Sculpting Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 2) by Samantha Westlake Page B
Authors: Samantha Westlake
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highest profile client. I'd do whatever you need to be satisfied."
As I spoke, I hoped that Onyx wouldn't get wind of these comments - or any other artist who sold in the gallery, for that matter. Sure, having a high profile artist like de St. James selling his art there would help everyone by bringing in more foot traffic, but I had already come to learn that every artist had an ego that they needed to be stroked and encouraged regularly, and nothing made an artist angrier than getting slighted in favor of another. If any of our patrons heard me refer to de St. James as our "highest profile" client, they'd throw a royal snit, and I'd need to waste a ton of time and effort soothing their ruffled feathers.
He didn't smile, but de St. James looked perhaps slightly more amenable, his frown decreasing ever so slightly. "Just words. That's all that you give me."
"What else would you need?" I replied. A little part of me raised a flag of caution inside my head; it felt a bit like he was trying to lead me somewhere. That kind of calculating mind went at odds with his wild, crazy appearance, and I pushed the note of concern aside. "How can I convince you that I'm trustworthy?"
I should have trusted my gut instinct.
As soon as I asked this question, de St. James spun around and grabbed at the papers that covered the drafting table behind him. He swept his hand over the mess with annoyance, and I nearly fell off my makeshift paint bucket stool as several chunks of stone went slamming into the ground with muffled crashes. I almost expected the man to drop one of those chunks onto his bare foot beneath the bathrobe he wore, but he somehow managed to avoid taking off a toe or two from a falling rock.
Finally, de St. James managed to find a pad of yellow lined note paper and a battered looking ballpoint pen. He turned around, pointed the pen at me as he clicked it open, and then began scribbling on the pad of paper.
I sat there for a minute or two, but began to feel a bit self-conscious as he continued scribbling, now glaring down intently at the paper and not even looking back up at me. He hadn't forgotten about me, had he? Had he just been seized by a fit of artistic fervor and needed to capture his latest idea?
After another couple minutes, however, de St. James lowered the pen and turned the sheet around a bit so that I could see. Looking partly over his shoulder, I saw that he'd scribbled down a list of some sort, already stretching all the way down the page.
"What's this?" I asked, not sure what I was supposed to make of the list.
He looked over at me, his bushy eyebrows climbing as if it should have been obvious. "It's a list of things that you can do in order to prove to me that I can trust you."
"What, like I should pick one of them?"
"Pick one?" he repeated, shaking his head violently. "No, you need to accomplish everything on the list!"
I fought to keep my jaw from dropping. There had to already be at least twenty different items on the list - and as I tried to find the right words to reply without offending the man to the point of throwing me out of his house, he tossed back the first page and began scribbling even more tasks onto the second page of the notepad!
"Not happening," I finally managed. "I'm not going to do all of that work for you, just to prove myself!"
de St. James looked down at the sheet of paper, and then back at me, as if not quite understanding my refusal. "But this is what it will take for you to prove that you're trustworthy," he started to say again, but I jumped down from my seat on the paint buckets and waved a finger in front of his face to cut him off. Even the thought of the insects or mice scurrying around the corners of this room wasn't scary enough to hold back my ire.
"Listen, I'm trying to help you here," I snapped at de St. James before he could recover from my sudden move forward. "But I'm not going to do everything for you! Besides, what sort of gallery manager would be willing
As I spoke, I hoped that Onyx wouldn't get wind of these comments - or any other artist who sold in the gallery, for that matter. Sure, having a high profile artist like de St. James selling his art there would help everyone by bringing in more foot traffic, but I had already come to learn that every artist had an ego that they needed to be stroked and encouraged regularly, and nothing made an artist angrier than getting slighted in favor of another. If any of our patrons heard me refer to de St. James as our "highest profile" client, they'd throw a royal snit, and I'd need to waste a ton of time and effort soothing their ruffled feathers.
He didn't smile, but de St. James looked perhaps slightly more amenable, his frown decreasing ever so slightly. "Just words. That's all that you give me."
"What else would you need?" I replied. A little part of me raised a flag of caution inside my head; it felt a bit like he was trying to lead me somewhere. That kind of calculating mind went at odds with his wild, crazy appearance, and I pushed the note of concern aside. "How can I convince you that I'm trustworthy?"
I should have trusted my gut instinct.
As soon as I asked this question, de St. James spun around and grabbed at the papers that covered the drafting table behind him. He swept his hand over the mess with annoyance, and I nearly fell off my makeshift paint bucket stool as several chunks of stone went slamming into the ground with muffled crashes. I almost expected the man to drop one of those chunks onto his bare foot beneath the bathrobe he wore, but he somehow managed to avoid taking off a toe or two from a falling rock.
Finally, de St. James managed to find a pad of yellow lined note paper and a battered looking ballpoint pen. He turned around, pointed the pen at me as he clicked it open, and then began scribbling on the pad of paper.
I sat there for a minute or two, but began to feel a bit self-conscious as he continued scribbling, now glaring down intently at the paper and not even looking back up at me. He hadn't forgotten about me, had he? Had he just been seized by a fit of artistic fervor and needed to capture his latest idea?
After another couple minutes, however, de St. James lowered the pen and turned the sheet around a bit so that I could see. Looking partly over his shoulder, I saw that he'd scribbled down a list of some sort, already stretching all the way down the page.
"What's this?" I asked, not sure what I was supposed to make of the list.
He looked over at me, his bushy eyebrows climbing as if it should have been obvious. "It's a list of things that you can do in order to prove to me that I can trust you."
"What, like I should pick one of them?"
"Pick one?" he repeated, shaking his head violently. "No, you need to accomplish everything on the list!"
I fought to keep my jaw from dropping. There had to already be at least twenty different items on the list - and as I tried to find the right words to reply without offending the man to the point of throwing me out of his house, he tossed back the first page and began scribbling even more tasks onto the second page of the notepad!
"Not happening," I finally managed. "I'm not going to do all of that work for you, just to prove myself!"
de St. James looked down at the sheet of paper, and then back at me, as if not quite understanding my refusal. "But this is what it will take for you to prove that you're trustworthy," he started to say again, but I jumped down from my seat on the paint buckets and waved a finger in front of his face to cut him off. Even the thought of the insects or mice scurrying around the corners of this room wasn't scary enough to hold back my ire.
"Listen, I'm trying to help you here," I snapped at de St. James before he could recover from my sudden move forward. "But I'm not going to do everything for you! Besides, what sort of gallery manager would be willing
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