While it wasn’t unusual for a gallery to oversee delivery, I had expected Nina to be involved with this part. If Mr. Shaw was paying her, then why did he need my help? I shouldn’t complain. He’d been a good customer. Steve’s exhibition had done well, but because he was just starting out (and because I’d been sleeping with him), I’d agreed to only a quarter of the commission I’d normally take from the sales.
We hadn’t put anything in writing, and all the money had been paid to me, so I could insist on taking a standard cut, but a deal was a deal. Even though I hated him, I didn’t want to lower myself to his level. I’d be careful not to be so stupid again. Steve had offered me no apology, no explanation. He hadn’t tried to patch things up, either. He just acted as if we’d never been more than friends, as if I was just the gallery owner where he’d had his first exhibition. He’d switched so easily and effortlessly I wondered if he’d ever had any real feelings for me. We’d been dating exclusively for over nine months. He’d been living in my apartment for all that time.
Maybe he’d just been using me all along.
But ruminating on how bad of person he was wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I needed to move on and concentrate on the future, on Grace Astor Fine Art, and on clients like Mr. Shaw. Mr. Shaw who I was trying not to find attractive.
The truck pulled up and I texted Mr. Shaw to tell him we were on our way up. I’d hired three delivery guys to help me; one to stay with the truck and two to deliver the work. None of the art was big enough to need two people, but it would be good to see how this delivery arrangement worked. Hopefully this would be the first of many across Manhattan.
“Hey, guys. Let’s get this door open and make sure nothing’s damaged,” I said.
“It’ll be fine. We know what we’re doing.” The older guy rolled up the back shutter to reveal the pieces securely fastened to the sides of the truck.#p#分页标题#e#
“Good. If you hand me that one,” I said, pointing to the Degas, all packaged in paper and bubble wrap, “and you take one each, that’d be great. I don’t want you bringing up more than one at a time, okay?”
We walked into the service entrance to the building, and Victor, the security guard, held the door open for us.
“Thanks, Victor.”
“No problem, Miss Astor. I just saw your mother come through the lobby.”
I hadn’t told my parents I’d be in the building today. My father would be at work and I avoided one on ones with my mother as much as possible. “I’m actually here to deliver these paintings to Mr. Shaw.”
“Oh, the new guy.” Victor nodded. “Okay, well you know this place as well as I do. If you need anything, let me know.”
I smiled at him and made my way to one of the service lifts.
As we arrived at Mr. Shaw’s apartment, the door was already propped open with a box. Was he just moving in? Victor said he was new, but anyone who’d not been in the building at least twenty years was new to Victor.
“Hello?” I called from the threshold.
“Come in.” Mr. Shaw’s voice boomed from the other end of the corridor. I turned briefly to the two men behind me and stepped inside. The hallway looked devoid of any signs of life. There was nothing on the walls. No console tables or rugs or furniture of any kind. Perhaps he was just moving in. I walked toward the light, unsure where we’d find Mr. Shaw.
As I reached the doors to the living space, I found him facing the New York cityscape, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Okay, Scarlett and Harper had been right, he was handsome—in an obvious sort of way. He might not be my type, but I still knew a good-looking man when I saw one. And the way he’d studied me at the gallery was . . . perhaps I’d been imagining it but it was almost like a physical touch—like his focus had mass. Watching him look out onto the rooftops, he was tall and broad and his ass was a little tighter than I remembered. I liked the way the ends of his curls shimmered in the light. I’d thought he might be flirting with me when he’d come to the gallery but I hadn’t been sure. He spun and I gasped, worried that somehow he’d know I’d been breaking him down piece by piece, as if he were a painting I was passing judgement on.
“Grace,” he said as he walked toward me, his heavy gaze coating me until I looked away as if I’d been staring directly at the sun.
I turned toward the two delivery men. “Just put those down and bring the rest up, one at a time.”