Page 7 of The Maverick
My sister Ellen’s words echoed in my head, increasing my headache.
I leaned back in the seat, studying the passing cars and people walking along the street to Nessa’s gallery. It still baffled me why I’d leased this retail space to her and offered her three months rent-free.
You know why.
God, if only I could strangle my inner voice.
I owned a painting by Nessa Lambert. It hung in my house instead of my museum. Something about the desecrated water lily called to me. This was before I knew Nessa or her work. The painting I bought didn’t have the same signature as her current work. I didn’t even know what the painting was called. The art had spoken to me, and I’d bought it at an estate auction.
I’d seen my share of astounding work from artists all over the world, yet I’d never given anyone the space to do as they pleased.
Maybe my spontaneous decision would backfire in a few months, making me lose some money. I’d never done anything spontaneous for business. Research, numbers, facts, and foresight had made me a billionaire. So this was out of the norm for me.
My phone rang, and I debated on picking up the call from my sister.
“Yes, Ellen? What do you need?”
“Is this how you treat your big sister? The sister who toiled over the stove to make you spaghetti and meatballs?” she demanded.
I could picture her standing in the kitchen wearing a bright pink apron, her hands propped on her hips.
“You mean the pre-made meatballs you got from the grocery store?”
“That’s not the point. I cooked them with a delicious sauce for my little brother. But it seems he’s not interested in eating it.”
“Who says I’m not interested?” I retorted. “I’m heading to an event—a gallery opening. I’ll stop by to pick up your amazing meal on my way home.”
“You have too many events. Mom Gigi wants you to cut back on them and start dating. Her friend, Mary St. Pierre, wants to set you up with her daughter, Daisy St. Pierre, who’s a family doctor. I heard she’s beautiful.”
“I’m not interested.” This conversation wasn’t helping my headache. I was about to say as much, but I knew Ellen would retort with,She can prescribe you something. It’s a sign from the universe!
Mom Gigi adopted me after my family was murdered. Ellen was five years older than me and was adopted the year before. Living with two women taught me that patience was the magical key that solved a lot of issues.
“Why not? You’re not getting younger. She’s worried about you.”
“I’ve got things to do, Ellen,” I said as Nessa’s face popped into my head. “Why aren’tyoudating?”
“Because I need to take care of my younger brother first. Besides, I’m sick of men right now.”
She’d recently come out of an abusive relationship. The fucker had broken her leg and given her a black eye during one of his drunken episodes. When I discovered this, I gave him a stern warning and broke some ofhisbones. I also discovered he was involved in a lot of illegal activities and used that to keep him away from Ellen. He now lived in another country, so I didn’t have to see him.
No one hurts my family ever again.
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready to introduce a girlfriend to you. Gotta go.”
“All right. Don’t forget to stop by to pick up the food because Mom Gigi and I can’t eat all of this.”
I shook my head, knowing she cooked when she was stressed. Ellen worked at a nonprofit company in Boston, helping homeless women and children get back on their feet. I offered her a job at one of my businesses, but she refused.
I guess I dealt with stress by spending money on spontaneous things. Ellen’s method was a lot cheaper. Nessa Lambert’s Art Gallery was a new adventure for me. It took me away from the stress bombarding my life. Art was my relaxation, and I was investing in my self-care. That was it.
Satisfied with my conclusion, I adjusted my black tuxedo and exited my car. I scanned the several shops on the retail strip. As I walked past Loretta’s Café, I turned and glanced inside. A zing zipped through me when I saw Nessa standing in the far corner of the shop. She looked stunning in the red dress, but her facial expression showed agitation toward a man with wavybrown hair. He wore a gray suit with a blue tie. He reached for her hand, but she shoved him away and walked out of the coffee shop.
Nessa didn’t see me standing off to the side.
“Asshole,” she muttered and walked toward the gallery, which was two doors down.
Her hips swayed back and forth, stirring something in me. The man who had ruined her day left the coffeehouse and bumped into me.
