I wasn’t special. I wasn’t even—the more I got to know myself—that great. But that look, that smile—it made me want to be more. I smiled back at him. “Yeah,” I said. “I found the perfect thing.”
“Awesome.” He stepped closer and leaned in, pressing his lips to mine softly, then pulled back. “Meet you at the register?”
“Yeah.” I mumbled, already wanting more. “I’ll be there.”
He walked off, and I stared down at my mess of tiles.
I needed to stop overthinking it and just make a decision. It was two colors that some renter would never notice.
I grabbed two samples and headed for the counter.
55. She’s a Monet.
Presa Little’s show was at the Gagosian Gallery in Chelsea, the place for anyone to hold anything. I debated for a good hour over what to wear, finally opting for a silk T-shirt dress that, paired with heels, worked as well for a cocktail party as for a formal event. When Carter knocked at my door at eight, I smiled at the view—him in a suit. A very nice suit, one his build filled out perfectly.
“Nice threads,” I mused, running my hand over his lapel before tilting my head up for a kiss.
“Thank you. You look stunning.”
“Thanks. Ready?”
“If you are.” His face was tight, and I felt my first bit of unease as I grabbed my purse.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “Just a long day.”
I bet. There’d been plumbing vans parked out front all day, men in uniforms carrying things up and down our stairs, all with urgency in their steps. Nothing like that to stress me out every time I flushed the toilet. “Is everything okay? I saw workers…”
He shrugged. “A leak on an upper floor. It was a beast to get to. Sucked up the whole day.”
Glamorous stuff, our conversation. I nodded and stepped into the cab, double-checking my wallet for the tickets.
“I should probably warn you about Presa…” Carter glanced out the window, and I looked up at him, suddenly alert.
“What about?”
“She can be territorial. Aggressive,” he corrected himself. “Unfriendly.”
I blinked, surprised at the string of adjectives, none of which matched the worldly ambassador I had pictured. “Territorial? Over what?”
“She’s known me a long time. With girls I’ve dated in the past … she can come on a little strong. Protective.”
“Like a momma bear with her cub?” I tried to follow his train of thought.
He grimaced. “No. Like…”
Our conversation was interrupted by an accident, two cars ahead of us colliding, our cab slamming on the brakes, throwing us both forward. Carter’s hand reached out to protect me, my eyes rolling as he took advantage, his fingers caressing me through my dress. I swatted his hand and reached for the handle.
By the time we stepped out, there was already a full-fledged New York City argument going on between the drivers over what looked, to my untrained eye, like a big scratch. He slipped the cabbie a ten and we decided to walk the remaining four blocks to the gallery.
When we approached, there was a crowd outside, paparazzi clustered, a few looks shot our way and then we were ignored, his hand in mine as we entered the already crowded show. Inside was pure eye candy, brilliantly lit canvases everywhere, my eyes jumping from one to another as we moved deeper inside. “Want a drink?” Carter offered.
“Yes please. Champagne.”
“Wait here so I don’t lose you.” He pressed a gentle kiss on my neck and I smiled.
I was studying Peace of Heart—a red and pink wonder, tiny veins flowing through the large abstract, when I was bumped from behind and turned. Across the room, my eyes caught sight of Carter, his hand resting on the bar, his head tilted down toward the woman who stood close by his side. Presa Little. I recognized her immediately, her jet-black hair pulled back and pinned up, her stance strong and in control. The woman once had a lion as a pet. I still remember the 2005 Vogue cover where she stretched naked over its back. As I watched, she ran a hand over Carter’s arm and my gaze narrowed.
I knew nothing about love and less about succeeding in life. But I knew what a woman on the prowl looked like. Presa Little angled her head up to Carter, and I saw the history in every ounce of their interaction. A friend of his parents? Bullshit.
Carter moved his arm away, but it was too late. When he glanced over, our eyes met, and I raised my eyebrows. I ignored Carter’s directive to stay put and walked through the crowd, watching as her head turned to me, a smile crossing her face.
I hoped, when I approached fifty, to look like this woman. Even through jealousy, I saw her beauty. The woman was worldly, sophisticated, and utterly comfortable in her own skin. When she shook my hand, her shake was strong and confident, and I felt incredibly young and naïve.
“Presa, this is my girlfriend.” Carter ran his hand down my back and cupped my waist. “Chloe.”
Girlfriend. It was such an unexpected title that I mentally stuttered. I tried my best to smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan of your work … have been for a long time.”
“Thank you, Chloe.” She smiled at Carter. “It’s so great to see my Carter settling. I thought it would never happen.”
Her accent was full of rolled Rs and elongated vowels. I could tell that she wasn’t a native English speaker, but she was adept enough to know the difference between “settling down” and “settling.” Oh, and my Carter. I caught the possession. Saw it in the way her eyes sharpened as she looked at him, verbal claws of ownership digging in and taking hold. It pissed me off and I swallowed a retort, mentally counting to three before I responded.
“How do you two know each other?” I smiled when I asked the question but it still came out a little sharp. She turned to me, her eyes lighting, feeding on my insecurity.
“God, I met Carter when he was … what? Nineteen?” She glanced at him and he nodded warily. “His parents were some of my most loyal clients. Carter worked at my studio, assembling canvases and packaging up my sales. He’s always been good with his hands.” She smiled at me. “But I’m sure you know that.”
My face blushed hot, and I felt off balance. If I were Benta, I’d snap off a witty comeback. Cammie would simply smile, with eyes that killed. Me? I wasn’t qualified, not to spar with the likes of Presa Little. Not to fight over a man I didn’t really have ownership of. I returned her smile weakly.
“Ms. Little?” A tall man in a suit appeared at her right. “We are ready for you at the podium.”
Presa nodded and turned to Carter. “I’ve got to run. It was wonderful to see you and to get a chance to meet you, Chloe.” She hugged Carter, a hug that lasted a few seconds too long. She smiled sweetly and, in a swish of fabrics, left.
I looked up at Carter. “Well?” I asked.
He groaned and reached for my hand. “Let’s find someplace to talk.”
56. Mrs. Robinson is a Bitch.
We stepped outside, navigating around the incoming stream of people and walked west. Aside from the gallery, we were in the industrial part of Chelsea, an area virtually abandoned at night. We didn’t have to go far to be alone, stopping at a bare spot alongside a wall. I leaned against the rough brick and he faced me, his hands tucked into his front pockets, his eyes glancing back to the event before focusing on me.