Sculpting Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 2) (9 page)

I frowned at the list again. "So let me read these off, and tell me if they make sense," I said. "Item one: set up all of these social medias."

"Social media what?"

"I'm not sure, it really just says 'social medias'. I think." I tried peering closer at the list, struggling with de St. James' chicken scratch handwriting.

Portia shrugged. "Okay. Social media stuff. Whatever that might be, I guess it's not too hard. You said that he's older, right?"

"Yep. Probably in his fifties or so."

"So he probably doesn't know how to use a computer." She reached out for her wine glass, tilting it back - and then frowning when there wasn't any wine left in the glass. "Is he sexy?"

"Ugh, no." I quickly turned my attention back to the list. "Okay, item two: find new models. New models of what?"

"Ooh, I know this one!" Across from me, Portia raised her hand up in the air, waving it back and forth like we were back in grade school. "He means models!"

"Yeah, that really helps me out here," I complained sarcastically.

"You know, for statues! You said that he carves stuff, doesn't he?"

"Sure, but it's all abstract, and then he paints it with colors! How do you model for that?"

Portia crossed her arms in front of her small but still well-accentuated bust. "I'm just saying, that's what he means. He needs you to find someone to model for him." Her eyes sparkled. "Ooh, or maybe you could model for him, seductively posing, until the two of you start drifting closer and closer as he examines your lines and curves..."

"Am I going to need to dump a glass of water on you?" I asked her. "Seriously, I've already got too many men in my life! I don't need to start trying to seduce some artist who's old enough to be my father!"

"Yeah, and how about those men in your life?" Portia asked, switching the conversation back on me with a surprising burst of canny speed. "What's been happening with them? You haven't told me anything new, which knowing you, means that you've stalled out."

"No comment." I didn't want to admit how close Portia's guess hit to the truth.

As I saw her eyes sparkle at me, about to do a bit more probing, I hastily pulled the topic of conversation back on track. "Aren't there modeling agencies?" I asked, sitting back a little on my side of the booth. "Maybe I can call one of them, hire some people to come out and pose for de St. James. You know, professionals."

"Not as good as my idea," Portia insisted, although she thankfully didn't press me further on stripping down and putting on a private performance for the artist. Instead, she started casting her eyes around the bar, panning back and forth between the wine dispensers and the other patrons - especially the male ones.

I knew that look well. This indicated that Portia had reached the stage of drunkenness when she started hunting for a man - no matter how inappropriate of a match he might be for her. I quickly moved on to the third point on the list in front of me.

"And finally, for the third point, it just says 'Ex'. You think that's talking about an ex-girlfriend? Ex-wife?" I asked.

"It means that he's on the market, silly!" Portia insisted, trying to wink at me but ending up closing both eyes instead of just one.

I sighed. "I'll deal with working my way through this list later. Right now, I think you're at the stage where you either need some food in your stomach, or for me to send you straight home so you can go to bed."

"Ooh, I like where your mind's at," Portia purred, trying to reach across the table so that she could stroke me with a finger. She missed by at least a foot, but still grinned as if she'd brushed against my cheek. "That's right, we don't need a man!"

"Definitely some food," I answered for her. "Otherwise, you'll probably end up doing your best to seduce the cabbie!"

"Ugh, no," she objected, momentarily coming to her senses. "Cabbies are definitely below me." Her eyes misted over again. "But maybe if it was a sexy young Uber driver, all strapping and buff and willing to do anything to get his off-the-books tip..."

I grabbed her hand, made sure that she had her jacket and purse, and hauled her outside. "Let's go get some food," I said to her when she opened her mouth to protest. "Come on, won't that be better than a man? We could go to Uncle Vito's Pizzeria, right around the corner, get a big basket of bread sticks..."

"Rather have a man stick than a bread stick," Portia muttered sullenly, but she let me tug her along and over to the restaurant where, fortunately, we managed to snag an open table. I quickly flagged down the first waitress to stick her head out of the kitchen and placed orders for both of us.

Twenty minutes later, I finished off the oversized slice of thin crust pepperoni pizza on the plate in front of me, savoring how the melted little strands of mozzarella cheese stretched all the way from the plate up to my mouth. I probably didn't look the slightest bit attractive as I wolfed down the pizza, but it tasted amazing, the heat radiating out from inside my stomach.

"Okay, fine, this is a bit better," Portia admitted as she finished off the last of a bread stick. She'd also ordered a slice of pizza, but half of it still sat on the plate in front of her. I admired her self-restraint, but knew that I could never match that level in my own life.

"Feeling a bit less drunk?" i asked her, and she nodded.

"Yeah. The bread helps." She frowned down at the end of the bread stick. "I'm going to have to go on an extra-long run tomorrow morning to burn all of this off."

I made sure that she saw me roll my eyes at her, and she smirked. "You could come with me, you know," she went on. "Why not give running a try? It has so many health benefits, and after a week or two of getting into the swing of things, it really does feel so much better. I can't stand to miss a day, now."

"No, I think I'll stick to my normal workout regimen," I replied.

"What, lying around and complaining about how you never work out?"

I pointed a finger across the table at her. "Got it in one."

She sighed. "You really would look and feel so much better if you let me drag you off to the gym, at least a few times a week."

Not wanting to get caught in this discussion, one that we'd had many times before, I instead turned my attention over to the list that de St. James had given me. "So anyway, back to this list," I said, patting my purse where I'd tucked the sheet away. "Item number one on the list is social media. What do you think he wants me to do for it?"

"Does he even have any?"

I frowned, thinking back. "I don't think so, actually - at least, I tried to look him up on Facebook and a couple other sites, trying to find out more information about him, but I couldn't find anything. Maybe he doesn't have any, and he needs me to set them up for him?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Portia replied, looking down at her piece of pizza with a curiously conflicted expression on her face.

I leaned in, grinning at her with my most wicked smile. "Oh, go ahead and finish off the rest of it. You know that you want to eat it. You only live once, and life's too short to not enjoy good pizza!"

"You know, you're just repeating the words of the little devil sitting on my shoulder," Portia told me with a sigh, but her eyes didn't leave the pizza. "I'm supposed to just live vicariously through you, not let you start influencing my decisions as well."

I shrugged. "You want me to eat the pizza then, and you can just watch enviously from the other side of the table?"

I started to reach out to steal her slice away from her, but Portia caught at my wrist. Considering her long, slender fingers and arms, she had surprising grip strength in her hand as she held me back. "How about we split it?" she reluctantly suggested.

With the help of one of the butter knives stuck into the basket in the middle of the table alongside shakers of hot pepper flakes and Parmesan cheese, we cut the remainder of Portia's pizza slice in half. I polished my quarter off in a minute or less, and then watched as Portia did the same to hers.

"Don't you feel so much better, now that it's not sitting in front of you and tempting you?" I grinned as I used my napkin to wipe the last little clinging bits of half-melted cheese off of my lips.

She just sighed, sitting back in her seat. "Oh man. Wine and pizza. Definitely going to need to double my running distance tomorrow."

We sat there together in silence for another minute, savoring the lingering sensation of being full of delicious wine and food. Finally, however, Portia hauled herself up with a grunt, climbing back up to her feet.

"Feeling okay to drive home?" I asked her, still a little concerned, as I also got up to my feet.

She nodded. "Yeah, the wine buzz is in the past. Walk with me back to my car?"

Back at her luxury sedan, Portia paused, turning back to me. "By the way, don't think that I didn't notice how you avoided talking about your current relationship woes," she pointed out to me.

I tried to look blank. "I don't know what you mean?"

"Oh, you do. I mean, I didn't ask you at all about how things are going with Carter, or whether you've given in to Onyx and decided to let him blow your mind. You really need to loosen up and go with one of them, you know, or else you're likely going to lose both of them."

"Thanks for the advice," I sighed, "but right now, I just don't want to deal with it."

Portia patted me on the shoulder, but her big eyes were still a little concerned. "I just don't want you to miss your chance, Becks."

Impulsively, I hugged her. "Thanks," I told her. "I'll think about it - really, I promise!"

She nodded, unlocking her car, but didn't say anything more.

I watched her drive away before heading back to my own truck and making my way back to my apartment. I still needed to get Salem his kitty dinner and get into bed at a reasonable hour, so I could get up the next morning and take on the challenge of winning over Dean Benjamin de St. James.

Chapter Eleven

*

The next morning, thermos of coffee in hand, I headed into the Halesford Gallery. This time, I didn't jump at the presence of the shock of blonde hair sitting behind the front desk. Not a burglar! Lizzie!

"And how is everything going this morning?" I asked, smiling down at her. Surprisingly, despite the wine and greasy pizza from last night, I felt great. My body was full of energy, I hadn't had nearly as much trouble getting out of bed as usual, and I felt ready to tackle the challenges of the day.

Lizzie, however, seemed a little less cheery and perky than I remembered from the day before. "Oh, it's going well, I suppose," she answered me, returning my smile - but it looked a little bit wobbly on her face. "Nobody actually bought anything yesterday, though."

"I did warn you," I pointed out, but then cut off as I saw her bottom lip tremble slightly. "Lizzie, that's okay! Business is always slow here. That's why I'm out trying to recruit this new artist to sign on with us - he'll bring in more attention. You'll still get paid, whether you get a bunch of sales or not." I paused on these last words; I didn't exactly know whether Lizzie was getting paid at all, much less how much she might be receiving. Preston had handled all of those details, just like he signed my own paychecks.

Lizzie took a deep breath. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. It's just a little disheartening, watching all these old people come in and look at everything, gawking like they're in a museum-"

"-and then they leave without buying anything, I know," I finished her sentence for her. "Trust me, I've dealt with it. Just keep your chin up, and know that eventually one of them will decide that she just can't live without some watercolor print or a necklace."

After a moment, the blonde-haired young woman nodded. I did a quick walk-through of the rest of the gallery, checking to make sure everything looked fine - and then headed off to get to work on the list that de St. James had given me.

List item number one: social media. A bit more hunting about the Internet on my computer only served to confirm all of my suspicions; de St. James didn't have any sort of presence whatsoever on social media, not even a personal account.

"I don't get it," I muttered to myself as I stared at the ZERO RESULTS MATCHED YOUR QUERY page on Facebook. "How does someone go their whole life without making a page for themselves on the internet?"

Still, this didn't seem like that tough of a challenge. I'd just need to set up some sites for de St. James, places where he could connect and share with his fans!

I paused for a moment, my mouse halfway to the "create a new account" link. I thought back to the haggard, wild-haired artist that I'd met at his house the other day. That certainly did not seem like the kind of man who would be eager to connect with fans of his art - or vice versa, once the fans got a look at the creator of their favorite pieces.

Hmm. No wonder de St. James hadn't ever managed to retain a professional agent, especially with all his grumpy tendencies.

Now, if I set up these accounts for him, would he actually use them? I tried to imagine teaching the angry, short-tempered artist how to use Facebook, respond to tweets on Twitter, or post pictures on Instagram. I couldn't even see him understanding it well enough with me hovering over his shoulder, much less trying to operate all the different websites when I was no longer around to help him...