mounted above the door.
Alexander would be opening his showcase in half an hour. He’d be pacing his gallery, straightening already perfectly straight paintings, queasy in anticipation.
Logan pulled away from Luci and walked brusquely down the hall. Luci trotted after him. “Where are you going?”
Logan stopped and looked at her. “Ask anyone who’s not working auditions if they’d help me out. Brett, Jeb, Ace, Cole, my brother—is Isaac from costume and makeup here? Tell them to meet in the kitchen if they can.”
Logan ducked into the dressing room and searched the racks for suits. His gaze snagged on the mirror. His eyes glimmered with hope. The rest of him jittered with nerves.
This was what he needed to do.
Jane stepped out from behind a rack of dresses. Her eyes were red, but the rest of her face was sharp-nosed and contrary. She paused, aware of his presence. “Peter left me.”
“Better in bed, didn’t flake out of college, cultured Peter?”
“Apparently, I am socially inept. I expect too high a standard of everyone I involve myself with.”
Logan murmured to himself. This was why Alexander had needed to accept his brother’s bet. Why, in the end, he’d moved. “You’re Alexander if his brother hadn’t intervened.”
“What?” Jane frowned. “Who’s Alexander?”
Logan stared vacantly at Jane’s reflection. “He’s the one who put in effort to change. He’s the one I quit our bet for. He is the one.”
Surprised flickered in Jane’s reflection. “You’ve met someone? A guy?”
“I have, and I don’t need to be highly educated or cultured for him to like me.” He pivoted, looking directly at her. This is what it had taken his whole life to realize. To accept. “I clown around.” The words breezed out of him. “I make people smile.”
“What—”
“I’m worthy.”
Jane grimaced. “I implied otherwise?”
“You said otherwise.”
Jane absorbed that, then looked away. “It seems,” she said quietly, “I have some reflection to do.”
She moved for the door, and Logan spoke. “You’re smart, talented, and good looking—”
“—and I’m a bitch. I get it.”
“You have been,” Logan agreed and opened the door for her. “But you don’t have to be.”
Jane left, her deflated form turning toward the bathrooms.
Logan headed for the kitchen and bumped into Callum, who looked bone-weary.
“Logan,” Callum said, “what’s all this about? I have work to finish.”
“It’s Friday evening. You’re not running auditions. You can take a break, and moreover, you should.”
“You’re sounding like Jeb.”
“You should listen to him.”
Callum swallowed. Oh well, Jeb and Callum would figure it out eventually. Right now he had something else to say. “Callum?”
“Yeah?”
“I know I don’t officially work here, but I do all the leftover chores you hate and fill in when anyone is sick.”
Callum frowned.
Logan spelled it out for him. “Dude, next time invite me to bond with the crew.”
“Oh, it was art, I didn’t think—” Callum stopped. “Shit, I’m sorry, Logan.”
“I hope you enjoyed deconstructing the avant-garde as much as I did with Alexander.”
Logan loved the priceless surprise on his brother’s face. “Your roommate took you?”
“My friend, who I’d love for you to meet.” Logan ushered him into the kitchen.
A thirty-plus crowd of his Paragon friends and family—and Granny—had gathered on the couches, and they all looked to him when he strode inside.
Wow, all to help him?
He stopped in the middle of the bright room, met their gazes, and began . . .
Chapter Twenty-Five
ALEXANDER
* * *
“You’ve only one case of bubbly,” Nico said. “I doubt that’ll last the night.”
“Last year we only drank two bottles. It’d be a miracle if we emptied a dozen.”
Alexander opened the gallery door, and his summer showcase had officially launched.
Two of his artists had arrived earlier and were talking in between their mounted paintings. They eyed the door, as if expecting a hoard of guests.
By Alexander’s count, a couple of dozen would stop by tonight, hopefully with spouses and friends.
He beckoned the first guests in—Dylan Halsworth, his partner Chris, and Mary—with a warm welcome. Nico handed them each a flute of bubbly.
Was the music too loud? Or not loud enough?
The art, of course, spoke for itself. He’d chosen a small collection of artists whose rare works he believed deserved attention, deserved to be displayed in nice homes.
His clients kept eyeing the door skeptically.
He’d invited all of his contacts. Had his reputation burned bridges for good?
Another couple guests!
His clients looked only marginally pleased, but introduced themselves politely. He checked the time. Ten minutes since they’d opened. He was due to give a speech in an hour. He hoped to see more than six people—eight including his brother and student hire.