Page 48 of Taking A Chance

“Hello, Ken,” I say. After we started working together, he insisted I call him by his first name. I wanted to continue with the formal title, but after the third time he insisted, it felt wrong not to oblige.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking first at my hand in Declan’s and then fully toward Declan.

“I’m here with—” I start, but Declan interrupts.

“Her boyfriend,” he says, extending his hand toward Ken. “Declan.”

I try to look at him without expressing any of the surprise I feel. His shoulders are squared, his posture a fraction stiffer than it has been the entire time we’ve been mingling.Is he pushing his chest out?Declan already towers over Ken by a few inches. There’s really no need for this peacock display. Then again, after what I just did in front of Natasha, maybe it’s fair. Plus, I kind of like it. But, let’s revisit this boyfriend thing for a moment. Because…boyfriend?When did we get there?He’s probably just saying it for Ken’s benefit.

“Oh wow, great,” Ken says. “Nice to meet you, man. And what brings you all here tonight?”

“I’m one of the artists on display,” Declan says.

“Oh, okay, nice,” Ken says.

They volley back and forth for a moment, asking each other things, seemingly sizing each other up. They infer that Ken’s a urologist, I worked for him, Declan’s my neighbor, and so on and so on. Then they discuss where Declan’s art is hanging. I simply stand back and watch the exchange happen.

“Declan, there you are,” Ryan says, interrupting.

Thank fuck.I thought Declan and Dr. Richards were about to start playing tug of war or some shit. I never thought I’d be happy to see Ryan, but here I am, eating those words.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Declan says to Ken, nodding and turning us in Ryan’s direction.

“Natasha’s interested in commissioning a painting,” Ryan says. “Of herself.”

What. The. Fuck.

28

Declan

There isn’ta single bone in my body that wants to paint that woman. Not even a little. Not even in the name of science. Nothing about her appeals to me; on an artist’s level or otherwise.

“I don’t know, man,” I say, but I already know what his reaction will be.

“Are you kidding me?” Ryan shrieks. “She’s related to the senator. Do you know the potential work that can bring our way?”

“I’m working on some other things right now,” I say, attempting to avoid outright saying I don’t want to fucking do it.

“Listen, she’s willing to pay a premium price for a premium service, if you know what I mean,” Ryan half-whispers.

Cora’s hand tightens around mine, and I’m oddly comforted by it.Is that jealousy? A protective instinct?I don’t know, but I like it.

“Let’s talk about it later,” I say, settling the matter for now.

“Sure, sure. I’ll call you tomorrow about it,” Ryan says.

Looking down at Cora, she seems unruffled by it, which is good for several reasons. I don’t want her to be uncomfortable. But this sort of thing happens sometimes, and it’s good knowing she can handle it. And bythis sort of thing, I mean there are a certain number of women in powerful positions who want me to paint them. They want a lot more too, but that’s another story. I think they’ve all seen that Leo and Kate scene inTitanicone too many times and they’re all dying to be painted like French girls. They all want the scene after that too, the one in the steamy car. But no, thank you. I’ll pass.

We head back to the table to sit, since dinner is about to be served. I motion for a waiter to bring us two more flutes then pull Cora’s chair out for her. Ryan sits, leaving Natasha to pull out her own chair, which she looks less than enthused about. Luckily, I’m not sitting next to her, and neither is Cora.

“So, what’s for dinner?” Cora leans over to me as I settle into my seat.

I watch as she delicately places her napkin over her lap. A simple gesture, but I like the way her hands move as she does it, just as she’d done at brunch with Jensen and Harper. I like her nude-colored nails, the delicate gold band she wears on her right thumb. The details capture me for a moment before I realize she’s waiting for a reply.

“Oh, uh, some sort of steak dish, I think. Unless people opted for a vegetarian plate, which I did not,” I say.

“Good call,” she says. “I hope there’s bread.”

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