It’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman glare at me the way this local is staring at me right now. If looks could actually kill, she’d have me lying dead on the floor.
“I know it isn’t my charm that rendered you speechless,” I chide, wondering what kind of planets aligned to put her tragically back into my life once again. At least this time, she didn’t spill something all over me, unlike our previous two encounters. The first time we met was at my best friend Beck’s bachelor party, when she spilled beer all over me in some godforsaken local dive bar. The second was at Beck’s wedding, when I wound up covered in cupcake frosting. I could have gone my entire life without a third encounter.
“You’re Mr. Hunter?” she squeaks. Now that she’s gained her composure, she scurries away from me, putting a good chunk of distance between us. “Please don’t tell me you’re the one who bought this place,” she pleads.
“Please don’t tell me that me buying this gallery means I have to put up with you,” I retort.
Her eyes roll. Any other time, I’d be bothered by someone having the nerve to roll their eyes at me, but not with her.
“Why do I have such shitty karma?” she mutters, looking briefly over her shoulder at my business associates.
“I was just asking myself the same thing.” I let out a bored sigh, stepping around her and deeper into the gallery space. It doesn’t look like a lot right now, but tomorrow, two of my designers from Manhattan will fly in to get this space ready for our grand opening next weekend. I’d been told by every single person I spoke with, most of all by my parents, that I shouldn’t waste my time opening something in this town. It only made me want to make this work even more.
The last thing I expected was having to deal with the woman glaring up at me.
“Can you get on with what information you needed to pass on so I can go back to planning my opening?”
She thinks about her words for a moment, which catches me by surprise because she strikes me as someone who says exactly what they’re thinking the instant it comes to their mind.
“One of your lovely friends was just saying how they thought people in Sutten didn’t have taste. As someone who grew up here and knew the Richardsons and the art they featured very well, I firmly disagree.”
“If I thought people didn’t have taste in Sutten, I wouldn’t be dumping money into opening a gallery at this location.” It’s a half-truth. When I first visited for Beck’s wedding, I hated the town, but I couldn’t deny the bustling tourism that I noticed. It didn’t take long for me to learn that people with money preferred to vacation in a town like this. It’s quieter than other ski destinations in Colorado, and the real estate is a gold mine for what you can get for your money. So I saw a new niche I could tap into by purchasing a gallery here. Unlike my gallery in New York, which relies heavily on exhibits of one artist’s work, I want this one to showcase the best work from the most talented artists I know.
People spend money on vacation. They’ll walk in here and feel sentimental about buying art because everyone has a good time on vacation.
I look toward Daly, someone I’ve known most of my life. He’s a colleague of my parents, and the moment I wanted to open my own gallery, I knew I wanted his help. He has a good eye, despite his lackluster personality, but I don’t appreciate him bad-mouthing this town to a local—even if it is to the bane of my existence.
“Apologize,” I clip, my tone leaving no room for argument. At least, I thought it didn’t leave any room for discussion, but apparently, Daly has decided to grow a pair today because he dares to open his mouth and disagree.
“I only meant it as—”
“You were very clear with what you meant. There’s not much to misinterpret when you say an entire town doesn’t have taste. Ever heard of a generalization?” she fires at him. Damn, she’s mouthy.
I cough, attempting to hide a laugh at her sass. It’s kind of funny when it isn’t aimed my way. It doesn’t make me dislike her any less, but it is mildly entertaining, at least.
“I don’t listen to half the things that come out of his mouth anyway. He knows art. Everything else is debatable,” I tell her.
She narrows her eyes, keeping them trained on me. Whatever’s going through her mind doesn’t soften her features at all. The tiniest of creases appears on her forehead, right between her dark eyebrows.
I let my gaze travel down her body, letting it focus on the box in her hands. Luckily for me, this time, the contents of the box aren’t splattered all over my very expensive suit. “What’s in the box, shortcake?”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes at me once again. Fuck. Why do I want to find another way to get her to roll them at me? “Ew, shortcake? My name is Pippa, not shortcake, but you don’t even have to call me that. It’s best if we just don’t talk at all. How about that, Mr. Hunter?”
The smile on my lips isn’t forced. “I don’t care about your name, shortcake. I’ll call you whatever I want to call you. The nickname fits.” I look her up and down. I’ve got to have at least a foot on her, and I think the little pair of pink cowboy boots she’s wearing generously give her a few inches. The cake part is just for fun. It fits. Two of the three times I’ve had the displeasure of seeing her, she’s had cake with her. The little cake embroidered on her T-shirt only sealed the deal for the nickname. “But for the record, Mr. Hunter is my father, and I’d much prefer not to talk about him. I’m Camden. Camden Hunter.”
Daly clears his throat. He’s never been comfortable with the way I speak about my dad, but I don’t typically care about how people feel. Maybe I would’ve if my parents cared more about me, but they don’t. So he can be uncomfortable. I’m sure it won’t be long until he’s reporting back to my father about everything that happened today anyway.
“I would much prefer calling you a raging asshole. Or douchebag if I’m feeling frisky.”
“Cute.”
“No, what’s cute is the damage I’ll do to you if you call me shortcake again.”
I roll my bottom lip between my teeth. “Don’t tempt me.”
She lets out a grunt of disgust. Leaving a huge amount of distance between us, she ambles around me and returns to the doorway once again, this time managing not to collide with me.
“Not going to share?” I nod toward the box in her hands.
A sarcastic laugh slips from her lips. “Absolutely not. I already regret giving it to your snooty friends and—”
“Colleagues,” I interrupt.
She looks like she could hit me for interrupting her. “I don’t think you’d enjoy them, not that any of you deserve my hard work anyway. Us townies don’t have taste, remember?” This time, the scathing look isn’t aimed my way; it’s aimed at Daly. I look over my shoulder at him, laughing at the petrified look on his face.
Damn. She might scare him more than I do.
My hands find my pockets as I really look at the woman making her way out the door. “Hope to see you never, shortcake.”
“The feeling is very mutual,” she counters, pushing the door open. “However, if you do happen to come next door, know that the discount I used to give the Richardsons doesn’t apply to you. You’ll pay full price. Maybe double.”
“I have no intentions of coming next door.”
She lets out a long, frustrated sigh. If she’s trying to hide how she’s feeling, she’s doing a terrible job at it. “Perfect. I had no intention of serving you anyway.”
I shrug carelessly. “So it’s settled.”
She stares at me. I don’t hate the way she takes her time looking at me from top to bottom before her hazel eyes come to a stop on my face. “It’s settled.”
“Goodbye, then, shortcake.”
Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t say anything on her way out. At least, she doesn’t use words. But the middle finger in the air as her footfalls hit the pavement tells me enough.
Her colliding into my life once again just made this new business endeavor a hell of a lot more interesting.
