I feel like a kid in the candy store. It’s like a supermarket dash – but with priceless art, and I can choose whatever I want. My mom would have loved this, too, a secret gallery just for us. We spent our weekends during my childhood taking BART into the city to see the museums and galleries – but not just the big ones, she loved tiny pop-up shows, and hidden spots; graffiti on the walls, and the guys painting portraits for tourists down by the bay. “Good art isn’t always obvious, Gracie,” she said. “The real work takes risks, touches you, opens your heart.”

I don’t even know where to begin with so much to look at, so I start at the beginning: going through each piece in turn and taking notes, so I get an idea of his whole collection. I may be looking for something specific now, but I’ll need to know everything for other exhibitions down the line, and I want to do a great job. I’m lost in the frenetic splatters of a Jackson Pollock when I hear a noise behind me. “It’s one of my favorites, too,” a voice says.

I startle: it’s St. Clair, leaning against the wall, watching me with a smile.

“How long have you been there?” I exclaim.

“Long enough,” he grins. “You look so excited. I’ve never seen someone so happy to be locked down here in this box.”

“It’s not the room, it’s everything inside it! Stalker,” I add, playfully sticking my tongue out.

“Beauty makes me stop and stare every time,” he says and my heart flutters. He steps closer to me, his eyes intent on mine. “I mean the paintings, of course.”

“Of course,” I echo, feeling a pull like a magnet, a need to feel his skin against mine.

He answers me with a kiss. Soft, and light, barely brushing my lips. I melt against him, resting my weight against his muscled chest, savoring his strong hands on my waist and his soft lips exploring mine. His mouth grows more insistent, the kiss deepens, and I hear myself moan as my head tilts back.

I forget that I’m supposed to be working, that St. Clair is my boss, and let myself get consumed by the heat of his kiss.

CHAPTER 2

A few days later, I press the intercom button on my phone. “Maisie, can you email me the proofs of the title cards for each of the Nob Hill Hospital paintings? I want to finalize those and get them to the printer.”

The title cards are the last step. The artwork I selected has already been transported and hung with the other donations, and so far, I feel like I’m on top of things. My mom would be so proud. I think she’d like the paintings I chose, too. I hope St. Clair likes them – it’ll be a surprise for him to see what I’ve picked. After our steamy storage room kiss, he had to fly up to Seattle for business, and won’t be back until the opening gala tonight. Despite his absence, I’ve been grateful coming into work every day. This job is my dream, and I can hardly believe I’m here.

“I’m still waiting on them,” Maisie replies. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Thanks.”

I sip my coffee and glance over the schedule of upcoming exhibits and auctions, marking the ones I think we should attend. I hear a chime from my computer and look up to see the Skype icon on my screen bouncing. It’s my best friend, Paige.

“Hey, you,” I say as her face appears on screen. She’s in sweatpants and a ponytail with a Chinese take-out carton in one hand and chopsticks in the other, rapidly chewing a mouth full of noodles. It must be dinner time over there – Paige is eight hours ahead, in London.

I raise an eyebrow. “Dinner of champions?”

She swallows. “Dinner of a single woman working overtime.”

Paige works for an insurance company, investigating stolen art claims around the world. “Still looking for the stolen Reubens?” I ask. Last week, a highly prized painting was taken from Carringer’s, right after St. Clair won it at auction for six million dollars. It’s a huge scandal – and a big mystery too, to have a painting like that disappear into thin air.

“Yeah, that Interpol guy, Nick Lennox, thinks that theft is linked to others around Europe, but he doesn’t have any real evidence or suspects.” Paige shrugs. “I’ve done everything I could think of to find a possible lead, but I’ve got nothing.”

“I hope they find they guy. What kind of asshole steals priceless masterpieces just to hide them in a vault somewhere?” I ask, getting riled up. “St. Clair and other collectors keep things stored temporarily, between exhibitions, but these thieves want to lock the painting away so nobody else can ever enjoy it. Bastards.”

Paige grins at me. “Easy there, tiger.”

“Shut up.” I stick out my tongue.

She twirls her chopsticks. “How’s the new dream job going?”

“Great!” I perk up in my seat. “I keep expecting to get used to it, but every day, it hits me all over again, this really is my life!” I know I’m beaming, but I can’t help it. “I got to choose the paintings St. Clair is donating for the new wing of a hospital. I wish you could come to the opening.”

“Me too,” Paige grins. “Someday, though.

“I hope they like my choices,” I add, nervous. “It’s my first big job, and I want it to be a good reflection of St. Clair.”

Paige grins. “Oh, I’m sure it will be. But how ever will he show his appreciation to his new employee, hmm?” she teases. “I may have a few ideas…”

Before I can protest, my phone pings. It’s a text from St. Clair.

Join me at the gala tonight?

My face heats up.

“A-ha!” Paige misses nothing. “That was him, wasn’t it?”

“He wants to take me to the gala.”

“Like a date?”

My pulse races a bit with hope, but I’m not sure. “Maybe? Or maybe it’s just professional. I mean, I did curate the pieces.” But there was also that kiss… “What do I say?”

Paige rolls her eyes. “Say yes!”

I text Sure and he replies almost instantly. Great! Can I pick you up for dinner beforehand? 7?

Paige sings, “Grace and Charles sittin’ in a tree…”

My face flushes. “Stop!”

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love—”

“Seriously, Paige. He’s my boss now. It’s not so simple anymore.”

“Simple is what you make of it,” Paige shrugs. “Wouldn’t you rather have hot, complicated sex than simple platonic nights alone?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

I smile. This is why everyone needs a friend like Paige. I text St Clair: Can’t wait. Then I think about what I’ve just accepted: an invitation to a fancy black-tie gala, surrounded by San Francisco’s high society. My smile slips.

Paige says, “What’s wrong?”

“I have nothing to wear.”

“Grace, please. This is the part where you go shopping. Splurge on something sexy.”

“I can’t afford that,” I say automatically.

Paige snorts. “You told me what your new salary is, and trust me, you can swing a fancy new outfit. Besides, you’re an art consultant to a billionaire now. You better look the part. You know my motto: fake it ‘til you make it.”

I scoff. “You’ve never faked anything in your life. You’re too confident.”

Paige lifts her eyebrows. “Oh, I have faked plenty. That’s why I don’t do one night stands anymore.”

I laugh. “I miss you,” I say, feeling a pang. “I need more sass in my life.”

“I know,” she says. “We need a night out. Like the old days.”

I sigh, nostalgic for the times when I came home to Paige watching MTV on the couch with a bag of peanut butter pretzels and a bottle of wine, waiting to hear about my day and tell me about hers. “Rain check?”

She nods. “Rain check.”

I decide to take Paige’s advice and spend the afternoon shopping at stores whose price tags usually make me hyperventilate. I have to talk myself down from fleeing right back to H&M - if I’m going to be taken seriously as someone who belongs in this world, then I need to look the part. So I grit my teeth, steel myself (and my credit card), and do what needs to be done.