Page 24 of One Wrong Move

On the landing, Nate notices my stunned state. “Ah,” he says. “Yeah, I bought that one.”

On the wall of the stairwell is a large oil painting. Across the primarily black canvas, an abstract white piece of fabric has been painted, fluttering on an invisible breeze.

“You bought the J. Quinton I spoke about,” I say.

“Yeah. I did.”

“When? Three years ago?”

“Mm-hmm. You told me it was a great investment.”

I feel a bit breathless as I say, “I think I mentioned that she’s breaking new ground and will probably continue to get more recognition.”

“Yes. A sound investment.” His tone is dry and a little bit hesitant. As if he’s expecting me to contradict myself now.

“I can’t believe it. You have a Girardi in your house. God, it’s beautiful. Don’t you think?”

“It is.”

I take a few cautious steps up the stairs. It’s hard to tear my eyes away from the artwork, but when I do, it’s to look at Nate. Standing with his hands in his pockets at the top of the staircase. Somewhere between the event and this, he’s undone the first two buttons of his white shirt.

“Your room is through here,” he says.

I follow him. “Do you have more art here?”

“A bit more, yeah. This is your bedroom. There’s a bathroom through that door there, and these closets are all empty. Use them. I promise I don’t have any bed bugs.”

“I don’t know if I’d care if you did,” I say. Walking into the room is like… oh my God. I can’t wait to sleep in the giant fluffy bed or walk barefoot across the plush carpet.

I turn, taking in the space. The light oak closets, the inlaid lighting in the ceiling.

The three art prints along the left wall.

I stare at them. “Nate.”

“Yes,” he says.

“You bought the Asher & Wren prints? From the auction I worked at?”

He runs a hand over his nape. “Yes. I told you, you’ve been advising my art collection for years.”

“But… I… wow.” I sit down on the bed and just stare at the black-and-white prints. This day has been long. Too long, and it’s all crashing down on me. “I never knew.”

“No. I don’t know if I told you.” He chuckles and leans on the doorframe. “I suppose I owe you a good deal of commission now.”

I shake my head. “No, no. You letting me stay here for the week is more than enough. Thank you. It hurts my pride to admit it, but that place wasn’t… very nice.”

Both of his eyebrows rise. “That description was nice, though. Because that place was an utter dump.”

“Compared to this? Absolutely.”

“Compared to anywhere.”

I reach down and undo the zipper of my leather boots. It feels amazing, freeing my feet after a long day. “So you work most days?”

“Yes. Cleaners come on Mondays, around noon. They’ll do any laundry you leave in the hamper. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen and feel free to cook.” He crosses one ankle over the other, his gaze going from my stockinged feet to the windows of my bedroom. “You have my number if you need anything.”

“Yeah.” I look at him, hesitating only a moment before saying what I need to. What has been burning in my chest the entire drive here. “Nate? You know the box?”

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