“If it makes you happy. Agents are all fucking bastards…except me, of course.”
Chapter Ten
Ryder
I should go out and get drunk. Bang some girl who wants bragging rights. Monday mornings aren’t the absolute best time to find a sex partner, but I’m sure it can be arranged if I call Elliot.
Normally the idea of booze and nubile girls would get me going, but right now I don’t feel like moving even an inch off my office barcalounger. And the week of fishing didn’t help. I didn’t catch a thing because apparently not even fish want to be around me.
Talking to Mira was a bust. She couldn’t come up with a solution either, except to marry Paige. When I told her I’d blurted out the proposal, then taken it back, she looked so mad for a moment I thought she’d punch me.
She didn’t, of course. My face is worth millions.
“Idiot!” is all she said before she stalked out in disgust.
“Yeah, thank you for telling me the obvious,” I muttered under my breath, my eyes closed and an arm flung over my head.
Mira isn’t the only one who thinks I’m stupid. My parents thought I was pretty stupid too. My grandmother on the Pryce side of the family actually thought I was slightly retarded. I heard her telling my mother, “It really is too bad about the child. Such a handsome boy. I suppose we must do what we must to make sure his résumé isn’t too embarrassing for a Pryce.”
It nearly killed the old bat when I didn’t go to college in spite of all her maneuvering. I’m sure she’s still rolling in her grave about that.
A knock sounds at the door. I open one eye. Mira again?
“Come in,” I say.
Paige walks in, and I sit up. She’s the last person I expect to see.
She takes a loveseat. “How was your trip?”
“Meh. Didn’t catch anything.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“I’m allowed one failing,” I joke.
Instead of laughing, she runs her hands down her skirt. “I’m here to talk about your proposal.”
I wince inwardly. But I guess we have to talk about it eventually.
“I was drunk,” I say. “Don’t take it seriously.”
She cants her head, although her posture remains stiff. Thoughts cross her face, but I can’t read them.
“But you said it, which means you thought about it,” she says. “You aren’t the type to just blurt things like that out.”
No, I’m not. I might play around with a lot of women, but I never give them false hope.
I consider my words. She ended things with her boyfriend not too long ago. I have no idea what happened between them, but I don’t want to inadvertently hurt her with careless words. “I want my grandfather’s painting that he left for me.”
Something dawns in her eyes. “The one you’re saving that space for.”
I nod.
“And marrying me will help you get it?”
I rub the back of my neck and tell her the gist of Dad’s proposal. Her eyes grow wide, and her lips part.
“What’s so special about your grandfather’s painting that he thinks he can make you do that?” she asks after I’m done. “You have so many already.”
“But not a single one by my grandfather. Most of his paintings went to my father, and the rest are with museums.” I should just tell her the whole ugly mess. She’ll find out soon enough if she really wants. Too many people know about my fucked up family. “It’s not just any painting. It’s a portrait my grandfather did for me the summer I turned eighteen.”
“If you want a picture of yourself, all you have to do is goo—”
“It’s not the same.” I lean forward. “Photographs are just…replicas. Sure, you can change the lighting or highlight certain aspects of the subject, but if something’s not there for the camera to capture, it’s not there. Make sense?”
She nods.
“But paintings are different. Much more subjective. Artists can add or subtract whatever they want because it’s just them and the canvas and the brush. It’s like…an interpretation. Grandpa’s portrait shows all that’s best in me, the way my grandpa saw it.”
It also says that I am somebody. That I’m worthy of success and happiness. I don’t tell her that, though. Too private. Grandpa was the first one to believe in me, the only one to encourage me to pursue what makes me happy. “I tried to buy the portrait. The fifty million I offered was a fair price.”
Paige gasps.
I continue, “However, Dad refused, precisely because he knows how much the work means to me.”
“I’m sorry.” Empathy softens her face. God, she’s sweet.