Closer by Aria Hawthorne Read Free Book Online Page B

I’m serious.”
    He paused, confused.  That time, he hadn’t actually intended to be an ass.  Art history major , he thought, feeling through the cabinets for the vodka and the Chambord.  Yes, he remembered now .  Then, he considered reprimanding her for disrespecting him as her boss; he couldn’t allow her to do that tonight—not during dinner.  But truth be known, he rather liked the way she so flippantly called him a jackass. 
    “It’s an original, I assure you,” he confirmed and let the rest slide.
    She crossed her arms and challenged him.  “Sotheby’s just auctioned off one of those painting from his Water Lilies series for forty million dollars.”
    Sven grimaced. He couldn’t help it.  Forty million dollars was an insultingly low sum for a Monet original, especially one of his later works. “Well, then…I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t get rid of it at my garage sale last week.”
    “With all of your billionaire friends?” she sniped before releasing an unguarded laugh.  Like a mischievous child , he thought, as if the thought of a garage sale put on by a bunch of billionaires was the funniest thing in the world.
    “Trying to get rid of all our unwanted Degas ballerinas,” he said, playing along.
    “And girlie pastel Renoirs.”
    “And boring Pissarro landscapes.”
    “And erratic van Gogh self-portraits, especially those imbalanced ones with only one ear.” 
    He stopped and studied her.  Most Americans mispronounced it as “van Go.”  But she said it exactly like it was meant to be pronounced—“van Goth.”  It was a Dutch name, after all.
    “Have you been there?” She nodded to the painting.
    “Where?” He questioned her, shaking up her martini.  Although he knew exactly what she meant and it surprised him.  She was always surprising him .
    “Giverny.”
    Sven paused with a smirk.  He wasn’t used to conversing with women who knew about Monet’s studio sanctuary just outside of Paris.  A Northwestern girl who could have gone to Harvard or Yale .
    “Of course.  Have you?”
    “God no, but I’d love to…” her voice trailed off as she pushed closer towards the painting, replacing her scorn for a private moment of indulgence. “So you can only see twenty water lilies?” she finally asked before attempting to count them herself.
    He waited for her to confirm there were far more water lilies than twenty. 
    “There’s at least twenty little ones in the dappling beneath the bridge’s shadow,” she confirmed. “You can’t see them from there?”
    Sven didn’t glance up.  He didn’t need to.  “No…not anymore.”
    “Hm.” She surveyed him like she was assessing how that directly affected her—and their arrangement.
    He topped of her drink. “Vodka, Chambord, and fresh lemon juice, which will have to substitute for pineapple juice.” He started down the half-flight of stairs, but forgot to count the steps.  He stumbled on the final one, losing his balance and a bit of his dignity. 
    “Damn it,” he cursed at himself. The drink splashed across his hand and seeped into his cuff of his sleeve, the raspberry Chambord immediately staining it pink.
    “Here, take it off so we can run it under cold water,” she offered.
    Skeptical, he peered at her.
    “The quicker the better,” she insisted, taking the martini glass from his hands and setting it down on the end table.  She reached out for his wrist and started to unfasten his cufflink.
    “I have a hundred shirts like this one.  Let’s not make a production of it.”
    She firmly placed the diamond cuff link into the palm of his hand.  He winced as she dug it into his flesh.  “Please don’t tell me you’re one of these billionaires who just throws dirty shirts and towels and sheets away instead of laundering them.  Please tell me that’s something they make up in celebrity magazines for us plebeians to snicker at because it makes us feel better, not because it can possibly be