Page 15 of Mr Billionaire Boss Grump

“It’s like Christmas,” Luisa says at the sight of packing cases that are being carefully unwrapped by the staff. Olivia is opening a small Tuscan landscape, a pastoral scene in an ornate gilded frame. It’s attributed to Fattori, an important painter in nineteenth-century Italian art.

“Yes. Like Christmas, but better,” I say to my brilliant daughter.

The gallery is closed for the day, and all staff are involved with the unpacking activity. There are one hundred and thirty-five pieces altogether, including paintings, sketches, prints, and sculptures. The estimated value is between ten and fifty million dollars, depending on how well the auction and private sales go. The figures I have indicate a noticeable increased interest in Italian art from this period. My timing for the exhibition should be on point in a very fickle, trend-dependent market.

Last year was the year of the German Post-Expressionists. Next year it will be something different. Today, this year, this week, the stage belongs to the Italian Impressionist from my town of Florence.

Luisa chats with Olivia about the painting. I move closer to hear what they are saying, but I don’t want to intrude.

“Do you know this view?” asks Olivia.

“I’m not sure but it looks like a bridge near Nonna’s house,” Luisa replies.

“It’s near Panzano,” says Olivia holding the painting for Luisa to see. “I bet the landscape has changed a lot since this painting was made.” A curl of Olivia’s hair escapes from where it was tucked behind her ear. I want to replace it. She sees me watching so I refocus my attention on the painting.

“You should come to Italy and visit,” says Luisa brightly. “We will take you to see this view and all the beautiful places. Won’t we Papa?”

I smile down at my daughter. She has a big heart. “Yes,” I say gently. How could I possibly refuse her anything? “Come on.” I take Luisa’s hand and lead her out. “Let’s leave Olivia to unpack. Didn’t we have a day of exploring planned?”

Chapter 13

Olivia

Igethomelate,and Contessa is annoyed with me.

She’s in the hallway staring at me when I come in and says bossily, “Honestly! I am starving.” I bend down to apologize but she says, “Too little, too late, missy,” and stalks away to her food bowl in the kitchen. “I don’t want to hear your hollow words and excuses.”

“I’ve been at work earning your high-end, top-quality cat food, so don’t be like that, your Highness.” Contessa meows back at me to try harder with my apology. “Alright, then.” I pick her up and nuzzle her fur. “I’m sorry I’m late. You’re the most beautiful cat in the world and I love you. Let’s go and see the neighbors. I need a chat with my favorite gay boys.”

Contessa says that’s a great idea, but only after she’s had her dinner.

I call Desmond’s phone knowing that either neighbor would pick up.

“Hey, girl.” It’s Sandy. “We were just thinking about you. Come on up when you’re ready.”

I change into baggy track pants and t-shirt, scoop Contessa into my arms, and head up to my friends’ apartment with the bottle of chilled wine from my fridge.

“Well, you look happier. What’s going on?” asks Desmond, handing me a glass of wine on my way in. Oh, how I love these guys. Contessa jumps down and trots over to Sandy on the sofa.

“I’m not sure what’s going on.” I slump on the sofa opposite and sip my wine. “I haven’t found a job yet. And I still feel weird about being at the gallery. But here’s the thing. Gianni isn’t so grumpy anymore.”

“Interesting,” says Desmond as he leans onto the arm of the sofa and tucks up his bare feet on the cushion behind. “Why’s that, do you think?”

“I know, I know,” says Sandy darting his bright eyes my way. “Is it because he’s finally recognized who you are and is trying to win your heart?”

“No!” I almost choke on my wine. “I don’t think he’ll ever figure it out. I’ve changed so much. I mean we were young. It was a holiday romance. And not even that. There is so much water under that bridge. We only kissed a couple of times. I’m sure he doesn’t even remember me.”

My mind drifts to the kiss on the Ponte Vecchio. It’s as if I can conjure Gianni, as he was then, into the room and feel the kiss in that moment. He was so excited about being signed to play soccer for Fiorentina, the town’s top team.

“It was the best day of my life,” he says smiling his incredible sexy smile. “Every one of my friends at school wants to be on this team. But you have to pass the trials and the exams and the physical, of course.”

“And score goals?”

“Yes, that as well.”

I continue sketching the view down the river and the buildings along the bank in the evening light as I listen to his enthusiasm.

“When do you get to play a match? I might come and watch,” I say pausing my pencil to smile up at him.

---