Page 53 of The Last Date

“Mine,” he whispered as he kissed a path to my ear. “Those other men can stare, but you’re mine, aren’t you, angel?”

“Yes,” I breathed, our bodies moving together with no care that we were in a public parking lot. “Are you going to take me to your place now?”

“There’s a tiny special stop first.”

We got into the car, then he began to drive southeast.

“Most classic dates include dinner and a movie, or dancing. I’d rather do those at home with you. But there’s something special I think you’re going to want to see.”

A few minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot behind the museum. Since there was currently a special modern art exhibition taking place, maybe there was an exclusive late night event.

Quickly finger combing my hair before getting out of the car, I realized that was a completely ridiculous idea. Yes, Oakley was well-connected, but he wasn’t quite magic.

I watched as he threw his jacket in the back seat, then sent a text. He took my hand and led me to a back door near the loading dock. Before I could ask what was going on, Oakley leaned against the old stone wall, pulling me against him. Instantly I was lost in his kisses, and the swirling, overpowering wave of love that I had for this incredible man.

Metal creaked against metal as the door opened, and I jumped back a few inches as Oakley chuckled.

An elderly gentleman in a slightly dirty dark blue button-down shirt pushed up his glasses as he peered at us. “Get in here quick before we get busted,” he laughed.

As we followed him down a dim hallway that was clearly meant for employees only, I glanced back to Oakley. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m pretty sure that you’re going to love this.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

* Oakley *

We weren’t precisely trespassing in the museum after hours. It was more like an employee was giving us a private tour.

“Sasha, this is Everett,” I said, as the older man paused to turn and shake her hand. “He specializes in art restoration and preservation.”

We turned a corner, then Everett let us into a giant workroom. Sasha gasped, reaching back to grip my shirt sleeve as she stared at the chaos.

There were a dozen easels down the side of one wall, each with a different painting. Many more canvases leaned against the next wall. Huge work tables held paintings that were currently being reframed and having the glass replaced.

“They realized after the exhibit went up that because of the light in the atrium, we need some of the pieces behind anti-glare protective glass so they don’t get sun damage,” Everett explained. “Luckily, I work nights anyway, so I should have most of them done by morning.”

He grinned at the absolute stunned expression on Sasha’s face. “Take a breath,” he said to her. “We can’t have you passing out in here .”

“That…” Her hand reached out toward a painting, then snapped back. “ That’s a Miro . And a Picasso. And…” She walked down the table to a Georgia O’Keeffe piece that had the glass removed.

She hovered over the naked canvases as if in a trance, her fingers fluttering as she traced the brush strokes a few inches above the surface. “This is…I can’t…”

“I’ll say it again...breathing is good,” Everett laughed, patting her shoulder. “Take your time examining those, I have to get the frame off this Warhol print.”

I didn’t really care how long we spent here, but pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time out of habit. Nine missed calls were a bit unusual, but fourteen texts from different restaurants were concerning.

Kissing the back of Sasha’s shoulder, I said, “I’m sorry, I have to call work. Take your time.”

She looked up at me with tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“No crying on the paintings, or Everett will kick my ass,” I laughed.

Hiding back in the far corner of the room, I called the manager of Nurture back first. Apparently, a lot of the customers’ credit cards were being declined. All from the same bank.

I called my assistant Carrie, who was busy fielding messages from every one of my restaurants who were having the same issue. All six of them.

Quickly typing up a text, I sent it to the manager and assistant manager of every restaurant, along with a couple of my assistants.

Me: For tonight only, if anyone’s credit card is declined, do anything in your power to make the customer happy. We will accept checks. A money transfer through any common banking app. An honor system where they can come back and use a different credit card tomorrow. Absolutely anything. If they look distressed, comp the meal. Give the servers a bonus for dealing with this, since it will cut into their tips. We will fix this tomorrow.

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