I let out a yelp, trying to keep hold of the box in my hands so I don’t spill the remaining pastries all over the ground.
Turning around, I almost drop the box again when I see who is standing in front of me. He’s tall, nearly having to duck to get through the low doorframe. He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m really tired of us meeting like this,” he declares, his voice low but smooth. I hate the shiver that runs through my body at his cold but gravelly voice.
Now I’m the one who looks like a fish because I’m speechless that somehow, fate hates me enough to bring this guy into my life again.
And it only gets worse when he opens his mouth and says, “Pass what info to me, shortcake?”
3
CAMDEN
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman glare at me the way this local is staring at me right now. If looks could actually kill, she’d have me lying dead on the floor.
“I know it isn’t my charm that rendered you speechless,” I chide, wondering what kind of planets aligned to put her tragically back into my life once again. At least this time, she didn’t spill something all over me, unlike our previous two encounters. The first time we met was at my best friend Beck’s bachelor party, when she spilled beer all over me in some godforsaken local dive bar. The second was at Beck’s wedding, when I wound up covered in cupcake frosting. I could have gone my entire life without a third encounter.
“You’re Mr. Hunter?” she squeaks. Now that she’s gained her composure, she scurries away from me, putting a good chunk of distance between us. “Please don’t tell me you’re the one who bought this place,” she pleads.
“Please don’t tell me that me buying this gallery means I have to put up with you,” I retort.
Her eyes roll. Any other time, I’d be bothered by someone having the nerve to roll their eyes at me, but not with her.
“Why do I have such shitty karma?” she mutters, looking briefly over her shoulder at my business associates.
“I was just asking myself the same thing.” I let out a bored sigh, stepping around her and deeper into the gallery space. It doesn’t look like a lot right now, but tomorrow, two of my designers from Manhattan will fly in to get this space ready for our grand opening next weekend. I’d been told by every single person I spoke with, most of all by my parents, that I shouldn’t waste my time opening something in this town. It only made me want to make this work even more.
The last thing I expected was having to deal with the woman glaring up at me.
“Can you get on with what information you needed to pass on so I can go back to planning my opening?”
She thinks about her words for a moment, which catches me by surprise because she strikes me as someone who says exactly what they’re thinking the instant it comes to their mind.
“One of your lovely friends was just saying how they thought people in Sutten didn’t have taste. As someone who grew up here and knew the Richardsons and the art they featured very well, I firmly disagree.”
“If I thought people didn’t have taste in Sutten, I wouldn’t be dumping money into opening a gallery at this location.” It’s a half-truth. When I first visited for Beck’s wedding, I hated the town, but I couldn’t deny the bustling tourism that I noticed. It didn’t take long for me to learn that people with money preferred to vacation in a town like this. It’s quieter than other ski destinations in Colorado, and the real estate is a gold mine for what you can get for your money. So I saw a new niche I could tap into by purchasing a gallery here. Unlike my gallery in New York, which relies heavily on exhibits of one artist’s work, I want this one to showcase the best work from the most talented artists I know.
People spend money on vacation. They’ll walk in here and feel sentimental about buying art because everyone has a good time on vacation.
I look toward Daly, someone I’ve known most of my life. He’s a colleague of my parents, and the moment I wanted to open my own gallery, I knew I wanted his help. He has a good eye, despite his lackluster personality, but I don’t appreciate him bad-mouthing this town to a local—even if it is to the bane of my existence.
“Apologize,” I clip, my tone leaving no room for argument. At least, I thought it didn’t leave any room for discussion, but apparently, Daly has decided to grow a pair today because he dares to open his mouth and disagree.
“I only meant it as—”
“You were very clear with what you meant. There’s not much to misinterpret when you say an entire town doesn’t have taste. Ever heard of a generalization?” she fires at him. Damn, she’s mouthy.