“Miss Skyles, I’m so happy you could make it,” I said.
“Thank you for running your article about the gallery showing,” Bryan said. “It meant a great deal to us.”
“Are you kidding?” she asked. “The story I ran on you two was the most popular one I’d run all year. The two of you are the reason I got promoted.”
“Well, congratulations,” I said, smiling. “I’m happy for you.”
“Listen, I wanted to ask you something. They’re giving me a permanent column in the newspaper dedicated every day to the art and theater community in the area. No more pop culture fillers and part-time pay,” Jennifer said.
“Wonderful. What do you need?” I asked.
“I want you to contact me whenever you have an event like this going on. It’s obviously a massive hit, and I’ve already got emails in my inbox asking me if you do this regularly. So, you’ve got my card. Keep me updated.”
“Oh my gosh. I certainly will,” I said, smiling.
I felt Bryan kiss the side of my head as I turned my gaze toward him.
“I’m going to see how the waitstaff is doing. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“That’s fine. People are waiting with tags in their hands, so I’ll be right here,” I said.
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Jennifer said. “Just keep me updated. Oh! And if you see people walking around with notepads in their hands, don’t be alarmed. Other bigwigs from newspapers that don’t matter have come out to do a piece on how the gallery’s going.”
“Wait, seriously?” I asked.
“Yep. But I get the exclusives on your next gallery showings. Deal?” she asked.
“Deal,” I said, grinning.
Jennifer gave me a hug around my neck before I went back to ringing people up. I had to track down Bryan and let him know there were more holes in the walls to fill, and I could’ve sworn I saw tears in his eyes. He rushed out back while I made my way back to the counter, but when I got there, a man was waiting.
He didn’t have a tag in his hand, but he did have a card.
His eyes were a steely gray, and his skin was tanned. His black hair was slicked back, but there was a bit of salt and pepper in his tailored beard. I couldn’t quite place his features, though I knew they weren’t inherently American. It wasn’t until I looked down at the card he had between his fingers that I realized where he might be from.
“Ramon Escalante,” I said.
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Ryan,” he said.
His accent was thick, and his tongue was fluid. The words he spoke seemed to simply roll off his lips like a tumbleweed effortlessly blowing through the desert. He had an aura about him that seemed to entrance me, and it wasn’t until he placed his card in my hand that I realized I’d been holding my breath.
“Your gallery is quite a wonderful spectacle,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said as I looked down at his card. “Are you interested in any of the paintings on the walls?”
“Not necessarily the paintings,” he said as he leaned against the counter. “I’m more interested in how wonderfully you’ve matched your hair with your dress.”
His features were sharp. Bold. Strong. I had no idea why he seemed familiar or why I was acting the way I was around him, but as my eyes fluttered back up to his, it suddenly clicked.
“You’re the art dealer,” I said.
“Guilty as charged,” he said, smiling.
His smile was bright and kind, despite the fact that there seemed to be a very devious glint in his eye.
“Might I ask where you’ve gained your accent?”
“I’m originally from Madrid, though I received my American citizenship a few years back,” he said.