That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (16 page)

It took longer than expected, but when she test-drove it she couldn't get the rattling to come back. Satisfied, she returned it to the fire station.

As she pulled up in front, she noticed the entire fire company on the sidewalk, pointing and talking. She parked in the driveway and looked at what they were pointing at. The tarp that had been draped over the side of her building was gone, though the scaffolding was still there. The new mural peeked boldly from between the metal beams.

"Holy shit," she exclaimed as she really looked at Fabio's mural, jumping out of the Bronco. "What the hell?"

Pete stepped away from the other guys. "I take it you didn't commission Popeye."

She shook her head, her hand covering her mouth. The mural was definitely retro, the way Fabio had said he envisioned. An enormous sailor stretched along the front of the building, with disproportionate forearms, one with a naked tattoo woman on it. He had a cigar in his mouth and a wrench in his hand. The kicker: he had long red hair, like she did.

George faced Pete, horrified. "Is that supposed to be me?"

"I don't know." Pete tipped his head to study the painting. "Do you often go in drag?"

"If I did, I hope I'd look better than that."

"Nice painting, George," one of the firemen called.

She groaned. She'd wanted to redo the garage in her image, but she hadn't thought that her image would be a grotesque cartoon. She tugged her hair, not sure what to do. The celebration Sebastian wanted to have wasn't far off, but
this
wasn't what she wanted to celebrate. This wasn't her any more than the old boring façade was.

Pete patted her back. "Look on the bright side."

"What?"

"When a guy sees that, he's sure to think you're stunning in comparison."

She groaned again and headed to see if Fabio was around.

Alex met her at the entrance of the garage. His eyes were wide, and he looked shell-shocked—not his normal look by any stretch of the imagination.

"So you saw the mural," she said in a bleak tone.

"The mural?" He frowned. "I'm talking about the furniture."

"Please tell me it arrived."

"Oh, it arrived. The deliverymen are cleaning up the debris now."

His ominous tone raised the hair on her arms. She rushed inside on the wave of a bad feeling.

She stopped abruptly in the waiting room. She blinked to clear her vision, because she had to be seeing wrong, but the fussy Victorian-style furniture was still in her waiting area. "What is this?"

"The furniture that was ordered," the smaller of the two deliverymen said. He had the clipboard, so he had to be in charge.

She shook her head, looking at the ornate, delicate pieces in powder blue, with flowers embroidered on the cushions. They looked like they belonged in a Victorian house. "I ordered retro furniture, but not this retro."

"It's what I've got here." He came over and showed her a bunch of numbers that made no sense to her.

"There's been a mix-up," she tried again. "I—"

"You're going to need to take it up with the sales team," he said as they edged out of the garage. "They'll be able to tell you what to do."

"But this can't stay here," she protested, following them outside. "This is a repair shop! We don't serve high tea."

"Maybe it's time for a career change," Alex muttered.

She glared at him.

Alex blinked, his face going blank. "Ah, George?"

"What?" she barked, pulling at her hair.

"The furniture is the least of your problems," he said, pointing at the mural.

"No kidding."

"For the record, you're prettier than he is."

"Thanks." She swallowed her stomach, which was trying to rise up her throat. She hugged herself. "This is awful."

Alex shrugged. "It could be worse."

She shook her head, facing him. "How?"

He pursed his lips, thinking. Then he said, "I may need some time to come up with something."

She glanced at the crowd gathering outside to gape at the mural and lowered her head into her hands.

Alex clapped a hand on her shoulder and guided her back into the garage. "Come on. It won't look so bad once you get used to it."

She glanced at him. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"No, but I thought it might sound reassuring." He shrugged and wandered back to his station.

When Ariana walked in a half hour later, George was doubled over in her chair, trying not to hyperventilate. Talking to the salespeople at the furniture company had done squat, and she couldn't reach Fabio either. She'd left a message for Sebastian, hoping he'd be able to help. Otherwise she was the proud owner of grandma couches and one cross-dressing Popeye.

"Are you dying?" her best friend asked with mild concern. "You look like you're dying."

George lifted her head. "Did you see the mural?"

"Is it done?" Ariana asked with enthusiasm as she went back outside. One minute later she returned, her eyes wide with shock. "Did you have a secret desire to be Popeye that I never knew about?"

"No." She pointed at the waiting room. "Now go look in there."

Ariana went to the doorway. Her gasp was so loud they could probably hear it at the yoga studio down the street. "Why did you change the furniture you and Sebastian picked out?" she asked when she returned.

"I didn't. It just showed up."

"You're having a bad day."

George didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Have you talked to Sebastian?" Ariana asked.

"I left him a message."

"I'll make sure he knows what's going on." She peeked at the waiting room again. "Dolores would have loved your new theme. She'd have been over here all the time, just to sit with you."

George smiled sadly. "She would have asked to take it if I didn't want it."

"She was a nice lady." Ariana gave her a half hug. "Hang in there. Sebastian will help."

Call her skeptical, but there seemed to be very little anyone could do at this point.

Going back to work, she couldn't concentrate no matter how loud she turned up the music. The constant stream of people standing outside the garage to gawk at the mural would have been impressive if it hadn't been at her expense.

She was standing over the car she was supposed to finish when she felt someone at her back. She turned around, already knowing who was there. The desire to put her head on his shoulder and let him comfort her was overwhelming.

"I don't have it in me to fight you today," she said, feeling her shoulders slump as she faced Remy.

Approaching her, he lifted her chin. "Because of the mural?"

"Because of everything." She tipped her head toward the waiting room. "There's also that horror."

He walked to the doorway and came back a moment later with an amused glint in his eyes. "Interesting decorating choice on both ends. I've known girls who wanted to grow up to be Wonder Woman, but I'd never met one who wanted to be Popeye."

"Don't even start." She crossed her arms. "I blame you for the mural."

"I know," he said.

She made a face. "You aren't even going to deny that you're responsible?"

"It wouldn't help you right now." He folded his arms. "We could strike a bargain."

She narrowed her eyes. "And do I have to give you my firstborn?"

"Tango with me, Georgina. I'll repaint your mural in exchange for one night of dancing."

She shivered. Looking into his eyes, she wanted to give in to temptation—it'd been so long.

He must have sensed her wavering. "One night. We don't even have to do it in public. We can dance here, or at my loft. It's just one night, and I'll fix the atrocity on your building."

She winced. "It's really bad, isn't it?"

"Yes."

The idea of going any length of time with it on her building made her cringe. She found herself nodding. "One night."

His entire body relaxed. "Tomorrow night."

"And you'll start to repaint my wall?"

"I said I would. Wear those shoes tomorrow"—he pointed to the devil shoes on the desk—"and the dress."

She growled.

Remy smiled. "I promise it'll be worth it."

And she had a feeling the price was going to be high.

Remy paused in the doorway of In Vino Veritas. He felt like he'd walked into the past, specifically the small
enoteca
in Bologna that he and Giselle had stumbled upon on their honeymoon. If he closed his eyes, he knew he'd be able to hear her laugh and the way she hummed in delight every time the shopkeeper poured her a delicious wine.

Don't close your eyes.
Her voice was commanding in his head.
You need all the help from your senses that you can get.

Right. Shaking his head, he looked around to find his appointment.

Across the store, in the back, a man sat quietly watching him. Wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a couple of buttons on his shirt open, he was dressed like a businessman on a casual day. His watch was expensive, and his gaze was shrewd.

And not particularly welcoming.

But it wasn't malevolent. Remy's curiosity piqued, and he headed over to see why the man had asked him to meet.

The man stood as Remy approached, his hand outstretched. "Sebastian Tate. Thanks for meeting me."

"Your phone call was cryptic." Remy took the seat the man indicated. "Have we met before?"

"Not formally. I've been to several of your shows."

Remy stilled, cautious. "That was a different lifetime."

Tate watched him with that shrewd gaze. "I hear you don't sculpt any longer."

"True." He looked around for a server. He needed a glass in his hand, even if he wasn't going to drink the wine. "Look, if you're looking for a commission, I can refer you to another artist."

"If you don't take commissions, why did you tell George you're going to repaint her mural?"

Remy blinked. "This is about the mural?"

"No, this is about George."

Georgina? He stared at the man coolly. "Are you interested in her?" he asked reluctantly.

Tate laughed. "Yeah, but not like that, so you can calm down."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"I think you do." Tate leaned in, all the humor leaving his expression. "George is my girlfriend's best friend, so that makes her important to me. She and I have been working hard to ensure the success of her business, and I won't have anyone dick around with it."

"You see me as dicking around?" Remy asked drily.

"It's exactly what you're doing." Tate speared him a look. "We both know you never intended on painting the mural before. Why would you repaint it now?"

He hadn't really planned to repaint the mural, but he couldn't bring himself to admit that. He had a feeling if he did, this man would make sure he wasn't allowed near Georgina again.

You need to paint the mural
.