Page 35 of Stick to the Deal
His head jerks up, eyes widening before he looks down at his watch. “Dammit, I was going to meet you downstairs. What do you think?”
“I think we need to go furniture shopping.”
His lips quiver like he might smile. “I told you I wasn’t shopping without you.”
“Great find, hubby. It’s even better than the video tour you gave me. I like it. Work giving you trouble?”
“Yes. No.” He sighs and leans back in his chair, massaging his brow. “Work is going well. Social media response is promising. The team works really hard, and it’s paying off.”
“But?”
“I want to build morale a bit. Show my appreciation for everyone’s dedication. I’ve been searching for ideas for hours.” He scoffs and shifts the laptop slightly. On the screen are lists of tourist locations and group tours.
“Why don’t we throw a party here? Halloween is only a couple of weeks away.”
“Halloween party?”
“Yeah, I know it’s not as big in England, but it’s a whole thing here. It’ll be fun. I’ll help. What are society wives for?” I flutter my eyelashes at him, which gets a chuckle. “Now go change. We have unpacking to do.”
I walk over to the other bedroom to inspect my new studio. The space is smaller, but has a built-in bookshelf by the windows. Moving boxes stack neatly along the long wall.
Cracking my neck, I stand in the center when I feel Reginald approach. I turn to see him better and my breath catches at the sight. He is wearing a white T-shirt and plain gray sweatpants, loose enough to skim his hips and thighs, but tightenough to hint at what lies beneath. Honestly, he’d make a remarkable Christian Gray. My fingers itch for a camera.
Ducking his head slightly, he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it more disheveled, the motion as out of place for him as the casual clothes. “What?”
“I was starting to wonder if you owned anything other than a suit.”
“Very funny. I wasn’t sure how you’d like the room set up, and perhaps a little afraid to touch any of your equipment.”
“It’s fine. I’m pretty particular about my organization, anyway. I’ll open and point, and you carry.”
Together, we work through the boxes. Props, lenses, and light gels go in labeled bins in the walk-in closet. Backdrops pile neatly along the wall, and I make a mental note to add a rack to my shopping list. Lights, tripods, bouncers, and defusers similarly stack against the far wall. My table abuts the windows to take advantage of the natural light.
It is smaller than my old space, but it’s cozy. I could see myself working here.
“What’s in these?” Reginald asks as he steps up to the wooden crates I’ve left untouched.
“Oh no, that’s…” Too late. He already has the top off and has pulled out a framed print from the box. The photo shows a vivid sunset of pink, purple, and blue reflected over a river with white lightning cracking overhead. “Nothing,” I finish lamely.
“Is this yours?”
I nod, but he ignores me as he pulls out the next. This one is an ocean pier in forced perspective that seems to travel on for miles, with a citrine and cerulean sky above. A black-and-white photograph of a gargoyle statue emerges next, followed by brightly painted buildings with a street musician framed by a wrought-iron gate. The final is a high contrast black-and-white photograph of the Royal Opera House, the bright lights reflecting on the wet cobblestones.
“These are beautiful.” He turns to me with awe in his eyes. “Are they for a show?”
“No.” I shift uncomfortably and flick my nail with my finger. “They were up at Pop when we first opened to fill the space. Soon after, I started curating local artists to display and sell their pieces as another revenue stream for the restaurant, and these have sat here since.”
My art has always been something of a touchy topic.
For years, my grandmother told me it was only a hobby and wouldn’t amount to anything. I know I’m good at capturing the essence of a person or object for a magazine. That’s not art though. I simply capture what is already there, not create something formative. Something emotional. My camera lets other people shine, but it’s not for me to shine.
The girls have never understood. But they’re not really artists.
Sure, Anna is a culinary genius and creates the most delectable and visually appealing treats. Brianna can appreciate the mathematical side of ratios and balance. But neither of them understands color and composition.
Reginald reverently replaces all except the last back into the crate. The opera house he lifts and strides out of the room carrying it.
“Where are you going with that?” Even with my long legs, I have to struggle to catch up as he climbs the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The entire level is a master bedroom. A king-sized bed sits center, a small lounge area tucked in the corner, but the main attraction is the glass slider leading out to a private rooftop terrace.
