Sculpting Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 2) by Samantha Westlake Page A
Authors: Samantha Westlake
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complaining.
I waited another second, letting the silence stretch a little further, just to make sure that I had his full attention. "Ready to actually listen to what I have to say?" I asked, raising one eyebrow.
His face darkened, and I feared for a second that he might order me out of his mess of a house, but he nodded. "Yeah, okay. What do you want?"
Chapter Eight
*
I sat on top of the two five-gallon buckets full of paint in de St. James' dirty and cluttered studio, stretching out the silence. The man had finally stopped ranting, and was waiting for me to tell him what I was doing there, why I was disturbing his angry little sealed-up life.
"As I said, I'm Becca Grace," I repeated, and held out my hand to him.
After a second of looking suspiciously at my extended hand, as if worried that this was some sort of trap, he advanced and gave it a brief shake. He still had a strong grip, and his hand didn't feel sweaty or clammy. I tried to take heart from this small bit of encouragement.
"And as I also said before, I'm the manager of the Halesford Gallery, in downtown Davis," I continued after releasing his hand. "Despite the state of your house, you're quite the well recognized artist, and we were interested in setting up a deal to sell some of your work through our gallery space." I carefully didn't mention his leave of absence from the art world over the last few months, remembering Onyx's warning.
Finally, this seemed to catch de St. James' attention. "I don't sell to galleries," he said shortly.
Well, crap. However, despite making this blunt statement, de St. James kept on looking at me, as if waiting to see how I'd respond. I decided that, if this was an opening, I'd give it a shot and try to convince him to change his mind.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "I mean, this is something that could work out well for both of us. You'd get more sales, maybe enough to..." I racked my mind for ideas. "...hire a maid to come in here and tidy up, or something-"
"What's wrong with my house?" he burst out, as something small with multiple legs vanished into the crumpled up newspapers behind him.
"Nothing, nothing!" I yelped back, dragging my eyes away from the pile of newspapers behind him and drawing my feet up onto the buckets that served as a chair, off of the floor. "But you'd sell more, and the gallery would help promote your artwork. It seems like we'd both get a win out of it!"
I hoped that this might convince de St. James, but his expression didn't change. He looked at me for a moment, as if turning the idea over in his head beneath that wild shock of salt-and-pepper hair, but then shook it back and forth in a negative. "I'm not convinced."
"Well, how can I convince you?" Please, please don't ask me for a date, I begged silently inside of my head. I already had two confusingly appealing men in my life, and didn't need any other additions.
And besides that, with his age showing in the lines around his eyes, plus his wild hair (and lackluster cleaning skills, and apparently no sense of smell and a permanent paint fume high), de St. James wasn't even meeting my admittedly low criteria. Even Barry, my ex-husband, had seemed to bring more to the table when I accepted his disastrous proposal.
Instead of asking me out, however, de St. James just frowned at me. "Every other agent or professional I've worked with has let me down," he sighed, reaching up and running a hand through his hair. I was impressed that he didn't get his fingers caught in the wild tangle. "It's part of what's fueled my rise, in fact - I insist fiercely on independence."
A part of me wondered if an agent or other professional might make him get a haircut and take a shower, which he clearly refused to do. "True, but I'm not exactly a professional," I said, and then hastily backtracked as I heard my own words. "I mean, I'm not going to be all soulless and corporate, like those others might have been. The Halesford Gallery is very small, and you'd be our
I waited another second, letting the silence stretch a little further, just to make sure that I had his full attention. "Ready to actually listen to what I have to say?" I asked, raising one eyebrow.
His face darkened, and I feared for a second that he might order me out of his mess of a house, but he nodded. "Yeah, okay. What do you want?"
Chapter Eight
*
I sat on top of the two five-gallon buckets full of paint in de St. James' dirty and cluttered studio, stretching out the silence. The man had finally stopped ranting, and was waiting for me to tell him what I was doing there, why I was disturbing his angry little sealed-up life.
"As I said, I'm Becca Grace," I repeated, and held out my hand to him.
After a second of looking suspiciously at my extended hand, as if worried that this was some sort of trap, he advanced and gave it a brief shake. He still had a strong grip, and his hand didn't feel sweaty or clammy. I tried to take heart from this small bit of encouragement.
"And as I also said before, I'm the manager of the Halesford Gallery, in downtown Davis," I continued after releasing his hand. "Despite the state of your house, you're quite the well recognized artist, and we were interested in setting up a deal to sell some of your work through our gallery space." I carefully didn't mention his leave of absence from the art world over the last few months, remembering Onyx's warning.
Finally, this seemed to catch de St. James' attention. "I don't sell to galleries," he said shortly.
Well, crap. However, despite making this blunt statement, de St. James kept on looking at me, as if waiting to see how I'd respond. I decided that, if this was an opening, I'd give it a shot and try to convince him to change his mind.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "I mean, this is something that could work out well for both of us. You'd get more sales, maybe enough to..." I racked my mind for ideas. "...hire a maid to come in here and tidy up, or something-"
"What's wrong with my house?" he burst out, as something small with multiple legs vanished into the crumpled up newspapers behind him.
"Nothing, nothing!" I yelped back, dragging my eyes away from the pile of newspapers behind him and drawing my feet up onto the buckets that served as a chair, off of the floor. "But you'd sell more, and the gallery would help promote your artwork. It seems like we'd both get a win out of it!"
I hoped that this might convince de St. James, but his expression didn't change. He looked at me for a moment, as if turning the idea over in his head beneath that wild shock of salt-and-pepper hair, but then shook it back and forth in a negative. "I'm not convinced."
"Well, how can I convince you?" Please, please don't ask me for a date, I begged silently inside of my head. I already had two confusingly appealing men in my life, and didn't need any other additions.
And besides that, with his age showing in the lines around his eyes, plus his wild hair (and lackluster cleaning skills, and apparently no sense of smell and a permanent paint fume high), de St. James wasn't even meeting my admittedly low criteria. Even Barry, my ex-husband, had seemed to bring more to the table when I accepted his disastrous proposal.
Instead of asking me out, however, de St. James just frowned at me. "Every other agent or professional I've worked with has let me down," he sighed, reaching up and running a hand through his hair. I was impressed that he didn't get his fingers caught in the wild tangle. "It's part of what's fueled my rise, in fact - I insist fiercely on independence."
A part of me wondered if an agent or other professional might make him get a haircut and take a shower, which he clearly refused to do. "True, but I'm not exactly a professional," I said, and then hastily backtracked as I heard my own words. "I mean, I'm not going to be all soulless and corporate, like those others might have been. The Halesford Gallery is very small, and you'd be our
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