Page 5 of One Wrong Move

So Dean had told him. A week and a half since I let Dean know it was over. Since I blew up my life. Since I did everything I could to get as far away as possible… but, apparently, I can’t escape him. Even here. At my new job, in my new city.

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to wash his stain away.

“Don’t say whatever you came here to say,” I urge. My voice is fiercer than I expected, but I still hate how it wavers. “Please, Nate. I know you’re his friend, but… don’t.”

He stops in the middle of the Blue Room. We’re surrounded by light fixtures in here, and the window blinds are kept permanently drawn, allowing the soft illumination from lamps to play across the walls.

He looks serious. He’s never looked serious. Not once in the four years since I met him as Dean’s friend, that night at the bar.

“I won’t say a thing,” he says. But then his lips curve and the seriousness breaks. “Except that I’m looking for this painting by an up-and-coming artist… I believe you said her artist name is Nova D’Arc when I asked you for new recommendations last time we spoke. Could you or this gallery facilitate a purchase?”

I want to sag into a heap on the floor in relief. Dean had expressed his feelings and thoughts clearly enough; I couldn’t handle it if Nate had come at me, too. If he laid on me all the reasons why I was terrible for changing my mind.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course. It’s what we’re here for.”

Nate runs a hand through the thick, brown mass of his hair. There’s a cut to his jaw that’s always been severe, stronger than Dean’s, and an air of intimidation I’ve never been able to get past. I know he is Dean’s friend, but Nate is also well-known in New York, and Dean had never stopped gushing about him. About Nate’s family, about their company, about the billions in assets.

“Perfect,” he says.

“You’ve really been buying art? On my recommendation?”

Nate looks away, toward the dancing light on the walls. “I have.”

“That’s insane,” I say. The words just slip out.

He chuckles in surprise. “Is it? I was under the impression that you majored in curating and art history.”

“Yes, but an education doesn’t make me an expert!”

“Tell that to hopeful college applicants,” he says.

“You’ve really been buying art,” I say softly. I had never realized our sporadic conversations at parties or over the dinner table had resulted in action. That he had acted on any of my whims.

“I have a small collection,” he responds. “It’s a good investment and keeps my portfolio diversified.”

Right. I shouldn’t have assumed… “Yes, that makes sense. Art is often used in that way.”

His eyes snap back to mine. “You disapprove.”

I shake my head. Remembering who I’m talking to and where I’m doing it. Who might be overhearing. “I don’t. Art’s value is in the eye of the beholder, but it’s also in the market. And the art world thrives on high evaluations.”

That curve to his lips returns. “That was very diplomatic.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I look at him, and he gazes back at me. The silence stretches out a few seconds too long. The easy friendship I’ve always had with Nate has always been circumstantial. Rooted in his history with Dean.

And that history feels heavy now. While Dean’s presence in this room might be unseen, it’s far more tangible than the displays of dancing light around us.

He clears his throat. “So, are you settling in okay? In the city?”

“Yes, I’ve found a place, and I have my work visa. Still trying to sort out the whole phone number thing.” I shake my head and look through the large arch toward the rest of the gallery.

“Where are you staying?”

I don’t answer him, not right away. It’s all too much. Him, here.

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