other things.”
They had so much unfinished business a cup of coffee wasn’t going to cut it. The tension—sexual and emotional—was a thick haze in the air, and it had felt way too natural for him to put his hands on her, for them to joke and tease.
But she could not deal with Sean on top of the reality of the exhibit being destroyed, and the sneaking suspicion that somehow her mother might be involved. That was more drama than one woman could be expected to handle in the same hour. “But please, let me figure out how to save my ass. Then you can chew it out thoroughly, okay?”
The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “I can think of better things to do with your ass than either of those.”
And just like that, he could make her forget her entire life was imploding. A shiver ran up her spine. But she rolled her eyes at him, determined to be mature. Okay, maybe mature was stretching it, but determined to deal with the matter at hand.
Ignoring him, she continued into the gallery and was confronted again by the reality of pending unemployment. Oh, God, it really was bad.
Twenty mass nude photos hung along three walls of the gallery, each photo larger than a typical poster. Because they were so big, it allowed the viewer to see more detail in the photos, the expressions of the volunteer models, the various backdrops, and in some cases, the split and crack of the dried body paint that had been used to cover exposed flesh. It was an expressive exhibit, with the artist, Ian Bainbridge, making a statement about the powerlessness of the individual in the moneymaking machine of the health-care industry. He had always done work focusing on corporate greed, but the gallery owner, June, had told Kristine that Ian’s mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer a few months earlier, and as a result, his focus had shifted to health care. What was supposed to be a sophisticated opening-night fund-raiser was now going to be a debacle because some idiot had taken black spray paint to art.
She prayed that idiot wasn’t her mother. Ebbe wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
Or would she?
She would. No doubt about it. Spray paint was Ebbe’s medium for protest, and whereas before there had been breasts and bare bottoms, now there were crudely painted jockey shorts on everyone in the forefront of five prints, sprayed right onto the glass frame. Hadn’t her mother suggested boy shorts for the models? She had also known that Kristine was in the gallery mostly by herself.
Kristine narrowed her eyes and wondered if she should text her mother and ask her point-blank. Not that it would matter. The problem was what did she do to fix it?
“Yep, that is truly the dumbest vandalism I’ve ever seen,” Sean said, coming up behind her.
“What am I going to do?” Regardless of who had done it, it still needed to be fixed before June and Ian showed up at seven. “My boss and the artist have a meeting tonight to go over last-minute details. They’re going to see this.”
“Call the cops. File a report. Take down the photos that have been vandalized.” He turned in an arch to view the room. “Only five of them have been sprayed. That still leaves you the bulk of the exhibit.”
“No, absolutely not. I can’t tell my boss what happened. I’ll get fired!” The panic crawled up her throat again. Sean didn’t know that she had literally twelve dollars and seventeen cents to her name and a ton of student loan debt. That she desperately needed a steady paycheck since she had spent the last of her money on the plane ticket back from Vegas. The past decade had been spent bouncing from one low-paying job to another—her most recent had been working in the events department of a casino.
After paying for her travel back to Minnesota, she had spent the last of her money on the first and last month’s rent on her dumpy little apartment, as well as for the lawyer to draw up her divorce papers. She was flat busted broke, and there was no way
They had so much unfinished business a cup of coffee wasn’t going to cut it. The tension—sexual and emotional—was a thick haze in the air, and it had felt way too natural for him to put his hands on her, for them to joke and tease.
But she could not deal with Sean on top of the reality of the exhibit being destroyed, and the sneaking suspicion that somehow her mother might be involved. That was more drama than one woman could be expected to handle in the same hour. “But please, let me figure out how to save my ass. Then you can chew it out thoroughly, okay?”
The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “I can think of better things to do with your ass than either of those.”
And just like that, he could make her forget her entire life was imploding. A shiver ran up her spine. But she rolled her eyes at him, determined to be mature. Okay, maybe mature was stretching it, but determined to deal with the matter at hand.
Ignoring him, she continued into the gallery and was confronted again by the reality of pending unemployment. Oh, God, it really was bad.
Twenty mass nude photos hung along three walls of the gallery, each photo larger than a typical poster. Because they were so big, it allowed the viewer to see more detail in the photos, the expressions of the volunteer models, the various backdrops, and in some cases, the split and crack of the dried body paint that had been used to cover exposed flesh. It was an expressive exhibit, with the artist, Ian Bainbridge, making a statement about the powerlessness of the individual in the moneymaking machine of the health-care industry. He had always done work focusing on corporate greed, but the gallery owner, June, had told Kristine that Ian’s mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer a few months earlier, and as a result, his focus had shifted to health care. What was supposed to be a sophisticated opening-night fund-raiser was now going to be a debacle because some idiot had taken black spray paint to art.
She prayed that idiot wasn’t her mother. Ebbe wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
Or would she?
She would. No doubt about it. Spray paint was Ebbe’s medium for protest, and whereas before there had been breasts and bare bottoms, now there were crudely painted jockey shorts on everyone in the forefront of five prints, sprayed right onto the glass frame. Hadn’t her mother suggested boy shorts for the models? She had also known that Kristine was in the gallery mostly by herself.
Kristine narrowed her eyes and wondered if she should text her mother and ask her point-blank. Not that it would matter. The problem was what did she do to fix it?
“Yep, that is truly the dumbest vandalism I’ve ever seen,” Sean said, coming up behind her.
“What am I going to do?” Regardless of who had done it, it still needed to be fixed before June and Ian showed up at seven. “My boss and the artist have a meeting tonight to go over last-minute details. They’re going to see this.”
“Call the cops. File a report. Take down the photos that have been vandalized.” He turned in an arch to view the room. “Only five of them have been sprayed. That still leaves you the bulk of the exhibit.”
“No, absolutely not. I can’t tell my boss what happened. I’ll get fired!” The panic crawled up her throat again. Sean didn’t know that she had literally twelve dollars and seventeen cents to her name and a ton of student loan debt. That she desperately needed a steady paycheck since she had spent the last of her money on the plane ticket back from Vegas. The past decade had been spent bouncing from one low-paying job to another—her most recent had been working in the events department of a casino.
After paying for her travel back to Minnesota, she had spent the last of her money on the first and last month’s rent on her dumpy little apartment, as well as for the lawyer to draw up her divorce papers. She was flat busted broke, and there was no way
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