After graduation,
I put my art history degree to good use at Christie’s in Boston’s Back Bay, on
Newbury Street. At least, that was the plan. But I spent more time working in
Excel than I did handling priceless heirlooms, working in a stuffy upstairs
office with windows that opened onto the fire escape. I ate lunch out there
every day, shaded from the summer heat by the rampant ivy, reading and
dreaming. My business cards spent more time holding my place in books than
introducing me to antiques collectors.
“Grace? Hey!
Grace Peyton!” A familiar voice dragged me out of a historical fantasy set in
Boston. I looked around, then down to see a face peering up at me. My heart
stuttered, and I stared in disbelief.
“Eric Stanton?”
“Yeah. How the
hell are you? Hold on, I’m coming up.”
Coming up? Sure enough, he
jumped up and grabbed the ladder, then began climbing up the three flights to
where I sat. I closed my book, swished water in my mouth and smoothed my hair.
I wished I had a breath mint. 20 minutes in a salon. Eric Stanton?
“Yeah, we
established that already.”
Crap. I said that out loud?
He stood on the
stairs and leaned on the landing next to me, smiling and not the least out of
breath. His dark hair has shorter than he wore it in college, but his face, his
brilliant blue eyes looked just the same.
“So, Grace—”
I didn’t know you
knew my name,” I blurted out before I thought better of it. I could feel the
heat on my cheeks. Charming.
He laughed, and I
wished I could record it to play over and over. “How could I forget? Madame Faulliet
called on you every class. ‘Chere Grace’, ‘ma belle Grace’, ‘Grace, dites –nous…’”
I buried my face
in my hands. “You make me sound like the teacher’s pet!” I moaned.
I looked up to
find Eric studying me seriously. “I should have asked you out then. Can I make
up for it now?”
He leaned
forward, expectantly, but I couldn’t make myself speak. Or breathe. He lifted
an eyebrow. “Well, do you have a card? I’ll call you.”
I pulled my card
out of my book, which earned me another flashing smile. When he glanced at it,
his eyes widened. “No way! You work at Christies? That’s where I’m heading. I
have an appointment with Harrison Stokes to talk about my aunt’s estate.”
I tried not to
roll my eyes. Stokes was an idiot. But something gave away my thoughts. Eric
tapped my card on his chin and said, “Tell you what. I probably shouldn’t climb
in through the window. Why don’t you meet me downstairs in 15 minutes? I’ll
tell Stokes I’d rather work with you.”
Was this disaster
in the making, or the best luck I’d ever had? I made my choice in an instant. “I’ll
see you downstairs. Thanks, Eric.”
“Don’t thank me
yet. You haven’t heard about my aunt’s estate. In fact, I think we better have
that dinner first.” He leaned forward and brushed my cheek with his lips, then
he was gone, jumping down the stairs by holding onto the railing. I pressed my hand
to my cheek and stared after him, considering whether I might have dreamed the
whole thing.
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Dogs
in house
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Houdini, Brindle, Bacon
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Music:
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Arjen de Nobel, Spanish Guitar Music
Vol.1, YouTube
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Time
writing:
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35 minutes
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July
word count:
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11,435
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