Jo laughs, but with a nervous edge. “I’m so glad HighSmith did.”
She sounds upbeat like the woman I met but like a stranger too. It’s like Jo is playing the role of an enthusiastic new employee.
The new employee who’s my partner . . .
Oh, fuck.
Is she gunning for the job opening too? She’s a director, same as I am. She sounds ridiculously qualified too.
And I bet she doesn’t even care about the work-remotely part. She probably wants to work with people, and I suspect that gives her an advantage.
Plus, she’s a firecracker. The mention of Bancroft House reminds me of a collection I was after several months ago, and the memory snaps into place.
“Was it your firm that won the Abernathy collection of Twentieth Century Impressionist art over HighSmith?”
“Yes, that was us.” She squares her shoulders proudly. And well she should. It was, indeed, a coup—ticked me off to no end but impressed me, nonetheless.
“You have quite a reputation,” I say.
Her brows arch as she meets my eye. “A reputation?” The question is a challenge, as if I insulted her, but that’s not how I meant it at all.
I realize I’m still seated and remember my manners, standing as I try to correct this mess. “A reputation as—”
“Yes, Jo has a reputation as being one of the best,” Emily says crisply. “She’s sharp, passionate, and experienced, with deep knowledge of the field.”
“That’s what I was going to say,” I add, my jaw tight as I silently curse everything about this.
I offer my hand to Jo to shake, and when she takes it, my brain inconveniently calls up the vivid memory of her nails raking down my back.
She did leave marks. I spotted them in the mirror yesterday morning when I was shaving. I wanted more marks—wanted to feel her clawing at me madly, feverishly.
I admit I had hopes of that on Friday night. Dinner, a talk, a walk, a coming together.
Those ideas I push into a mental cupboard, slamming it closed so I can focus on the women here in my office.
Emily flashes a practiced, lipsticked grin. “Jo’s also quite personable. And since you’re both contemporary experts, I’ve decided we’ll reorganize the department a bit, with you and Jo leading it together. Sort of like . . .” She stops, turns to Jo, a curious glint in her eyes. “What do they call it in America, Jo? When you have two leaders on a sporting field?”
Jo gives a sweet smile that breaks my heart in a whole new way.
I want that smile just for me, reserved for laughing over pickup lines and talking about the books she’s reading and asking her about the framed photos and learning all about Jo from America.
My new . . . partner.
All the I hate everything tchotchkes in Nigel’s shop aren’t enough to convey how that word curdles in my stomach.
“Co-captains,” Jo answers, with a brightness that seems natural, like she’s thrilled about this.
Which stings—that she’s happy we can’t go out now. I wish I could be light about this turn of fate.
“Ah, yes,” Emily says, snapping her perfectly manicured fingers. “That’s it. Co-captains.”
I swear she planned this. You were rude to my niece, so I’m going to find a thoughtful, delightful, fascinating American woman and throw her into your path. And you’ll never see it coming because you know nothing about dating. Because you didn’t think to ask pertinent questions. Instead, you got all caught up in romance, you silly fool.
You silly old fool who knows so very little of this new world.
The irony. I’ve got a brain full of insight about art from the 1900s to today, but I know so little about modern affairs.
“We’re going to make HighSmith the best auction house in the world,” Emily promises us, beaming. “I’ve arranged a working lunch today, where you can collaborate with the liaisons in marketing and sales, who interface with your department.”
Jo grins. “I’m looking forward to meeting everybody on the team.”
My God, it sounds like she means it—like she enjoys all this newfangled workplace jargon, interfacing and liaising and whatnot.
“We thrive on teamwork. It’s our way of working,” Emily chirps, looking at me so pointedly that her eyes could be lasers. “Isn’t it, Heath?”
I just want to work. That’s what has gotten me through loss, helped me stay sane. It’s what made me feel alive again.
Maybe even happy.
Surely, this is happiness that I feel at work.
Work keeps my days from being lonely. Its projects, catalogues, and collections.
It’s the chance to lose myself in matters of the mind, not in teamwork, collabs, or interactions.
The world spins forward.
And as it does, I’m pretty sure the budding romance is over before it could begin. I don’t have to ask the internet to know that dating your new co-captain is a bad idea. Perhaps even more foolish than failing to ask a woman you like what she does for a living.