Work of Art ~ the Collection by Ruth Clampett Read Free Book Online Page B

his dead mother. That would explain why he spoke in the past tense, idiot.
    “She’s been gone for six years, breast cancer,” he says just before the waiter approaches.
    I’m glad for the distraction. The waiter takes our order, and after he moves away Max takes a deep breath and shifts to face me.
    “So, I want to apologize for last night. I’m angry with myself for what I put you through.”
    Am I going to let him off the hook? I decide not to. “You’re quite the party boy, Max, and that’s okay I guess, if it’s what you want. But I decided to get involved when you looked like a fool in front of Jonathan Alistair from Art+trA . It felt like a career disaster and I couldn’t let that happen to you.”
    He grimaces. “I guess I deserve the party-boy line.” He looks down. “But why did you help me, Ava? You don’t even know me, not really.”
    Because you are the hottest man I’ve ever spent time with, and I want to be in your bed. I swallow and take a deep breath, glad my thoughts didn’t escape my mouth.
    “Well, I love working with artists. I seem to understand them. And I knew you needed help. It was my natural instinct,” I answer, hoping he believes me.
    He gives me a warm smile. “I knew it, Ava. I knew it from the moment we met that you would look out for me.”
    “Look out for you?” I realize that my mouth has fallen open and I press my lips together.
    He studies me as if he’s not sure whether to continue, but then he clears his throat. “I’d like to be completely frank with you. Is that okay?”
    I nod.
    “I’m in a bad place. I don’t know why I’m so fucked up, but nothing . . . the fame, nor the success, seems to mean anything. So I screw around and party way too hard. It doesn’t make me feel any better, but I do it because it numbs my brain and gets me out of my head for a while.”
    Whoa . . . this is way more information than I expected from the man who checked out last night the moment things got edgy. This isn’t exactly high tea conversation, but in a way, I realize that I’d rather be discussing this here than in a bar. The civility of the tearoom presents a different weight to the conversation.
    “Can I ask how much you drank or used last night?”
    “Use?” He shakes his head. “I don’t do the drug thing—left that behind at art school. I saw too many kids completely lose themselves. But yeah, I had enough shots last night to forget how many.” He runs his fingers through his hair.
    The conversation halts as the waiter sets up a tiered set of plates full of tiny sandwiches, pastries and scones. He carefully pours out our tea, using silver tea strainers over our china cups.
    “Anyway, the reason I had to talk to you today is because I laid awake all morning and thought about you. I was overwhelmed by the feeling that we were destined to meet right now, at this very point in time . . . and that somehow you would teach me how to do this right.”
    “Do what right?” I bite my bottom lip to prevent my mouth from gaping open.
    “Find my way. You know, help me figure out how to be happy in my life,” he stammers, as he taps his pen against the edge of the table and looks down where’s he’s doodled something abstract on the fancy menu.
    “And what in the world makes you think I could figure that out for you?” I look at him incredulously. “I have issues myself I still haven’t figured out.”
    “I know, Ava, I know . . .” He wrings his hands. “It sounds crazy, but I have this feeling about you and it’s so strong, so damn strong.”
    “Let me get this straight . . . We were destined to meet so I could help you deal with your unhappiness with being rich and wildly successful?” I know I’m sounding snarky at this point, but what the hell? “How nice for me, Max? Isn’t destiny more two-sided than that? What do I get out of this Mother Teresa helping Max thing?”
    Max’s expression falls. “I know, I know, what an asshole, right? I just