Page 15 of Fresh Canvas
A curator’s assistant? My pulse beat double time at the prospect of picking up where I left off.
“That sounds perfect. When can I come in?”
She aimed her spectacles at the computer screen. “Would now be okay? He usually leaves a morning slot open. According to his calendar, Mr. Russo doesn’t have anyone scheduled. The meeting starts in fifteen minutes. Would you be alright waiting?”
I was speechless for a moment before I said, “Yes! Of course! Now would be great.”
The keyboard clacked as she typed.
“I’ll have our intern escort you up to the office wing.” She passed back my resume with a wrinkled hand, then spoke into her phone. Less than a minute later, a young man with blonde hair joined us at the desk.
“Hello, ma’am. Follow me, please,” he chirped.
I followed him to The Spiral. The Spiral was one of my favorite architectural features in the museum. Serving both beauty and function, the twisting ramp ascended through each of the three floors above. It was made of the same sparkling limestone as the exterior, and the ramp’s shortened walls made it easy to look out over the lobby as I walked.
I tipped my gaze to the ceiling, where The Spiral encircled a glittering skylight. The multifaceted glass refracted the winter sunlight into millions of prismatic circles shimmering on thewalls. The intern swiped a keycard to open the “Business Only” access door on the second floor.
I stepped through the threshold as nostalgia slammed into me. Flashbacks of my younger self trailed Barbara down the hall. My scuffed penny loafers shuffled around the break room, as I dumped two sugars and one cream into Barbara’s afternoon coffee. I pressed a palm to my racing heart. Oh, how I had missed this place.
The young man hooked a left to the curation department, like I knew he would. I saw the echo of my younger self sitting at the gleaming mahogany desk, which hadn’t budged an inch. Out of habit, I glanced at the office where Barbara used to work, my eyes skimming the shiny nameplate as we passed the darkened room.
Blythe Barlow, Curator.
I had never heard of her, but I assumed she had replaced Barbara when she left. Why had Barbara left in the first place?
The second office was also dark, though the door was propped open. As soon as we walked in, the motion-activated lights flickered to life as the intern told me I could wait here for Mr. Russo. I thanked him, glad to have a minute to compose myself. The supple leather waiting chair was surprisingly comfortable.
His office wasn’t as large as Barbara’s had been, but it was pristine. Stainless steel accents made the space feel modern. The warm, cherry wood desk glowed beneath my drumming fingers. A faint scent, clean and masculine, hung in the air. Cologne, maybe? The golden nameplate atop the desk shined like it had been literally polished.
“Mr. Val Russo,” I murmured.
Either Mr. Russo is obsessive compulsive, or he might be married to another man.
I turned my focus to the interview, preparing for Mr. Russo’s inevitable questions. My resume was stellar. I was more than qualified. Now, it was up to Mr. Russo to agree.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” a familiar voice growled from the doorway.
The blood drained from my body in an instant. There, shadowing the doorway, was the angry man I snubbed at the museum’s entrance not even thirty minutes ago. Sweat still clung to his angry brows.
The man’s face—no, Mr. Russo’s face—scowled down at me.
five
AMANTHA
Iwould have given my left kidney for anyone to be standing in that doorway but Val Russo. What were the chances? Of all the times to stand up to a jerk, I justhadto pick this morning, didn’t I? Would it have been that hard to hold the door open for him?
But then I remembered the cruel look in his eyes and my blood began to boil again. This guy was a Grade-A jerk who didn’t deserve my regret. Did I really want to work for someone like him anyway?
My stomach sank.
Ineededthis job. For Anthony. To prove to the judge that Ryan didn’t deserve joint custody.
Seeing no alternative, I rose from my seat, offered my hand, and said, “Hello, Mr. Russo. I don’t think we have, uh, formally met. My name is Amantha Adams. I’m here to interview for your assistant position.”
Mr. Russo’s cold eyes flicked to my outstretched hand. He scoffed and shook his dark brown curls. Ignoring my peace offering, he strode around and sat at his desk.
I blinked, retracted my hand, and sat down. Mr. Russowatched me, stone-faced, as I chewed my lip, the silence deafening as I waited for him to say something.
