Determined (Determined Trilogy Book 1)
Read Determined (Determined Trilogy Book 1) Online
Authors: Elizabeth Brown
Determined
Elizabeth Brown
Copyright © 2014 Elizabeth Brown
All Rights Reserved.
Cover Image: Twenty20 Inc/Shutterstock
Edited by Chelsea Kuhel (
www.madisonseidler.com
)
Ebook formatting by
www.ebooklaunch.com
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.
Table of Contents
“Is that level?”
I craned my neck toward Eve, the other gallery assistant. It was almost five o’clock and, of course, we were still hanging the last few canvases for the opening tonight. No matter how much you prepare, it seems like gallery shows always come down to the final moments.
She pushed a shiny black lock away from her face. “Just a little higher on the right, Sam.”
“Like this?” I moved the edge a miniscule amount.
“Perfect!” She exhaled, her voice full of relief. “Thank you so much for coming over early, Samantha. There is no way I could have finished getting this show up by myself. Do you mind setting up the wine? I’m going to run to the restroom and change my shirt.”
As she walked away, I made my way over to the desk that we’d cleared off so it could serve as the bar for the evening. I pulled a case of wine from under the desk and uncorked a few bottles. I set paper napkins and clear plastic cups on the bar so that guests could help themselves, and then I poured a generous amount into two cups so that Eve and I could celebrate, being careful to not spill on the new white dress I was wearing. It was sleeveless, with a fitted bodice and a flared skirt. I left my hair down, leaving my wavy brown mane to do its thing. Never one to stand on ceremony, I brought the cup to my lips and took a big gulp; I was thirstier than I thought. I swallowed and leaned back against the counter, surveying the show. Not bad.
The Kinsler Gallery was a modest yet modern space, smack in the heart of the burgeoning gallery scene in Oakland, California. It wasn’t huge, just three rooms with generous fifteen foot ceilings. The walls were, of course, stark white, and the wood floor was well-worn and warm colored. I surveyed the canvases in the room. Clean, modern pieces by three different artists lined the walls in neat rows. The gallery owner had done a great job of pulling the works together. One of the exhibiting artists, Leah, I actually recruited. I was beyond in love with her large canvases of soft, creamy colors. I hoped she would sell something.
“Sammie?” a familiar, honeyed male voice boomed. I recognized the voice and rocketed back from my thoughts.
“Hey, Curtis!” I put my wine down and absentmindedly smoothed my dress with my hands. Curtis was the gallery owner ... as in Curtis Kinsler. He was also one of the warmest people I’d ever met. I loved working for him. He was a consummate businessman and a real people person. Since I have shut-in tendencies, I tried to learn from him whenever I could. He was super affable and even when he was being tough, there was a teddy bear quality to him.
“It looks great in here,” he stated definitively as he surveyed the room. He was wearing a brown fuzzy sweater that looked like it was made from a Muppet. He was pulling it off; it was a playful twist to his round tortoise-shell frames and tweed pants. But it did absolutely nothing to discourage the teddy bear analogy.
I had come to work for Curtis as an intern during my final semester at UC Berkeley. To be honest, I never set out to work in a gallery. I had actually been a very ambitious sociology major until I took an amazing art history class sophomore year and found out I had a knack for it. So I continued studying art history, and felt really thankful to have secured a paid internship with the Kinsler Gallery my senior year. I fell in love with our tiny space and gleefully accepted an offer of a part time job after graduation. The schedule allowed me time for myself and time to continue volunteering at a children’s center once a week. It was a pretty sweet life, and I adored our little gallery family.
Curtis circled around the room. “This is going to be a great show. The curator must be a genius,” he affirmed as he put his hands on his hips. The corners of his mouth twisted up in a smirk.
“Such a genius,” I agreed and walked across the room to welcome him with a hug. “Thank you again for including Leah.”
“Sam, I want to be clear.” His tone suddenly turned serious, and he looked me straight in the eye and wagged his finger in my face, “This is not a handout. I do not show the work of anyone I do not seriously believe in. No acting like a charity case tonight, capisce?”
“Capisce,” I exhaled and smiled.
“Now, may I have a glass of that wine?” He eyed the refreshment table.
“Gladly.” I smiled and poured him a glass. As he took a swig, Eve came out of the back room. She looked great, every bit a hip gallery girl. She’d piled her gorgeous, dark mane on top of her head in a thick bun, and her dark bronze skin glowed against the white of the walls. The Oakland gallery scene was a bit different than San Francisco, a bit more edgy. No stilettos here. She’d traded her Superga sneakers for low-heeled black booties and switched out her t-shirt for a sleek black silk top. Together with tight gray jeans, she looked effortlessly cool.
“Evie, everything looks great” Curtis cooed. “Shall we toast?” He poured himself a glass, and we all gathered together. “To a great night!”
“To a great night!” We cheered as we tapped our plastic cups together.
As soon as the clock struck five, people sauntered in. The other artists arrived, and we all met each other. Curtis introduced me to several of his art world friends, and Eve introduced me to a couple of her girlfriends who stopped by. I had fun chatting, and everyone seemed to love the show. We even made a few sales. By 9:30, the place was packed, and I wasn’t sure which was louder, the music on the stereo or the buzz of the crowd.
I was floating back from the restroom when someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around to find a man in a dark red button down shirt staring at me.
“Oh, hi ... can I help you?” I asked tentatively.
“Excuse me, but they tell me you are Samantha Sharp.”
“That’s right!” I exclaimed, perhaps a little too eagerly. I looked him over. He was attractive in a traditional sense; as tall as me, with balanced features and light brown hair.
“Fantastic. My name is Evan Carmichael. I run Carmichael Gallery over in SF.” He held out his business card, and his eyes peeked out over thin wire frames. “I am told you are the one who found Leah’s work.” I nodded, and he continued. “I was wondering if you’d like to get together and talk art sometime.”
Talk art? Who talks like that?
I thought to myself. But he flashed a toothy grin at me, and it was dorky enough to put me at ease.
“Sure, happy to. I am so glad you like the show. Do you know Leah?” I pulled a pen off the nearby countertop along with one of the postcards for the show. I scribbled my email address on it and handed it to him. I hoped I wasn’t violating some un-written gallery world law by talking to another gallerist. After all, it’s not like I had a contract with Curtis. I was just a part-time staffer. I scanned the room anyway, looking for the fuzzy brown sweater. It was no use, I couldn’t see through the thick crowd of bodies undulating around me.
He started to say something else when I was jolted and knocked off my balance from behind. All of the sudden I felt liquid streaming down my backside as I was forced forward, onto Evan. I braced myself against his arm, and after a moment, managed to turn around.
“Oh my God, I am SO sorry!” I was greeted by an effusive strawberry blond. “Oh no, your dress!”
I looked down. Of course. From my hip to the hem, a deep red gash now marked my white dress. Served me right.
Is this why they say not to wear white after Labor Day? Because it’s no longer white wine season?
I chuckle to myself at my stupid joke while simultaneously mourning my dress. I really liked it, and it was ruined.
“Are you okay? I am such a dolt. It’s these new shoes; I am clearly not adept at walking in them yet.” She said, motioning down to her feet, which were clad in gorgeous leather sandals; shoes that would be sensible if it weren’t for their six inch heels.
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I looked down at my dress again and winced. Starving gallery girls should not wear white, I mentally note, my life lesson for the day.
“Oh, and ponte too...” she trailed off, muttering, looking sad as she fingered the edge of my dress.
The strawberry blond turned to a man next to her, and my eyes followed her gaze. Wow. How did I not notice him until now? He was maybe twenty-nine ... maybe thirty? Taller than me. Probably about six foot two. He had dark brown hair, and his skin was colored with a light tan. His eyes were dark, and well-balanced with his thick brow. He was wearing dark dress pants, showing off sturdy hips, and a white dress shirt and tie under a gray sweater that half-zipped. His jaw showed just a hint of a five o’clock shadow. His eyes met mine. My heart skipped a beat. Had he been staring at me this whole time? I held his gaze.
Strawberry shook his arm sending us both back to Earth.
“David, are you there? Earth to David. David, I said, can we please do something for ... I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name.”
“Samantha, Samantha Sharp,” I whispered, daring to meet Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome’s eyes again. He held my gaze, and I felt light. Did I have too much wine?
“David, can we do something for Samantha? I feel so bad that I ruined her dress.”
“I think I need to sit down.” Suddenly, the crowd was too much—pulsing, hot and heavy. I was too warm, lightheaded, and overwhelmed. I needed to get out of there. But I didn’t want to leave.
“Let’s get you some air,” he said firmly, directing the statement right at me. He cut through the crowds and ushered me outside, his hand on the small of my back. Out on the street, the air was cool, and the light of the gallery streamed onto the sidewalk. He sat me down on a bench and studied me carefully.
“Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was deep and close to my face. I closed my eyes, and let his words reverberate through me. My skin felt charged and electric.
“Oh golly gee...” My eyes fluttered open at the squeaky voice. Strawberry was right there next to us. I regained my other senses, and our surroundings came into view. The cars on the street, the other pedestrians. Were they looking at us? I didn’t care. Strawberry chirped again.
“Are you okay? I am so sorry about the dress. “
“I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about the dress. I should know better than to wear white to an event with red wine.” I turned to look at her. She was sweet looking, younger than I first thought ... probably twenty-one or twenty-two. Delicate features, bright blue eyes, very classically pretty. I could see why Mr. Gorgeous would like her. “Sorry—I don’t know what happened in there. I think it was just too warm. Thanks for coming outside with me.”
At that point Eve stumbled out the front door of the gallery.
“Sam, are you okay? I saw you from across the room, and you didn’t look too good,” she glanced down at me and gasped, “What happened to your dress?”
“I am fine, really. I think I might just be coming down with something,” I lied. What was I supposed to say? I drank a bit too much wine and then got flustered when I met a gorgeous man? Right.
Eve nodded slowly, and glanced around at my companions, her eyes resting longest on Mr. Gorgeous.
“Oh, Eve, this is ...” as I gestured, I realized I didn’t know their names.
“Jenna,” Strawberry stepped forward and offered her hand. “And this is David. I am the horrible person who ruined Samantha’s dress,” she joked, offering a weak smile. She returned her focus to me. “Are you one of the artists? We’re here because our friend Michael is in the show, too. Do you know each other?”
“Oh, no I’m not one of the artists. I work here as a gallery assistant with Eve.” I nodded at my concerned co-worker. “But I’ve met Michael, yes, really sweet guy. He is a brilliant painter.” I wished I could say more, but I was still regaining my strength. I looked over at David. His eyes were still burrowing into me. Full of concern—warmth? And something else ... something darker. I glanced over at Eve. Her arms were crossed, but she nodded her head.