Erin McCarthy - Close Up

“Thanks,” he said, his expression inscrutable. “So how did you end up an events coordinator? And what brings you back from Sin City?”

“It’s the only thing I’m qualified to do,” she told him, truthfully. “I can plan a party—that’s about it.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “That’s not true.”

“Hey, I plan a damn good party,” she said, with a smile, even though she knew that wasn’t what he meant. Of course, she wasn’t sure specifically what he meant as her potential talents, come to think of it. She didn’t think it was a sexual innuendo, because honestly, she’d just been enthusiastic in that arena, not skilled or experienced. But at nineteen, she hadn’t been bursting with various practical talents.

Sean laughed. “Funny. No, I mean I’m sure you could do whatever you set your mind to. That was always your setback—you didn’t believe in yourself enough.”

It was difficult to explain to Mr. Moneybags that while he was good at virtually every business venture he touched, she had always lacked the focus required to stick with something. But she wasn’t looking for sympathy. It was what it was, and she was trying hard to change, to stick around long enough to make something work.

And she didn’t need him psychoanalyzing her.

“I think it’s safe to say I’m not as insecure as I was at nineteen when you knew me, thank God.” She still hated her ass, because it was the consistency of flan, but otherwise she had grown accepting of who she was, as flawed and imperfect as she may be. She was also kind, generous and quick to laugh, so there.

Sean didn’t respond. He simply stared at her, because that was what Sean did. He waited. He bent people to his will. He commanded. He used charm and confidence to get exactly what he wanted, which at one time had been her. The question was, what did he want today? His expression was too enigmatic for her to read.

With no sign to hold any longer, Kristine felt self-conscious, her hands fluttering in front of her chest. She wore a black pencil skirt and a purple floral sweater set with a respectable amount of cleavage on display. Sean’s eyes followed her fingers.

She couldn’t stand the silence anymore and started to babble. “You’re right. I’ll get the name of all the staff. I suppose I should know better. This isn’t my first rodeo, so to speak.”

“I don’t remember you that way,” he said.

“What?” Kristine was confused. Did he mean as a rodeo rider? “What way?”

“Insecure.” He shook his head to emphasize the point. “You always knew who you were. I admired that. Being insecure is different from doubting yourself.”

His words warmed her more than she would have expected. “Thanks. But don’t make me sound more mature than I was.” Unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth, she said, “Look, Sean, before you leave I want to discuss something with you—

But he cut her off. “Show me the back room,” he said with a casual smile. “Just to make sure there are no issues for Friday.”

Hmm. Did he want this to be strictly business? Yet he had brought up the past. Though it had been a casual enough comment. Maybe it was better if they concentrated on the matter at hand for the moment. “Sure,” she said, forcing herself to sound breezy, and strode away. He followed her and she made a point to pause and speak to the catering manager. “Allison, I’ll need a list of the servers who will be here opening night. What time do you think you’ll be finished setting up?”

Allison nodded with a smile. “Sure, no problem. Actually, we’ll be done in about ten minutes.”

“You can go out the back then, and I’ll call you tomorrow if I want any changes done. Thanks.” There, that sounded professional. Like she knew what she was doing. Which she did, in theory.

Once in the storage area, she turned and gestured with both hands. “Here it is. Just the one exit.”

His shuttered gaze took in the small room. There were art pieces from the previous exhibit under drop cloths, a desk for the curator and a small coffee-break area with a bistro table and a mini fridge. There was also an employee restroom, metal shelving for lighting and mounting hardware and leftover paint remnants. The gallery’s staff was small, and Kristine had been hired to do essentially whatever was needed on a weekly basis, including PR and ordering supplies.

“What’s in there?” he asked, pointing to a door.

“It’s a closet.”

He started toward it.

“Is this really necessary?” she asked. “The gallery has done these types of events monthly for years without any issues.”

“Ian Bainbridge has a morality organization threatening to disrupt the party. They’ve been known to deface art they find offensive and attack the artist himself. Plus, he has a documented stalker. This is my job, Kristine. Nothing is going to happen while my team is here. That is a guarantee I provide.”

Except that the morality organization was run by Kristine’s own mother, and she was pretty sure it was a committee of one. Sean obviously didn’t know that, and she was not about to enlighten him.

No one needed to know that, least of all her ex.

Kristine opened the door to the closet, which was a walk-in and served as a secondary storage area for things like mops and paper towels. Stepping in, she turned. “It’s—

Sean was literally inches away from her and she forgot what she was going to say, sucking her breath sharply. “Oh, hello!”

He was moving forward still, forcing her to back up until she was against the far wall under an exterior window, trying to keep a few feet of space between them. She laughed, meaning to sound cavalier, but it came out as nervous as she felt. She was far too aware of Sean and how close his mouth was to hers. He gave a sly smile, as if her nervousness amused him. With one hand, he reached behind him and closed the closet door.

Not good. A closed space, an old lover... She couldn’t remain professional under those circumstances. Unless it was a professional whimperer. “Sean. We should talk, but I don’t think this is the time or the place. Let’s finish up here and go for coffee.” In a public place. With a table between them.

“I don’t want to talk.” His voice was slow and sensual, and she saw the burn of desire in his eyes as he ate up the space between them.

“No?” Damn it. She knew that look. He was going to kiss her.

Sean touched a stray strand of her hair trailing down her neck, and she shivered, the urge to close her eyes and sink into his embrace overwhelming. He smelled different than she remembered, but the sensation of being close to him was familiar, tantalizing.

Then he tugged her hair, playful, yet bordering on harder than necessary. “You darkened your hair color.”

“I was having a dark moment,” she whispered.

“I like it. Much more than those divorce papers you sent me.” He turned back to the doorknob, twisted it and pushed the door. “Did you hear that? It sounded like the door was just locked.”

Nothing happened. To the door, that is.

But Kristine saw spots in front of her eyes. “What divorce papers?”

“What the hell?” He shoved the door harder, ramming his shoulder against it in irritation. “Does this door stick?”

“No. Not that I’m aware of.” And she hadn’t heard anything over the sound of her own mortification. But if she was locked in this room with Sean it was going to be the definition of awkward, because she was pretty sure he was saying he had received divorce papers from her, which was not supposed to happen. Not until she’d had a chance to talk to him first. “What divorce papers?”

“The ones that dropped on my desk this morning.”