Page 91 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

The moment Tristan stepped into the bar’s entrance, he almost turned around and left. The only thing that stopped him was that Monica had already spotted him and was waving him over to her table.

He swore under his breath and joined her.

“Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”

“I—I can only give you five minutes. That’s it.”

“I’ll take it.”

He reluctantly sat.

“Something to drink?” she asked. “My treat?”

“Um, thank you. Wine.”

“Any preference?”

He shook his head.

She asked the waiter to bring him a glass of chardonnay.

“How long have you worked at Duchamp Gallery?”

“Why is that important?”

“It isn’t. I’m just asking.”

“Oh. Sorry. Uh, almost two years.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“It’s okay, I guess. I like meeting the artists and talking to them about their work.”

“What about your job don’t you like?”

Tristan was saved from answering by the return of the waiter with his wine. “Thanks,” he said, then gulped down half in one go.

“Are you all right?” Monica asked.

“I’m fine. Why?”

She looked pointedly at his glass.

“I—I was thirsty.”

She nodded as if that was an acceptable answer, then her expression softened. “I should have said this first. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“My loss?”

“Joshua Paskota. I assume he was your friend.”

“He was.”

“I was supposed to talk to him in Santa Fe, but I didn’t get the chance before the accident.”

Tristan huffed. “Accident. Right.”

“You know something about it?”

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