Brighton reaches for my hand, once again bringing it gently to his lips. As he does, I look over his shoulder to see Jax, standing next to the open door of the taxi, his eyes fixed on us. A female hand reaches out of the back seat encouraging him to get in. He's frozen. I can't hold back a grin.
"What's so fascinating over there?" Brighton turns to look at what I'm obviously fixated on. "Jax," he calls with a wave.
Jax raises his hand in a weak wave, shakes his head and lowers himself into the taxi.
"You know Jax?" I ask meekly not wanting to seem overly curious.
"Of course." Brighton offers nothing more. I inwardly curse.
I decide to shift the conversation back to the reason I'm shivering in the chilly May air, starving and sleepy. "You see the potential in Liz, yes?"
"She lacks confidence," he says with little emotion.
I'm slightly offended. "I don't understand." I'm being genuine. If he knew Liz the way I did, he'd never question her level of self-assurance.
"She's brilliant, Ivy. Liz is very talented. Her belief in herself is lacking." His voice takes on a softer tone and I feel myself relaxing. "She's not like you."
I ignore his remark, and keep my thoughts focused on Liz and her aspirations to one day have a showing of her work as extravagant as this evening has been for Brighton. "Please consider her for the mentorship program you offer. It would mean the world to her."
"And what would it mean to you?" he counters.
"It would mean my closest friend would be within grasp of her dream." Those are the words I manage to say to Brighton. Internally, they translate within my own mind to, "Not a moment in a bed with you."
I can't read his reaction so I quickly turn on my heel and walk towards the street in search of a taxi. As much as I want to help Liz attain her goal, I have to draw the line somewhere. She might find Brighton captivating but he’s definitely not my type.
He calls after me, "I bought one of your rings last week at Veray, Ivy."
I stop. I'm in shock. Not by Brighton's restrained proposition but by the fact that in the space of an hour two, attractive, refined men have recognized me as a jewelry designer. One even bought a piece at the store that commissions my work. Maybe the evening wasn't such a waste of time after all.
Chapter 2
A can of tuna and a glass of Merlot do not make a dinner. They do, however, qualify as a late night snack when your best friend bails on you. They also managed to keep me up most of the night tossing and turning with an uneasy stomach. Food shopping is definitely on my to-do list this Saturday morning.
Before I do that, I need to check on Liz. I reach for my phone perched on the pillow next to me, and dial her number. No answer. I leave a short voicemail telling her to call me when she pulls herself out of bed.
I decide it's time to rally my body as well. Just as I place my left foot on the floor, there's a faint knock on the door. The clock on the stand next to my bed reads eight fifteen. I mutter under my breath about who could be at my door this early on a Saturday and how did they get past the doorman.
I pull a short robe around my body, covering up the red lace bra and matching panties I'm still wearing from last night. Hunger overtook practicality.
The person knocking is bolder now. The rat-a-tat-tat is loud enough to wake the neighbors who share the third floor with me.
I look cautiously through the peephole. It's Mrs. Adams, the self-proclaimed, one woman, building security patrol. She's just shy of ninety-years-old, meddlesome, overly curious but vaguely endearing.
I swing open the door. "Good morning, Mrs. Adams."
She gives me the once over, a disapproving look taking over her face. "Dear, have you combed your hair today?"
My hand jumps to my hair in reflex. I work to flatten it. "I just woke up." I continue, "come in please, Mrs. Adams." I step back from the threshold of the door to make way for her.
She strides into the room her cane tapping out a rhythmic beat on the hardwood floor. "Oh, this just won't do." She walks directly to the vase of flowers sitting atop the antique table in my foyer. She picks it up and starts in the direction of the kitchen. "These are dead, Ivy. You should have thrown them out days ago."
"I've been busy," I say, re-adjusting the sash on my robe.
She tosses the flowers in the trash, placing the now empty vase on the counter. "Yes, I've noticed. You've been out every night this week."
The words ready to leave my lips are, "I'm twenty-three-years-old, single and aching to do things with a man that would make you blush." But I keep my attitude out of the conversation with my conservative, widowed neighbor.