Four years of school and a degree in art history and I was handing out cocktail weenies. But it was a job that paid the bills. Well, barely paid the bills. No matter. I had bigger plans for my life than this, and I knew I needed to pay my dues before the good things showed up.
On nights like this, though, it just felt like I was paying more than anything else.
A tall, blonde standing near the floor to ceiling window at the front of the gallery lifted her glass to alert me she needed a refill, and away I went scurrying to provide her with the much needed champagne. Unlike most of the other gallery patrons, she was at least pleasant and gave me a nod of thanks. Hopefully, Sheila saw that.
In truth, this wasn't such a bad job. I told myself that all the time, and sometimes I even believed it. The best part about it was that I got to be around the art. That made all the awful jobs I was assigned tolerable. When all the people were gone and it was just me, my broom, and the artwork, I could honestly say I was happy. I'd stand in front of a sculpture from some unknown artist and let my eyes drift over the smooth lines and curves of the piece to imagine what may have been in the artist's heart as he or she lovingly molded their masterpiece. The Anderson Gallery didn't have work from the big names like Monet or Rodin, but it had art and that let me convince myself that years of studying hadn't been for nothing.
A crowd of people gathered near one of the paintings hung on the far wall. It was the best piece in the show, so it wasn't surprising, but from the sound of their voices, it wasn't the painting they were interested in. I moved toward them, curious for a distraction from standing around with trays all night. The group was mostly women, each one more beautiful than the next, and I suddenly felt self-conscious craning my neck to see what they were so intrigued by, as if I didn't belong. A few blondes, brunettes, and a redhead who all looked like supermodels and were dressed in names I only knew from magazines circled around someone, laughing and chattering about things I couldn't understand. Then one woman moved aside and I saw him.
He was stunning, even more gorgeous than the women that surrounded him. Over six feet tall with short dark hair, he wore a dark grey suit and black shirt that hung as if they were made especially for him, accentuating every well-built inch of his body. I edged myself closer, drawn to him, and saw his eyes. Deep chocolate brown, they looked as if they had seen all the things I hadn't in this world. He was wealth, opulence, and excess.
A beautiful brunette hung on his arm, an appropriate accessory for such a man, like fourteen caret gold cufflinks or a stainless steel Rolex. As I stood there gawking at him, I heard one of the women say his name.
Tristan.
In that moment, I wanted more than anything for the whole world to fade away until it was just me and him. I'd heard of love at first sight before and never believed in it, but as I watched him take up all the empty space in the room, I was in love.
No, not love. Lust.
He glanced over at me, and my cheeks flushed with heat. His gaze fixed on mine, brown eyes staring at me as if we knew each other intimately. As if he knew the deepest, darkest parts of me. My brain told me to look away, to break the connection, but the rest of my body rebelled. I wanted to feel those eyes on every part of me.
"Nina, what are you doing? I saw at least three patrons with empty glasses as I crossed the room. Chop, chop!" Sheila barked in my ear, tearing me out of my fantasy.
My boss marched away, and I watched as Tristan and his women moved on to another painting. Everything was as it should be with everyone in their correct place. Him with a group of gorgeous women and me with my tray of cocktail weenies. A few minutes later, I watched him leave, never even knowing his last name or what his voice sounded like.
As the show wound down and the sated art lovers made their way to other fashionable locations in SoHo, I began my post-show duties. Sheila had a look of pure happiness on her gaunt face as she said goodbye to her other help for the night, which could mean that she was high or pleased with how the show had gone. As she was coming my way, I'd know in a minute which it was.
Sheila was a touchy-feely person, so even before she got to me her hand was reaching out for my arm. Raking her long, bony fingers down my shirt sleeve, she purred, "Nina, except for that brief slip with the champagne, I think the show went off wonderfully." Turning to lock the gallery's front door, she waved her hand around the room. "You can leave a lot of this mess for tomorrow, or if you prefer to clean up tonight, you can have Sunday off. Your choice. I know you'll get it done. You're dependable."