Tequila Rose (Tequila Rose #1) - Willow Winters Page 0,13

once that everyone knows everyone.

He turns his head to get a good look at her and his brow furrows. “Yeah, sure. She’s a few years younger than me, I think. My uncle knew her family, or at least he knew her father. Pretty sure everyone did. Magnolia Williamson.”

“Magnolia,” I say, repeating her name so I can ease my voice over the softly spoken syllables. I don’t remember ever meeting a Magnolia. She disappears out of my line of sight and I turn my attention back to Griffin. “I don’t know anyone named Magnolia, but she seems familiar.”

“Her father ran some faulty investment scheme that went downhill. He lost a lot of money for a lot of people. Then the asshole went and died a few years ago and left her to pick up the pieces. Gum?”

Griffin holds out a stick of Wrigley’s gum for me to take.

“No thanks,” I say and wave him off.

He squints and looks at me as he shoves the piece into his mouth. “Why so curious?”

I shrug and swing around to the door of my pickup.

“She reminds me of a girl I once knew. But her name was Rose.”

Magnolia

Placing another sold sign on the original piece from a local artist, I let the sense of pride I’m feeling prance into a smile on my face. The new website is working like a dream.

And that was my idea.

A giddy little dance, one that lasts all of five seconds and ends with me looking over my shoulder to make sure no one passing by the empty art gallery was watching, is my reward. That and a bigger paycheck.

The art in the gallery is stunning and photography can’t capture it. Video sure does a hell of a good job, though. My black heels go clickety-click on the old worn barn floors of the gallery as I make my way back to the counter. It’s the only piece of furniture in this place, bar the two simple white benches at the very front by the twin bay windows. We have art displayed both on the wall and on easels. No drinks are allowed in here so we don’t have a reason for tables, unless we’re holding an event.

The twelve-foot-high ceilings are white, as are the walls. It’s stark and bare, which it should be if you ask me. The art is the point. The art should be everything. Those pieces are the only thing anyone should be looking at in here.

Every square inch of this place is perfect … because the art is unique, exceptional and fully on display.

It sells substantially better online, though. Especially now that we have videos of each individual piece and a strong social media presence.

Nowadays, everything sells better online according to Mandy. My boss has a generation of experience more than me, complete with darn good taste. She also has a closet and a half of high-end clothes for all her trips up to New York that make me envious of her. And a husband who loves her and two perfect children who are my age but still in college. Graduate school for one, med school for the other.

She’s the epitome of what every one of my classmates wanted to be when I was at UD for art history.

Her own gallery, trips to every opening around the world worth mentioning in Aesthetica Magazine … and the well-rounded social life of a wife and mother. I’m nowhere near her level. I get her coffee, I crunch the numbers and manage the advertising, and in return, she lets me pick the art.

My gaze wanders to the paper cup of coffee I got for her, knowing she’ll be in for the weekly meeting in T-minus five minutes.

Mandy offered to pay my way to a handful of out-of-state galas this past year, but I always said no. Bridget is just a little young for me to feel comfortable leaving her for that long. Mandy knows, but she still always asks.

It’s e-ver-y-thing when she comes back with pictures and stories about the events and artists. I may be working under her, but I still get to live the dream vicariously through her. One day, I’ll be in her shoes. I know I will. Years ago, I may have thought it would never happen, but I’ve clawed my way past that depression and now I know I won’t stop until I’m on top like she is. Until then, she’ll get me the new artists I’m dying to feature, and I get