Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Nothing about life feels real or predictable these days.
Of course, Bennett’s reaction was a mix of annoyance and hilarity. He’s never been a fan of Tad Hanson. Pretty sure being neighbors with a sheep farmer whose sheep never stay behind the fence is at the foundation of that ire. But after he’d bitched a while about how incompetent Farmer Tad is, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing at my expense. “Breezy Bishop, cleaning up sheep shit?” he’d choked out. “I fear Red Bridge might be going to your brain, sis. If you hang around here any longer, you might end up selling scarves at the farmer’s market.”
He’s not even wrong in his teasing. I mean, maybe Red Bridge is going to my brain?
However, what my brother doesn’t know would probably kill him. I mean, if there are any fresh callouses on my hands, they have nothing to do with mucking stalls and everything to do with clutching Farmer Tad’s bedsheets.
And trust me, my brother does not want to know that information.
Tad even tried to pay me money once, really make the cover story seem real, and I laughed in his face. “The only currency I’ll take comes in orgasms and late-night cuddles,” I told him.
He wasn’t exactly upset about that. Managed to give me three orgasms that very night, in fact.
Basically, I’m living a double life—fake farmhand by day and shameless sheep farmer groupie by night. But when it comes to real jobs, today, I’m officially giving the relentless headhunter my listening ears.
The house is quiet since Norah and Bennett took Autumn over to Josie and Clay’s house to have brunch. And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for this call, sitting cross-legged on my bed with my laptop propped on a stack of art books.
On a deep breath, I tap the trackpad, and Zoom flickers to life.
A man in expensive glasses and a perfectly knotted tie appears, smiling as we make eye contact through the screen.
“Beatrice Bishop,” he says warmly. “My name is David Smith. It’s very nice to finally meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, David. And please, you can just call me Breezy,” I correct, plastering on my most friendly smile.
“Of course. Breezy.” He consults his notes, the glow of his screen reflecting off his frames. “Let’s get down to business and talk opportunities. I’m honestly not sure if I’ve ever had someone get so many offers at one time. Needless to say, the interest for you has been significant. MoMA is seeking a Senior Curator of Contemporary Works. Art Basel has an opening for Global Acquisitions. And a foundation in London is very interested. Excellent salary, extensive travel, and as you know, quite the prestige.”
He continues rattling off more job opportunities, and I nod in the right places, hands laced tight in my lap.
Frankly, each job should thrill me. At twenty-five, I would’ve killed for them. At thirty, I did the work of all those titles combined. But at thirty-nine, listening to him list them kind of feels like hearing the door of a prison cell slide shut.
“So…what do you think, Breezy?” David asks, steepling his hands on his desk.
“They all sound…good,” I manage, but my voice sounds flat to my own ears. I clear my throat and try to add a little pep in my step. “Great, even.”
“I thought they were all pretty great too,” he says, already typing. “How about I push your name forward, and we can arrange some conversations as soon as next week? I think that’s what will really help you figure out where you want to land.”
All I can do is nod, even though, deep down, I don’t want to bother with any of it.
When the call ends, I close the laptop harder than necessary and sit in the hush of the room. My chest feels hollow, my throat is dry, and my stomach is aching with nausea. Not to mention, my head is spinning like a top.
I’m not so sure diving back into the art world is where I want to be.
Not so sure? Feels like the nausea is a pretty telltale sign of your true feelings.
I grab my phone to take it off silent and see if Tad sent me any texts, but I find three missed calls from Logan. They’re stacked on the screen like bricks, and a new voice mail banner is highlighted at the top.
I stare at it for a long moment before I press play.
“Breeze, it’s me. Logan. You know, the brother you hate and refuse to talk to.” His voice is raw and stressed in a way I’m not used to hearing. “Look, I… This is bad. I’m drowning here. The board’s on me, the attorneys won’t stop calling, I don’t even know half the fucking curators’ names. All I know is they’re not happy at all. They don’t want to work for me. They want to work for you. I’m supposed to be on location in Santa Fe in three months, and there is no fucking way I can keep up with this. I’ve already had to cancel photo shoots and press junkets and a million other fucking things. Please. Help me.”