Flirting With Forever Gwyn Cready (best book series to read txt) 📖

of my dress, my date left early with Sue Rodriguez, the cheerleader-ho from the theater company, and Anastasia told everyone she could find that she used to think the reason I had decided on Barnard was because I was a closet lesbian, but rejected that theory on the grounds that I real y wasn’t interesting enough.

She reached the next-to-last stair and sighed. No Bal , no Peter. That could only mean they were upstairs—wel , Bal at least—and she reversed direction.

“I don’t recal the invitation saying ‘bra optional.’ Bit of a mustard problem?”

Cam didn’t need to turn to recognize Jeanne’s voice, or her sense of humor.

“Yes, I’ve taken to eating in my underwear. Saves on dry-cleaning.” She continued up the stairs.

“I’m sure the guy at the café loves it,” said Jeanne, who fol owed, drink in hand. “Remind me to recommend you to my friend at Hot Dog Quarterly. They’re always looking for the next centerfold. That is, unless you’re limiting yourself to art world porn at the moment.”

Cam swung around. “You saw the paintings? How?”

“Same way I saw my review, the bil from your mechanic and the present state of your investment portfolio. The notes from Bal were on your desk. By the way, I’d stay away from Pfizer. That pipeline’s looking iffy. Did you sleep with him?”

“My mechanic? Nah, it was just a headlight. I wrote him a check.”

“Funny,” Jeanne said. “You know who I mean. Mr. MC

Hammer pants.”

“Yes, but not like you probably think.”

“You have some pretty funny ideas about how I spend my time.”

“I’m not getting the directorship. Did you hear that?”

“Yes, I believe your sister is practical y handing out flyers.

I’m real y sorry.” She gave Cam a hug. “It sucks.”

“Tel me about it.”

“Think of the upside. At least you won’t be seeing Anastasia every day. I’m going to be reporting to The Devil Wears Chainmail.”

They had reached the top of the stairs, and Cam turned right for the first gal ery. “It gets worse.”

“Worse than Sri Lankan chai with organic lilac honey at precisely nine thirty and bamboo paper notepads with her name in Kanji?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“It wasn’t that the board didn’t pick me. I resigned. Had to. The Van Dyck’s a fake.”

“What?!”

“And there’s more.”

“Jesus.”

“Peter has to leave.”

“So go back to visit him. You know,” Jeanne added in a whisper, “Amazon. I mean, it looks like you’l have the time.”

“Can’t. They’re taking my mode of transport away. And anyway, he’s going back to a new life. It’s a long story, but he was only in 1673 for an assignment. He’s real y supposed to be in the Afterlife, waiting to be assigned a new life. Oh, Jeanne, I’m afraid I love him.”

Jeanne stopped so fast some of her drink sloshed over the rim of the glass. “Love? Oh, Cam. You real y love him?”

“I must. Otherwise I’d kil him.”

“Have you thought about refusing? Holding him hostage?

Packing yourself in his luggage?”

Cam shook her head. “No. He’s in the running for a good next life, and if I interfere—” She made a raspberry sound.

“Jeez, this is harder than ‘I Survived a Japanese Game Show.’ Wel , don’t give up. There’s always a way.”

“Not this time.” Cam sensed a fat tear quivering in her vision and hurriedly wiped it away. “And now I have to find Bal and tel him his two-point-one-mil ion-dol ar gift is worth about as much as a real y nice Van Gogh poster.”

“Man, this is not your day.”

“Have you seen him?” Cam looked past Jeanne’s head, down the hal .

“Bal ?”

“Either of them. Bal or Peter.”

“Peter’s here?”

Cam nodded. “Guest of Bal ’s.”

“Wel , Bal was in the east gal ery, like, five minutes ago.”

“East gal ery, then. Wish me luck.”

“Here’s my vodka tonic. I think that’l work better.”

Cam navigated among the buzzing patrons. Everyone looked so happy and carefree in their evening finery. Bal wasn’t in the first gal ery or the second. By the third, the crowds had thinned, and at the fourth, the one that held her favorite selections from “Behold: Love Through the Eyes of the Artist” exhibit, she was one of only three or four people.

Morose, she walked the length of the space, peering into the adjacent rooms, but found herself slowing as the paintings exerted their usual influence over her. Two Alex Katzes, both adoringly painted portraits of his wife, Ada, first as a young mother with striking dark hair and gentle eyes, the view of her mouth, which one imagines to be formed in a maternal kiss, hidden behind the head of her young son; then as a matron, her gray-streaked hair stil draped over her