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WREN
I smiled at Tate as I folded my arms across my chest.
He blew out a breath and nodded. “Looking a little smug there.”
I lifted one shoulder in response. “I am.”
“So, cleaning out the pool shed, huh?” He rubbed a hand over his face and pushed his pizza aside.
“Yep.” I grinned.
“I can’t believe you ate a whole pizza. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be, I’ve been training for this my whole life.”
He burst out laughing. “What, you entering a pizza-eating championship?”
“Three-time champion actually.” I pointed at myself and winked.
Oh my gosh, I winked. What was I? Twelve and trying to impress the cute boy? Yes, yes, I was. Just not twelve. But I wanted to impress him, and it was so, so stupid.
“Seriously?”
“I have the trophies stored in the basement.”
Tate’s eyes lit up and a smirk spread across his soft pink lips.
“What?” I asked tentatively.
“I’d like to see these trophies.”
“Maybe one day.”
We sat there in silence, staring at each other for the longest time, and usually that would make things awkward, but it wasn’t. I was strangely comfortable in his presence. I didn’t feel the need to fill the quiet with mindless chatter, or stupid statements that I would normally come up with. But something was nagging at me.
“Why did you break up with Rachel? I mean, you were engaged and seemed so perfect together.”
He barked out a laugh. “We were not perfect together. The entire relationship was a charade. Something designed to improve both our careers.”
I nodded in understanding. I mean, I had been obsessively following all his social media accounts for years—he was Tate Montgomery for goodness sake—so I noticed the moment his career exploded. It was three days after a photo had been leaked of him and Rachel holidaying on a yacht. Suddenly his face was everywhere. Movie deals were made. Photo shoots. His chiseled jaw and straight nose graced the covers of every magazine in the country.
His career literally blew up.
“Won’t this be a bad career move then?”
“Maybe.”
“Then why would you jeopardize all you’ve worked for?”
“Because she hurt you,” he said softly.
It was like a blow to the chest. That was not the answer I was expecting. What did he care what she said to me? “Me?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward and pulled my hands into his again, his thumb stroking the soft skin on the back of my hand.
“What do I matter?”
“You matter, Wren. Believe me.”
He said it with such sincerity I almost believed him. Almost. But in this world, I didn’t really matter to anyone but my agents and my few friends. Everyone else just looked right by me as if I were nothing more than gum on the sidewalk. Still, my stomach fluttered, and my cheeks heated. I didn’t know what to say in response, so I simply picked up my beer and took a sip. Clearing my throat, I looked at Tate and asked, “What’s next for you?”
“I just picked up a deal with a fashion designer that should boost my career into the next level.”
“Really? That’s amazing.” I smiled, happy that his career was doing well, and that he didn’t need Rachel for it anymore. But it was a bitter pill to swallow. Tate Montgomery, the man hiding out and taking a break from the spotlight to get on top of his behavioral issues, the man who assaulted a photographer, was still getting career breaks. They seemed to fall in his lap, whereas I worked my butt off with my art and no one was willing to take a chance.
“What about you? What are your plans? How’s the job search going?”
“It’s not. I’ve been searching forever and have gone to more interviews than I can count.”
“What’s the problem? Are you going for jobs that aren’t suitable or what?” he asked.
“I’m going for every available job I can find. But they all want someone younger, or someone with more experience. No one wants to hire a rich girl who’s never worked a day in her life.”
“What do you want to do, though?”
“I want to open my own gallery.” I smiled. “It was my dad’s dream for me to have a place to display my art the way I wanted to. He was my biggest supporter.”
“He sounds like a smart man. So why don’t you open a gallery?”
I raised an eyebrow at him and rubbed my thumb across my fore and middle fingers. “Takes money. Which I don’t have. At least not until I can access my trust fund in two
years’ time. So, for now, I’m looking for a job and intend to save every dollar I can in the hopes of getting a deposit for a place.”
“Maybe I can help.”
I scoffed. “Unlikely.”
“How do you feel about using a few pieces of your art in a photoshoot?”
My ears perked up as he caught my interest. “Whose photoshoot?”
“Mine.”
“No, really?” He was an Instagram model, a fitness fanatic, and a designer’s wet dream. Why would he want my art in his photoshoot? How would that even work?
He nodded.
I leaned back against the high-backed chair of the booth and frowned. “How would that work? And why on earth would anyone want my art in a photoshoot?”
“Because I told Giovanni...” He stopped speaking the moment my mouth dropped open.
“Giovanni Russo?” I choked on his name. Giovanni Russo was the most talented designer on the planet. No exaggeration. Everybody who’s anybody wanted to wear his clothes, but he sold only to those he deemed worthy of his creations. The fact he wanted Tate to model his designs blew my mind. The idea that he wanted my art pieces incorporated into the shoot was so far beyond belief, I swore a pig flew by Joe’s window.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Why?”
“Because your art is fucking amazing.”
I lowered my face to hide my blush. It wasn’t often that people complimented my art.
“Thank you. But I mean, why would he want my art in his shoot?”
“Because I wouldn’t sign the deal otherwise. It was my only condition.”
“That my art be used?” A chill settled over my bones, and I wondered if all this was a joke. I couldn’t see why he would do that. Why risk his job with the best designer in the world for me?
“Yes.”
I didn’t know what else to say, because I was in a state of shock. My mouth opened and then closed again.
Tate chuckled. “You’re welcome. Think of it as an apology. For me being rude. For Rachel. For everything.”
It was as if he read my mind and answered my unspoken questions.
My lips parted and I meant to say thank you, instead a garbled noise came out, somewhere between a cat on heat and a shriek.
Could I be any less graceful?
Giovanni Russo is going to regret the day he agreed to this deal.