Page 61 of Stick to the Deal
Padding across the kitchen floor with purpose, I rifle through junk drawers, finally finding a stack of papers I’d shoved away. As I’m shuffling through the pile, a single black business card falls to the counter.
Henri Beaufort Gallery.
It’s stark against the white marble counters, the letters masculine but elegant and foiled in gold. I shoved the card in this drawer after Christmas and never thought of it again. Sure, it’s flattering that this guy wants to show my work. Could I actually put an entire collection together with the pictures I have? What the hell would I have to say? I shoot rock stars and handbags for a living.
Turning decisively on my heel, I carry the flyer back to the couch to order and then consume my nachos while watching reality shows.
Just as RuPaul is about to declare the winner, my phone dings with a text.
Kenzo
Hey love. I want to use this photo for the album. Can you play with the colors and send a high res file to me?
I shoot him a thumbs up, flick off the TV, and head to my home office to get to work.
To be safe, and because I really needed that distraction, I mock up a few different options and email them all.
As I’m shutting down my editing program, a file I’ve left open fills my screen. It’s the photo of Reginald and I almost kissing in front of the aurora borealis. The greens, blues, and purples of the sky swirl out from behind us, giving the viewerthe sense of Valkyrie wings. The starkness of our silhouette against the dancing lights gives me an idea.
Hundreds of images flash across my screen as I look for the perfect ones in my personal files. I copy them to a new folder moments before moving on to the next. Then I edit. A crop here. Adjust the color there. Blur this area, focus that one.
When the red light of dawn spreads across my wall, I realize I’ve been at it all night. When was the last time a project consumed me this much?
Probably never.
Stretching to crack my back, I head to the kitchen for something to eat and drink. As I lift the glass of water to my lips for a long sip, I eye the card again and pick it up. I tap the edge against the counter twice, then bring it with me to the office.
Chapter 32
WWFDD?
I’m fucking exhausted. I’ve had board meetings during the week, luncheons on the weekends, and an endless round of dinner parties and museum events. It’s all so meaningless. How many events do these people need? The gala was so successful and so many donors mentioned their interaction with me and Nic specifically, that my parents have thrown me to the wolves full time. The irony is not lost on me.
Even the new opening of the Royal Ballet couldn’t cheer me, it only made me miss Nic more. She has been distant since she left. Barely replying to my texts, sending my calls to voicemail. It’s clear she’s hurting because of the rumors, but I don’t know what to do. We’ll hash it out this weekend when she flies in.
Until then, I have no excuse to avoid dinner at Silverbrook Hall. Resigned, I trudge up the stone steps and automatically head to my sanctuary in the house—the library. Halfway across the foyer, voices drifting from the parlor draw me up short.
If the earl and countess are entertaining, this is the last place I want to be.
Silently, I turn to retreat, but my escape is foiled by the booming voice of my father. “Reginald, boy, come join us.” A heavy sigh escapes, drawing a raised eyebrow from the earl.
Squaring my shoulders, I follow him through the open doorway. Any semblance of a polite smile falls as all three Wentworths come into view. LordWentworth barely spares me a look from his perch in an antique wingback chair, his full attention on my father’s excellent scotch. Lady Wentworth sits delicately on the settee with my mother, eyeing me with cold indifference. On my mother’s other side, Serena preens as she leans forward to better display her figure.
As if today couldn’t get worse.
“Reginald, you’re late.”
Pushing down another sigh, I cross the room to greet my mother. “Yes, Mother, hospital committee meeting ran over.” I nod to my mother’s longtime friends. “Lord Wentworth. Lady Wentworth. Serena.” Then I hightail it to the decanter in the corner. I don’t want to get sloshed in case Nic calls, but some liquid bolstering is definitely called for in this situation.
“We’ve barely seen you in months, son. What have you been up to?” Lord Wentworth asks.
“I’ve been in New York, launching a magazine with a schoolmate.” That wasn’t what I meant to say. I keep saying the wrong thing, my mind too wrapped up in my wife.
“Why you continue on with that ridiculous hobby, I’ll never know,” Mother mutters into her wineglass. “Really, Reginald, it’s so beneath a man of your station.”
“Where is your wife?” My father looks back through the doors like he’s looking for her to appear or only now realized she’s not here. “Did you come alone?”
“Trouble in paradise already?” Serena’s tone is demure, but bitterness shines in her perfectly made-up eyes.
