For 100 Days(3)

I push the feeling away and slide my phone back into my pocket.

Then I step outside to the bustling restaurant to begin my shift, my mask of confidence held rigidly in place.





Chapter 2



We’re so slammed at the bar that nearly an hour passes before I can even think about the fact that I still haven’t heard from Margot. I pour a glass of Pinot noir for a well-dressed strawberry-blonde at the far end of the bar and walk it over to her. Despite being model gorgeous, she’s seated alone and has been preoccupied with texting and making phone calls since she arrived fifteen minutes ago.

I place the red wine in front of her without comment. She glances up then and meets my gaze, her elegant brows pinched.

“Can I get you anything else right now?” I offer.

“No, thank you.” With a frustrated sounding sigh, she sets her cell on the bar and shakes her head. “I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here before I have to leave to catch a flight.” She checks the sleek watch on her left wrist and frowns. “Evidently, she’s running late.”

“Okay. I’ll check back in a few minutes,” I tell her, even though I doubt she’s listening. Before the words are out of my mouth, she picks up her phone again and starts frantically tapping out another text.

I pivot away to take drink orders from a trio of thirty-something suits who’ve just swooped in to grab newly vacated seats at the other end of the bar. They request single malt Scotch, then make half-assed attempts to flirt with me as I retrieve the bottle and set up three neats of the twelve-year Macallan.

I know the game I’m supposed to play behind the bar to bolster my tips, but I can hardly pretend to be interested in faking a little playful banter right now. I’m still edgy and anxious, wondering how long Margot is going to keep me in suspense.

Just when I think I can’t take another second, my phone begins to vibrate in my back pocket. It’s all I can do not to drop the whisky bottle as I return it to the shelf in my hurry to get to my call. Heading toward the back of the bar area, I pull my phone out and covertly check the caller ID.

It’s her.

Finally.

“Cover me?” I mouth to Tasha when I see her glance my way from across the bar.

She nods and holds up crossed fingers. Taking a deep breath, I slip off to the ladies’ room with my phone in hand. “Hey, Margot. How’s it going?”

I’m amazed at how casual and calm I sound when I answer, considering my heart is pounding about a hundred miles an hour.

“Long day,” she says. “The gallery owner came in for meetings with me and the rest of the staff. I just got out about five minutes ago and saw your text.”

I cringe at the reminder of my moment of weakness. “Yeah, um, sorry I missed your call this morning. I was working on the new piece and I guess I didn’t hear the phone. Anyway, I can’t wait to show this one to you. I think you’re really going to like it.”

“I’m sure I will. You know I love your work,” she says. “And I’m the one who should apologize. I probably shouldn’t have left a message at all. I wouldn’t if I’d known how hectic things were going to be here today. I didn’t mean to keep you hanging like this all day.”

There is a hesitancy to her voice that makes my mouth go dry. I drift to the farthest empty stall and close myself inside for some privacy, and to try to muffle the noise. There is a steady flow of chattering restaurant patrons coming in and out of the restroom and music from outside in the main house vibrates the restroom walls.

Margot hasn’t said anything more, and I realize she’s not calling to give me good news.

“Something’s wrong,” I murmur, trying to guess how bad the blow is going to be. Normally, she’d be pressing me for details about my work and how soon before she can see it, but she’s holding back. “You won’t be taking the new painting, will you?”

She’s silent, then she sighs quietly. “I’m really sorry, Avery.”

Her apology hits me like a physical blow. For a moment, I’m just as stunned as if I’d been slapped. “No, it’s okay. I understand. You’ve got a lot of my work already. Maybe we can talk about it after another piece sells, or—”

“Avery,” she says, her tone going even gentler now. “Like I said, the owner was in today. We talked about implementing some changes in the gallery collections. We’re going to be freshening things up a bit, clearing space in a few of the current displays to make room for some promising new artists that the owner feels strongly about . . .”

And I’m not one of them.