Page 15 of Break Me Beautifully
Chapter 6.
We don't talk aboutwhat happened in the elevator.
Not when I venture out of my bedroom to find him dressed in a suit with a tray of strong black coffee and pastries waiting for me.
Not when he sits across from me, sipping quietly, not eating a bite.
Not when he asks if I slept well, and I recall how he stood over me in the dark.
And not even when we climb back inside the elevator to go look at a local art installation he helped a client arrange.
Standing in that mirrored box, I vividly recall the throttled moans that left his lips. How his scar felt when I brushed my mouth on his, making me curious how he got it. But we don't talk about it.
We just think about it.
I don't doubt for a second that it's on his mind, too. He's acting like there's a wall between us, like I couldn't just reach out and touch his wrist and trace his tattoos and ask him about the ones on his back that he doesn't know I saw.
Shivering, I clutch my coat around my body, stepping fast out of the elevator, the building, and into the car waiting for us on the busy street. The day is bright and crisp. Winter clearly on the horizon. Garland winds around the traffic lights. Someone in a Santa suit rings a bell on the corner, ignored by the New Yorkers who rush off to their important lives.
I am distracted by the sights when Marshall sits across from me in the car and shuts the door loudly. “Leona,” he whispers. His tone matches the ambiance of the dimly lit cabin. "Yeah?" I ask. His fingers are steepled across his face, hiding his mouth, so I don't know if he's smiling or scowling.
"The place we're going is owned by a man I work for, Bradford Mink. Have you heard of him?"
"No, but when you told me about it at breakfast, I looked him up." I wave my phone to show what I mean. "He owns a ton of galleries out here. Forbes did an article about him, sounds like he's extremely sought after by hordes of artists."
"He is. And he's excited to meet you."
"What, why?"
"Because I told him to be."
My eyes widen nervously. "Oh god, wait, that's putting a lot of pressure on me."
"You? I'm the one putting my reputation on the line." He chuckles, winking at me before cracking the window. Cold air rushes in and strands of hair escape from my loose bun and tickle my neck. "We're nearly there. Any questions?"
"Yes! A lot of them! What is he expecting from me? I didn't even bring my portfolio. I have nothing to show him!"
