…” She gazed away, pretending to focus on the painting, but I knew I had her attention.
“Did they”—and by they, I meant Chantilly—“ask you to ask me?”
“Yes, but I won’t tell them what you say to me.” Her hand touched my forearm before darting away. “Promise.”
“It’s fine, because we’re not sleeping together.”
“You’ve never slept with him?”
“Ida Marie, I can promise you that, in the past several months that you’ve known me, I have not had sex with Nash Prescott.”
See? Not a lie.
Good job, Emery.
“So… are you lonely?”
“Oh, my God.” I eyed the ceiling, wishing it were a starless night, so I could vent. “I’m not. I don't need a penis to keep me company.”
I wasn’t opposed to casual sex. I just didn’t need it. Ben kept me company at night, and lately, Nash kept me… occupied during the day.
Not sexually.
But mentally.
Emotionally.
He made me lunch every day and left notes like he used to. Sometimes, I’d eat them in his office. He would watch me read the notes. I pretended to toss them with the lunch bag, but I'd slide them into my pocket when he wasn't looking and leave them in my box in the closet.
I told myself the lunches were why I was even at this gallery, about to lead Nash to the Triumphant Sisyphus over the Defeated Sisyphus.
A paid debt.
That’s all.
“Are you sure? I can set you up on a date with some friends,” Ida Marie offered.
A shadow loomed over us.
I fixed my eyes on the loin-cloth dick.
“We are here to work, not socialize, and his dick looks like one of Rosco’s ears.”
Nash’s voice hit the air, and I felt like I was floating and sinking all at once. Gravity, it turned out, didn’t exist. Not with Nash roaming this earth.
“Uhh…” Ida Marie’s eyes traversed the room, trying to bullshit two bullshitters. “Chantilly’s waving me down. Gotta go.”
I turned back to the painting, which did, in fact, resemble Rosco’s ear. “Doesn't it bother you that everyone thinks we're sleeping together?”
“No.”
He didn’t seem surprised.
I waited for him to elaborate.
He lifted a brow. “What?”
“Nothing. Never mind. You're impossible.” I zipped up my hoodie until it covered my wabi-sabi tee. “Let’s get this over with. The sculpture is in the private gallery.”
The curator unlocked the private viewing room for us, offering champagne and an exclusive tour.
Nash declined with a polite, “Fuck no.”
Her head whipped back, jaw slacking.
“To think she referred to you as the Patron Saint of North Carolina earlier,” I said once she left us alone.
I would have felt bad, but A—she looked at Nash like he was a paycheck and B—when she actually did get the commission check from this sale, I was sure she’d be licking her wounds during a beach vacation in Hawaii.
“I fucking hate that nickname.”
But he didn’t deny its validity. It fit with the Nash Prescott puzzle beside his penance tattoo. I was missing the biggest piece. It reminded me of filling out a completely blank Sudoku grid.