“We’ll see if you can,” I challenge.
That night, he destroys me at darts in a pub around the corner, then he takes a picture of us kissing in front of the dartboard.
On the way to my place, he smooches me in Neal’s Yard, and snaps that shot too.
Then he spends the night with me at my flat, leaving early in the morning. We go into work separately, and something about that feels a little bit wrong.
20
HEATH
The auction kicks off tomorrow night. It’s Thursday, and we’re working late, putting the finishing touches on an impressive collection of modern art.
On the fifth floor, in the auction room itself, the chairs are arranged, the lectern is set up, and the lots have been prepared.
All the marketing, all the outreach, all the artist contact is complete. We’ve posted exclusive video tours of artist studios online and on YouTube during the last week. We’re donating a portion of the proceeds to some of the artists’ favorite charities, and we’ve corralled works from emerging talent to offer alongside art from well-known artists.
Jo is a firecracker, and her whirlwind energy has lit a match under the marketing for this auction.
Emily stands with her arms crossed, looking pleased as a lion after a meal on the Serengeti. Sandy sits on the edge of the raised stage, kicking her heel. “Attendance is ten percent higher than at our last auction,” Emily coos, then shakes her head in admiration as Freddy straightens the lectern.
“Because we’re rock stars,” he shouts then gestures to his neckwear, decorated with illustrations of guitars. “Which is why I picked this bow tie for auction eve.”
“You are rock stars, indeed. All of you,” Emily says, pointing to the main team members—Jo, Riya, Freddy, and myself. “And our newest team member too.” She stays on Jo the longest.
And it seems Jo deserves most of the credit. Her ideas ignited the buzz. She’s driving the attendance uptick with her strategy.
In the past, I’d have been rankled to see that. My ego might have felt bruised.
Now, though, I’m proud of her. Wildly proud.
She certainly seems the most likely candidate for the promotion. Perhaps that would solve everything.
Then Emily turns to me. “But none of this would be possible without someone like you. Your depth of knowledge in the London art world, your contacts, your artist outreach are all second to none.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. Inside, I’m enjoying the praise. Mostly. I’ve spent years honing those skills. It’s good to see Emily recognize them.
And yet, the compliment makes me feel a little uncomfortable, like I don’t quite want to take it.
“And don’t forget, Monday is a bank holiday, so don’t do something to impress me, like send me emails or proposals, since I’ll be taking the day off too,” she says with a cheeky grin. She knows most of us are workaholics and would do just that.
“I shall restrain myself from hitting the send button over the three-day weekend,” Riya says.
When the prep work ends and we make our way to leave, Emily sets one hand on my shoulder and another on Jo’s. “You make choosing the right candidate for the promotion very hard, you know.”
“That’s a good position for you to be in, then,” says Jo, ever the diplomat.
Sandy sails by, a smile on her lips. She mimes zipping them.
Emily laughs. “Sandy,” she says, chiding but a little delighted, too, like they know what our fate is, and that maybe it’s not a hard decision at all.
Maybe for them, it’s not.
But this isn’t a good position for us—not for Jo and me.
Later that night when I shut the door behind me at Jo’s flat, she sets a hand on my chest. “I don’t want to talk about work.”
“Fair enough.”
We don’t talk much at all. Instead, I undress her and kiss her everywhere, at last settling between her legs, where I spend a good, long time using my mouth for much better things than talking.
A few orgasms later, she’s spent and glowing.
That’s how I want to see her—in bed and blissed out.
Across the table and animated.
By my side as we walk through the city.
In the shower with me in the morning.
Falling asleep with me at night.
The question is, how to get there?
But I’m starting to see the answer. And it might be an answer to more than one question.
21
JO
As I apply my mascara the next evening, Emerson asks, “Are you nervous?”
I let my gaze stray from the mirror, meeting her eyes through FaceTime on my phone as I get ready. “Terrified. Like, I’ll need three applications of deodorant because I’m going to sweat all night tonight and not the good kind of sweat.”
She gives me a sympathetic frown as she power-walks through Central Park, sunglasses on, the noontime rays lighting her face. “Are you a sweat monster? How did I not know this about you?”