I bet he’s experienced as hell in all kinds of things.
He looks damn good no matter how old he is. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a wide chest. He dwarfs me, even in my three-inch heels. That light flutter has turned into a distinct dampness in my panties. I’ve been attracted to guys before but this… this is just crazy. And absolutely unwanted.
“And your name is?” he asks in a low, almost lazy tone.
I’m pretty sure this guy, asshole though he is, could make me come with nothing more than his voice if he really wanted to. Holy shit.
“Poppy McAdams,” I tell him. He gives me a slow nod, still looking at me.
“Well. Ms. McAdams. Why don’t you wait upstairs in the loft? The gallery owner will be with you shortly to go over your duties.” I nod, and the corner of his mouth rises, just a little. “Try not to break anything when you’re up there.”
I open my mouth to tell him off, but he turns away, giving me a good view of his backside, which is almost as nice as his front.
The good-looking ones are always assholes. Always.
Without another word, I head for the stairs and make my way to the loft. I swear I can feel him looking at me, but that’s stupid. Or is it? After all, he’s just a stereotypical man. He probably can’t help himself. And men wonder why feminism is a growing movement?
Of course, when I turn around, his eyes are on me, and he gives me the smallest of nods before I turn around again and continue on my way. I wonder if he works here. He must, right? He’s going to be my co-worker. Great. At the moment, I have no idea whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
I finish climbing the stairs and spot an office to the left that says Gallery Director, Nathaniel Stone. The door is open, but there’s a little reception area just outside of it, and I wait there, claiming one of the seats near the door. I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap, then take a deep breath. I’m not nervous. I mean, not really. This internship is mine, and I know I’m lucky to have it. This is one of the most prestigious private galleries in the city, and my dad just happens to be Mr. Stone’s driver. I have no problem using whatever advantage I can get and this internship… this was a big deal. While my classmates were scrambling to intern at any little Podunk gallery that would take them, I was going to be working for THE Nathaniel Stone.
I’ve been here before, of course. Not to visit my dad or anything… God, not that. I grimace as I think of my dad. He helped me get this job. I know I should be grateful, and I am. Really. But if he thinks that’s going to make up for the things I’ve seen him do…
I give my head a little shake. No. I’d never been here to visit my dad at work, the way I imagine some daughters do. I’d come here, maybe once a month or so, since my sophomore year of college, when I started realizing what it was I wanted to do with my life. I’d stroll through the gallery, taking in each new piece, every new exhibit, and I’d try to learn. Why had the pieces been arranged like that? Did the gallery staff truly seem to understand the artists’ intentions, and display the works in a way that honored that? In this case, I always felt like the Stone Gallery was top notch.
And now here I am.
Thinking about it now, it’s strange that I can’t recall every seeing Mr. Stone. However, I do remember Dad saying something, years ago, about the gallery owner being on hiatus due to a death in the family. Apparently, the gallery had almost gone under at the time.
I take another deep breath and then try not to think about Mr. Grumpy and Lickable downstairs. He’d certainly never been here before when I’d stopped in either. I would have remembered him, without a doubt.
As I wait, I look around the reception area, and what I can see of the office beyond. It’s large and airy, with wood paneling lining the walls wherever there aren’t bookcases. One wall contains a large bank of windows looking out over onto the busy street below and the skyscrapers beyond. The bookcases are packed with books—and by noteworthy authors too— and a few small sculptures that I know damn well aren’t knockoffs or imitations. There is a large abstract painting on one wall, with a serious looking dark-haired boy on another.
Other than that, there aren’t many personal items around that tell me much about my soon-to-be boss. A Google search about the gallery named the owner, whose name I already knew (of course), but there were no photos of him, which was odd. Nathaniel Stone, I guessed, was a distinguished-looking older gentleman, probably in his fifties, with graying temples and maybe a slight British accent. My father hadn’t said much about his boss, other than that he was a decent guy. I guess that’s all that really mattered in a boss—that they’re not a prick or otherwise awful.