He Will be My Ruin
Page 62
I was a week away from handing in my resignation to Vanderpoel so I could start school in a month. Thank God I didn’t do that. I’ll need the full-time job for the fall.
But I’ll have to sell or store all my stuff—storing costs money, so I have to be selective—in order to put my life on pause and take care of my mother. She doesn’t know that I’m moving back to San Diego yet. She’ll never agree. She’s put a gag order on me with Maggie as it is.
A part of me is angry with her about that. I think I’m finally ready to give in and happily accept Maggie’s money, because no matter what I do, no matter how hard I work, I can’t seem to get ahead.
Maggie—and all her money that she’d so willingly give—could solve so many of our problems. Besides the cancer, of course.
I wouldn’t have to sell my collection.
I wouldn’t have to do the other things I do for money.
But at least that part of my life will be over by Christmas. Maggie will come back from Africa and find out what we’ve been hiding from her, and force her money onto us. She’ll be pissed, but at least she’ll be right there with me, until the end. It’ll be kind of like the old days.
“Hans.” A stern-sounding British woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a pinched nose sweeps past us. “Can I see you for a moment?”
“A moment, my ass,” he hisses, low enough for only me to hear. “The shrew is going to lock me in the dungeon to catalogue again.” With a groan and air kisses, he says bye and speeds up to catch the woman, hiding his displeasure behind a polite “Yes, Gwyneth?”
Leaving me to quietly study an antique gold mirror. It’s the last day for these items to be on display before next week’s auction. I don’t think I’ve missed a single exhibit at Hollingsworth in the past four years. I would never actually bid. But aside from reading books, it’s the best way to learn, especially if I can steal a moment of time from one of the appraisers who floats around. They know me by name now.
“I don’t know how anyone can focus on themselves when their reflection is surrounded by this gilded brass,” a smooth, deep male voice murmurs beside me, his spicy cologne catching my nose.
“Maybe people weren’t as vain in the eighteenth century,” I quip, turning to acknowledge the speaker.
My heart skips a beat.
“It’s you,” I blurt out.
He raises a neatly groomed blond brow with curiosity. “It’s me?”
“I’m sorry. I just . . .” I feel my face burn bright. The last person I ever expected to be standing next to at Hollingsworth is Jace Everett. Smoothing my plain black pencil skirt as covertly as possible, I say, “I think you work in my office building. I’ve seen you once or twice . . . maybe.” Seven times. I’ve stood in the lobby or on the steps outside and watched him and his well-cut suit and perfect stride move past me exactly seven times. He’s never noticed me, his attention always on his phone, a newspaper, or a client.
His eyes—blue like sapphires in sunlight—take in the mirror again, in a quiet smile touches his lips. “What are you going to bid on?”
The question catches me off-guard. I would think the natural next question would be related to where exactly it is I work. Maybe he doesn’t care. Or maybe he knows that he’s somewhat of a discussion piece around our office building. “Nothing. I’m just doing research.”
He frowns. “On gaudy mirrors?”
I smile. “On antiques. I’ll be working here as an appraiser as soon as I’m finished my master’s.” I never speak so boldly about my future here at Hollingsworth, but I so badly want to impress him.
“Really? I’m intrigued.” He pauses. “What can you tell me about this one over here?” He points to the next display—a blue-and-white baluster vase.
“Well, it’s funny. I’m actually going to do my thesis on Chinese art, but I feel quite ignorant about it right now. I can tell you that this is from the second half of the nineteenth century.” I just began a book on Kangxi period antiques last week, so I know at least that much.
He leans forward, closing the distance, but not too much. Just enough for me to hope it’s intentionally flirtatious. “But is it really worth eighteen to twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“It’s worth whatever people are willing to pay.”
His gaze rolls over my face as if taking in all of my features. “You sound like an appraiser already.”
It makes me blush deeper. I scramble to keep the conversation going. “You wouldn’t believe what some people have paid for a piece of art history.” Mr. Sparkes’s collection was simply exquisite. Even as a little girl, I knew that being in his office was a rare experience to be cherished. But not until I was a lot older did I realize the true dollar value.
“Oh, I can believe it.” He chuckles. “My parents are art collectors, so I’ve heard a story or two.”
“Really? And what is it they collect?” I tend to gravitate toward people who appreciate my love of art.
“Chinese art. Mainly Ming Dynasty, though they are all Chinese porcelain. I’m actually shopping for a gift for my mom’s sixtieth birthday this December.” He taps on the display price. “I love her dearly, but she’s going to bankrupt me.”
I only smile in response. It’s no secret that Jace Everett does very well financially. While I—in my couture outfits bought on consignment—can pretend, there’s no pretending on his part. He’s not even in a suit today, and he still looks like he was dressed by a professional.
“What about something like this?” I lead him from piece to piece at a slow pace, relishing the seemingly undivided attention he’s giving me as I test my own knowledge base and explain the significance of potential purchases.
We’re admiring a gold sugar bowl from the early twentieth century—not Chinese in origin but exquisite all the same; estimated at five to seven thousand dollars—when his phone begins ringing.
He glances at the screen. “I’m sorry . . . business.” He holds out a hand that I take, the feel of his palm against mine paralyzing. “I appreciate the help . . .”
“Celine.”
“Celine. I’m Jace Everett.”
“Yeah, I know.” I clear my throat, silently cursing myself for adding that last part.
But I’ll have to sell or store all my stuff—storing costs money, so I have to be selective—in order to put my life on pause and take care of my mother. She doesn’t know that I’m moving back to San Diego yet. She’ll never agree. She’s put a gag order on me with Maggie as it is.
A part of me is angry with her about that. I think I’m finally ready to give in and happily accept Maggie’s money, because no matter what I do, no matter how hard I work, I can’t seem to get ahead.
Maggie—and all her money that she’d so willingly give—could solve so many of our problems. Besides the cancer, of course.
I wouldn’t have to sell my collection.
I wouldn’t have to do the other things I do for money.
But at least that part of my life will be over by Christmas. Maggie will come back from Africa and find out what we’ve been hiding from her, and force her money onto us. She’ll be pissed, but at least she’ll be right there with me, until the end. It’ll be kind of like the old days.
“Hans.” A stern-sounding British woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a pinched nose sweeps past us. “Can I see you for a moment?”
“A moment, my ass,” he hisses, low enough for only me to hear. “The shrew is going to lock me in the dungeon to catalogue again.” With a groan and air kisses, he says bye and speeds up to catch the woman, hiding his displeasure behind a polite “Yes, Gwyneth?”
Leaving me to quietly study an antique gold mirror. It’s the last day for these items to be on display before next week’s auction. I don’t think I’ve missed a single exhibit at Hollingsworth in the past four years. I would never actually bid. But aside from reading books, it’s the best way to learn, especially if I can steal a moment of time from one of the appraisers who floats around. They know me by name now.
“I don’t know how anyone can focus on themselves when their reflection is surrounded by this gilded brass,” a smooth, deep male voice murmurs beside me, his spicy cologne catching my nose.
“Maybe people weren’t as vain in the eighteenth century,” I quip, turning to acknowledge the speaker.
My heart skips a beat.
“It’s you,” I blurt out.
He raises a neatly groomed blond brow with curiosity. “It’s me?”
“I’m sorry. I just . . .” I feel my face burn bright. The last person I ever expected to be standing next to at Hollingsworth is Jace Everett. Smoothing my plain black pencil skirt as covertly as possible, I say, “I think you work in my office building. I’ve seen you once or twice . . . maybe.” Seven times. I’ve stood in the lobby or on the steps outside and watched him and his well-cut suit and perfect stride move past me exactly seven times. He’s never noticed me, his attention always on his phone, a newspaper, or a client.
His eyes—blue like sapphires in sunlight—take in the mirror again, in a quiet smile touches his lips. “What are you going to bid on?”
The question catches me off-guard. I would think the natural next question would be related to where exactly it is I work. Maybe he doesn’t care. Or maybe he knows that he’s somewhat of a discussion piece around our office building. “Nothing. I’m just doing research.”
He frowns. “On gaudy mirrors?”
I smile. “On antiques. I’ll be working here as an appraiser as soon as I’m finished my master’s.” I never speak so boldly about my future here at Hollingsworth, but I so badly want to impress him.
“Really? I’m intrigued.” He pauses. “What can you tell me about this one over here?” He points to the next display—a blue-and-white baluster vase.
“Well, it’s funny. I’m actually going to do my thesis on Chinese art, but I feel quite ignorant about it right now. I can tell you that this is from the second half of the nineteenth century.” I just began a book on Kangxi period antiques last week, so I know at least that much.
He leans forward, closing the distance, but not too much. Just enough for me to hope it’s intentionally flirtatious. “But is it really worth eighteen to twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“It’s worth whatever people are willing to pay.”
His gaze rolls over my face as if taking in all of my features. “You sound like an appraiser already.”
It makes me blush deeper. I scramble to keep the conversation going. “You wouldn’t believe what some people have paid for a piece of art history.” Mr. Sparkes’s collection was simply exquisite. Even as a little girl, I knew that being in his office was a rare experience to be cherished. But not until I was a lot older did I realize the true dollar value.
“Oh, I can believe it.” He chuckles. “My parents are art collectors, so I’ve heard a story or two.”
“Really? And what is it they collect?” I tend to gravitate toward people who appreciate my love of art.
“Chinese art. Mainly Ming Dynasty, though they are all Chinese porcelain. I’m actually shopping for a gift for my mom’s sixtieth birthday this December.” He taps on the display price. “I love her dearly, but she’s going to bankrupt me.”
I only smile in response. It’s no secret that Jace Everett does very well financially. While I—in my couture outfits bought on consignment—can pretend, there’s no pretending on his part. He’s not even in a suit today, and he still looks like he was dressed by a professional.
“What about something like this?” I lead him from piece to piece at a slow pace, relishing the seemingly undivided attention he’s giving me as I test my own knowledge base and explain the significance of potential purchases.
We’re admiring a gold sugar bowl from the early twentieth century—not Chinese in origin but exquisite all the same; estimated at five to seven thousand dollars—when his phone begins ringing.
He glances at the screen. “I’m sorry . . . business.” He holds out a hand that I take, the feel of his palm against mine paralyzing. “I appreciate the help . . .”
“Celine.”
“Celine. I’m Jace Everett.”
“Yeah, I know.” I clear my throat, silently cursing myself for adding that last part.
