Again. His skin crawled with apprehension. Ava skulked outside the gallery with her cell phone pressed against her face. She had told him every mundane detail of her lunch with Jessica. Tortellini. Martinis. Marc Jenkins. Office with a door. He snorted and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. Workers unloaded plackets of his photographs from the truck. He leaned against the outside wall of the gallery, never taking his eyes from the scene in front of him. Miranda Jenkins, a human tornado with ebony hair that spiked from her head like thorns, ordered the men around with an authority that made her short frame appear ten times taller. Kevin stood at her side, clipboard in hand as he checked off each crate. “Why do you look so angry?” Ava asked. “I'm not angry.” “Perhaps you should go to the hotel and rest. You look like hell. Have you thought about shaving?” He gritted his teeth.
