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Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Protective Billionaire Boss
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Contents
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Single Dad Billionaire Boss
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
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Copyright © 2023 by Evie Sterling All rights reserved.
Warning: No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s creation. Any resemblance of actual people or events are coincidental.
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Chapter 1 Bella
Go ahead. Meet the artist you most admire in the world at a ridiculously fancy restaurant Uptown, I told myself. Pitch your idea for a show at her gallery. You can handle the pressure. And I was handling it. My nerves. My fears.
My expectations. Until… oh, about an hour ago.
For the past sixty minutes, I’ve been coming apart at the seams. Now, I’m hopping on one foot in front of the full- length mirror propped in the corner of my studio apartment, trying to tug a spike-heeled shoe over my very uncooperative toes.
I hate heels.
This pair pinches, and I grimace as I wrench it over my poor piggies. I’m wearing a wrinkled black dress, and my hair is dripping wet. The wrinkles I can handle. They’ll smooth out as I walk to the subway station, three blocks away. But my hair?
I cringe as I lean in closer to the mirror and examine the mess of black waves that I’ve pulled over my shoulder. I wish I’d had the foresight to buy a hairdryer. My old one shorted out a month ago and I haven’t yet replaced it.
“I have two options,” I mutter, as I run my fingers along the mess, trying to wick away some water. “Either chop it off or let it air dry like this.”
Bo, my border collie, flicks his blue eyes my way. He’s lounging on my bed as though he’s some sort of ancient Greek king, about to be hand-fed grapes. As our eyes connect, he flaps his tail up and down a couple of times. It makes a soft thumping sound against my worn comforter.
Thanks for the encouragement, Bo.
Chopping my hair off at this exact moment wouldn’t be the wisest decision. The last time I gave myself a hair‐ cut, a woman on the subway locked eyes with me and made me voice a solemn oath that I’d never attempt to give myself bangs again.
Air dry it is.
I wobble over to the garment rack propped against one wall and slide out the plastic bin I keep nestled beneath hanging sweaters and pants. I’ve told myself many times that I don’t need a closet, and that this vintage rack will do, but when it comes right down to it… nope.
I nearly fall headfirst into the bin as I rummage through the pile of clutches, pocketbooks, and slouchy shoulder bags. I yank out a little canvas pocketbook with a few daisies printed on the front. It’s not even close to a match with my plain black dress, but the sound of a knock at the door makes me forget all about my suddenly higher- than-usual style standards.
“Shh!” I press my finger to my lip and give Bo a stern stare before he can utter his first round of barks.
Then I tip-toe toward the peephole and peer out. Oh, thank the heavens. It’s not my landlord.
I yank open the door.
My guest raises his dirty-blond eyebrow and delivers a stern look at the pocketbook in my hands. The look reminds me of the one I just gave my dog.
“That bag, with that dress? Really, Bella? Have I taught you nothing?”
Pheneous Fitzgerald, or Fizzy, as everyone calls him, is the best-dressed person I’ve ever met. And it’s always been like that. I remember our first day of kindergarten together. I peered down the row of cubby holes where we were supposed to stuff our lunch boxes and noted his little round spectacles, starched white shirt, and a tiny bow tie.
And he’s still rocking that style, to this day.
I give an unhappy sigh as I usher him in and close the door behind us. “I almost had a heart attack, Fizzy. I thought you were my landlord for a sec.”
“Is he supposed to come by and give you pointers about how to dress for an important, potentially career- altering meeting? Because you need them. Why do you look like you just stepped out of the Hudson?”
I ignore the way he waves a hand at my damp hair and march back toward the garment rack. “He’s been stopping by all week, trying to get rent.”
“Oh, how awful. A landlord, trying to get rent money from a tenant. How dare he.”
As usual, Fizzy wanders to the kitchen and opens my fridge. I’m not sure what it is about traveling into NYC from his home in Silver Springs, upstate, that always makes him so famished, but it’s always this way. Maybe it has something to do with how much brainpower it takes to battle city traffic. Sometimes when he gets in we head straight to a diner a few blocks down from my apartment, but we won’t be doing that tonight.
Tonight, I’m meeting Maxine Finch. My idol.
A painter I’ve worshiped since I was thirteen. In my world, Maxine is more of a superstar than Taylor Swift
I feel like I’m about to go slurp down butternut squash with a worldfamous celebrity. Not only is Maxine a painter whose work I worship, but she’s also a gallery owner who holds the key to my career.
Tonight, we’re supposed to discuss whether my work is worthy of a show at her prestigious gallery.
My stomach is in a knot as I finally locate a black clutch that won’t look terrible with my dress.
I’m not at all surprised when I turn and see that Fizzy’s sniffing a box of Chinese takeout. “Is this still good?” he asks.
“It’s from last night. You can have it.”
He sets it on the counter just in time to bend over and sneeze into his elbow. I notice how red his nose is as he wipes it with his handkerchief.
“Allergies acting up?”
“Some awful thing out there is blooming. I thought I was through the worst of it now that it’s June, but good old Mother Nature… She always has something new and wondrous to dish up to us humans at her mercy, doesn't she? And, of course, that mongrel doesn’t help.” He pokes a pair of chopsticks Bo’s way and then resumes digging through the carton.
Bo, appreciative of attention in any form that it might come in, thumps his tail against the bed. He rolls slightly, exposing his belly. Clearly, he wants Fizzy to come to him and give him some nice tummy rubs.
“Hi, Bo,” Fizzy says. “If it’s alright with you, I’m going to stay over here.”
“I bet it’s the butterfly weeds that are sprouting up around the trees out there. That stuff always goes nuts this time of year. You took some kind of medicine before you left Silver Springs, right?”
“I see what you’re doing… changing the subject. I won’t have it. I drove all this way to give you some exciting news in person. We’re not going to waste another precious moment talking about me, my runny nose, and my itchy eyes. Ah-choo!”
“Wait, what news? I hoped you were here to help me get ready for this meeting with Maxine. I have to leave in…” I sneak a peek at my cell phone and frown. “Yikes. Twenty minutes. We can meet up afterwards if you’re up for it.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. Tonight, after your meeting, I want you to meet a guy from Silver Springs.”
He pauses and delivers another honking sneeze into his handkerchief. “Ugh. Genetics, why did you forsake me?” He shakes a fist at the sky dramatically and then adjusts his glasses. “Look, I know you’ve been low on funds lately.”
“‘Low’ is a major understatement. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to pay for this dinner tonight. I checked out the menu online… Twenty-five bucks for a glass of wine. One glass!” I prop my makeup bag on the windowsill and rummage around until I find my liquid black eyeliner.
“Exactly my point. You can’t go on like this. And that’s my news: I have a lead on a big pay-day for you. Remember Damian Knight?”
It’s hard to focus on whatever Fizzy’s jabbering about while trying to craft the perfect winged lines on my upper eyelids. “Hm?”
“Damian Knight. Of course, you remember him. We went to school with him. The richest kid in town, about six years older than us…? He was already off in college by the time we were in high school, so you probably didn’t see him much for a few years before you left town, but I’m sure you know who I’m talking about.”
“Yeah, yeah… the Knight boy.” I grew up, as Fizzy did, in Silver Springs, a small town in northern New York. The Knight family was the
wealthiest in town by far, thanks to the fact that they owned the Bubbly Springs Soda Company. To this day, I can’t see a can of Bubbly Springs without thinking of that family.
“He’s some sort of art collector these days, is that right?” I ask as I use a powder brush to dust bronzer on my cheeks.
“Exactly. His collection of abstract art is getting more and more attention from the press and other art aficionados. And he’s interested in commissioning an artist for a big new piece he wants done. I suggested he get together with you to discuss it.”
“Me?” I pause my make-up applying to give Fizzy a puzzled look. “Why me? I don’t do abstract. It’s not my thing. You know that.”
“But you could, couldn’t you? If the price is right.”
“Nope. Unhunh.” I shake my head and then zip up my makeup bag. I pluck a white cardigan off of its hanger and drape it over one arm. “I can’t totally change my style, just so I can get paid. Besides, isn’t Damian… difficult? Like, total grump, negative Nancy, party pooper?”
“Let’s give him some credit. He’s in a tough position. Half the town works for Bubbly Springs these days. Damian has to keep his distance if he wants to be an effective boss.”
“Well, he can effectively boss other people around, not me. Pass.”
“Before you ‘pass’ can you just hear me out? Yes, he’s a grouch. He’s difficult. But I think he’s a good guy, beneath it all. When he mentioned he’d be in the city this weekend I said you’d be happy to meet with him to discuss the opportunity. I hoped to be there to facilitate, but with this allergy attack—ahchoo!—I don’t know that I’ll be able to make it.”
“Fizzy…” I groan and then check my watch. If I don’t leave in ten minutes, I’m going to be late for the most important meeting of my life. “No. You’re going to have to call him up and cancel.”
I plop down onto the bar stool near my friend and reach for one of the bottled waters he retrieved from the fridge. My frenzied state has left me parched.
As I twist the top off, Fizzy pulls a few glossy pages from his messenger bag and spreads them on the counter before me. “Don’t make a rash decision about this. Look— the guy is a true supporter of the arts.”
I lean in intending to read the magazine article.
It’s hard to focus on fine print, however, when a photo of a gorgeous guy is also staring me in the face.
Wow.
Damian Knight grew up to be smokin’ hot. My eyes linger on the man’s dark, broody eyes, his chiseled jaw, and the way his muscular frame fills out his perfectly fitted designer suit.
“Dang… I remember him as a skinny, gangly dude with a mop of dark hair.”
“He grew up to be quite the looker, didn’t he? The ladies in town know it, too. It’s almost funny how they run after him when he goes out for errands. I’ve seen him get nearly tackled in the checkout line at the market. Poor guy.”
“Boo hoo. He’s a total trust funder, and he looks like a male model straight off the pages of GQ. Life must be so hard for him. Yeah, right.”
“I don’t know… His mother’s a nightmare. She wants him married off, like, yesterday. I think he’s had to put up quite a battle. It’s no wonder he’s such a recluse. I had a bear of a time trying to get a word with him. I felt just as bad as the single women in town when I cornered him at the bank.”
“You cornered him?”
“I wanted to get a good word in, about you. It wasn’t easy to set up this meeting, either. He ducked and dodged like a pro, but I managed to get the last word in before he could come up with yet another excuse.”
I tear my focus away from Damian’s stunning features and my eyes flit over the few other photos that accompany the text. There’s an image of his home, which he designed, apparently. The thing’s a huge, sprawling mass of cement and steel that looks more like a prison than a home, to me. Aware I’m running out of time, I skim the article next. It details Damian’s swiftly growing collection of abstract paintings and sculptures. I finish reading, then slug down the last of my water.
I pour a second bottle into Bo’s dish, and then top off his food bowl, too. “Look, I appreciate that you went to all that trouble. But—”
Fizzy holds up a hand. “Wait. Just stop right there. Please don’t insist that I cancel. Give it some thought.” He pulls his phone from his bag and taps the screen. “I’m forwarding you his contact info and the address where you’re supposed to meet him. Believe me when I say I went all out to get this. If you decide you want to cancel, you can call it off yourself.”
We chat for another few minutes as I make my final rounds, close up windows and kiss Bo on the top of the head to say goodbye.
“Wish me luck with Maxine,” I say to Fizzy, as I head for the door.
“You’re gonna kill it,” he says, as he gives me a peck on the cheek. “And really, your hair’s going to be fine, and that bag is a much better accessory with that dress. I’m staying with Aunt Lydia in Queens tonight and I’m sure I’ll be snoozing before you wrap up your evening. I’m going to take two Benadryl and watch Netflix until I pass out. But give me a call in the morning so we can chat.”
He promises to lock up behind me, and then squeezes my hands and gives me one more encouraging kiss on the cheek.
Within minutes I’m out on the sidewalk, heading east toward the subway station that will take me Uptown to Le Petit Lapin. I should be running through the points I want to get across to Maxine while we nibble slices of baguette and brandy-marinated pheasant, or whatever it is that people order at fancy French restaurants these days. Instead, I can’t get the photo of Damian Knight out of my mind.
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Chapter 2
Bella
One of these forks must be for the salad. Probably the smallest one. Or is that the dessert fork? My hand hovers over the array of utensils, and I feel my cheeks flush.
Thankfully, Maxine doesn’t pay my hesitation any mind. She plucks up a fork and digs into her own plate of balsamic-dressing glazed spinach leaves.
“Actually, Bella,” she says, after munching and patting her lips with a white cloth napkin, “I’ve had my eye on your work ever since I saw it on display at the New York University benefit dinner, several years ago.”
“Wow. I mean… Thank you. That’s… wow.”
Ugh. If I could speak English, that’d be great.
Again, Maxine graciously overlooks my awkwardness. “Your paintings have a lovely whimsical quality to them. It’s clear to me you’ve intentionally developed your style over the years. Impressionism at its roots, but with your own flavor, if you know what I mean. It’s rare to see that in a young artist. Most waffle a bit, for the first half of their careers. I find that usually, true, unique style doesn’t show up until an artist turns fifty, even sixty. And yet with you… hm. You’re different. You’re not quite thirty, is that right?”
“I’ll turn thirty on October 26th.” I clear my throat and try to summon some courage. For the past half hour, ever since I sat down, I haven’t been
able to trust my vocal cords. On a few occasions, literal mouse sounds came out instead of words. “I—I hope this doesn’t sound crazy, but for years I’ve focused on one goal.”
“And that is…?”
“A show at your gallery. Before my thirtieth birthday.”
She chuckles.
It’s not exactly the response I hoped for. I feel my cheeks start to burn, and I stuff a spinach leaf in my mouth in an attempt to look as though I’m not dying inside.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry to laugh. I see you’re serious about this. You’re a go-getter. I only laugh because it’s bewildering, how much you remind me of myself when I was young and finding my way. My big break happened at a gallery on West 24th Street, you know. Overnight, everything changed. One day, I could barely get anyone to take a second look at my work, and the next thing I knew the Met was hounding me, asking when I could get new pieces to them for display.”
I almost drool onto my salad plate. That. I want that.
She chuckles again. “I can see you’re hoping for the same sort of transformation. And you have paid your dues…”
Suddenly, she sets down her fork, tents her fingers, and narrows her eyes. Friendly Maxine is gone, and in her place, I see a savvy gallery owner who knows what it takes to run a business in this competitive city. “Let me put it to you straight, Bella. I like your paintings. I do. And I have an opening this October—the second half of the month. I’m looking for a new, rising talent to feature, and I’m almost convinced that you’re the perfect fit. Almost.”
I gulp. “What… er, what’s holding you back?” “Your portfolio… It’s missing something.”
As I wait for her to go on, my stomach performs gymnastic moves I didn’t know it was capable of. Flips. Flops. Summersaults.
A knot forms in my throat.
What does she mean, my portfolio is ‘missing something.’ What is it missing?
The silence stretches between us for a long minute as Maxine chooses her words.
Finally, she says, “A focal piece. That’s what’s missing. A painting that showcases your unique style and ties all of your works together. A pièce de
résistance, if you will. I’m thinking… a large painting. Twice the size of anything you’ve done. A landscape, of course. Water, trees, that magical sky you’re earning yourself such a name for. I’ll leave the rest up to you. What do you think? Can you manage that?”
I stare wide-eyed at her. I know I must look weird with my eyes bugged out like this, but I can’t help it. I can’t blink.
If I create one more landscape, she’ll actually hang my paintings—my paintings! —in her world-famous gallery.
She waits patiently while I gather myself.
I feel my lashes flutter. I reach for my water glass to soothe my parched throat. All the tension I’ve been coping with gives way to a rushing excitement. “Yes,” I say, nodding numbly. “Yes, I can definitely do that.”
She nods. “Good. That’s settled. I’ll tentatively put you in the books for the third and fourth weeks of October. We can touch base later this summer to confirm. That will give you enough time to get that final painting underway. Now, what do you say we put business aside and enjoy our meal? Have you eaten here before?”
I’M AN IDIOT, I realize, as I watch Maxine hail a cab. I’m standing on the sidewalk, hugging my cardigan-clad arms, mentally kicking myself.
It’s been two hours since I made that foolish promise to Maxine: “Yes, I can definitely do that.” Definitely.
Why did I have to throw in definitely?
Maxine waves at me from within a cab before it whisks her away, and I’m left on my own out in front of the restaurant.
I head north, only vaguely aware that I’m walking. Inside, I’m running through every dumb word that escaped my lips throughout dinner. It’s half past eight, and the sky has turned purplish-blue. The first stars are poking out.
I turn a corner, totally lost in thought. How on earth am I going to create the painting I just promised to Maxine?
I agreed so readily. So eagerly.
She brought up that final painting, and I nodded my head like I was one of those bobble-headed toys, glued to a car dashboard. “Yes, I can definitely do that.”
Can I really manage to create a new painting, twice the size of anything I’ve done in my career, over the next couple of months?
The answer—the real answer—hits me like a ton of bricks.
No. I can’t possibly pull that off.
I don’t have the canvas, the paints, or the time. I work two jobs these days and barely scrape by on that. I can’t paint.
Unless…I yank my cell phone out of my pocket and open Fizzy’s text. There’s Damian Knight’s number, along with the address for some place called the Hidden Garden on East 60th Street. I bite my lip and hesitate for a brief moment before tapping the number.
I lift my phone to my ear and listen to it ring.
“This is Damian.” The deep voice on the other end of the line sends a shiver down my spine. It has a gravely, croaky quality to it. I feel a little breathless as I picture the handsome man attached to the deep, resonant voice.
I clutch my cell and try to steady my breathing. “Hi, um… It’s Bella Sinclair here. My friend Fizzy gave me your number. I’m supposed to meet you at nine...?”
“That’s right.”
I twist a lock of hair as I turn and squint down the sidewalk. I catch sight of a street sign and make a few calculations. “I’m on the other end of Central Park and I’m running behind schedule. I might be a little late. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Without another word, he hangs up.
Sheesh. What a grouch.
But he’s a grouch with cash in his bank account—cash that he wants to hand out to an artist. With a potential pay day on my mind, I pick up my pace. Damian didn’t sound happy about waiting, and East 60th is miles away.
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Chapter 3 Damian
I shouldn’t have agreed to this meeting. It’s already nine, and the artist woman I’m supposed to meet is nowhere in sight. If not for the pushiness of that spectacle-wearing man at the bank…
What was his name again? Something idiotic. Fuzzy. Floppy. Fizzy, that’s it. Another local character whom I’ve managed to avoid over the years. He owns a blog, I’ve heard. I’ve had several requests from him for interviews over the years, but of course, I’ve declined.
I do my best not to socialize with Silver Springs locals.
He cornered me, at the bank. I’d gone in to make a simple deposit, and there he was, lurking near the ATM. He lunged at me, boxed me into the alcove near the cash machine, and practically wouldn’t let me leave until I’d agreed to meet with this friend of his, Bella Sinclair.
My neck and upper back ache from the four-hour drive into the city that I’d endured that afternoon. Usually, these jaunts of mine into Manhattan are my escape from work, small-town life, and my mother.
I like to drive in on a Friday afternoon, hole up in my luxury penthouse suite, and enjoy a full forty-eight hours without thinking about soda, employees, or the latest social engagement my mother’s cooking up.
I should be at my penthouse now. In the jacuzzi tub, soaking my aching back, listening to some soothing music.
Instead, I’m here at the Hidden Garden, sitting in a stiff chair, waiting for a woman who should’ve been here— I lower my eyes to my wristwatch —nine minutes ago.
I groan inwardly, and then sip my whisky on the rocks. The private club where I reserved a table has both an interior space and an outdoor patio. I’m seated in the latter, amidst a tangle of vines and flowers that crawl up the trellises on all sides. Candles dance on the tabletops and white lights zigzag overhead.
The sky above is getting darker by the minute, and I note a few new stars that poke out of the velvety sky.
A glance at my watch informs me that Bella is now eleven minutes late.
I’ll give her one more minute, and then I’ll leave.
I’m about to pay upwards of fifty grand for a painting, and I won’t award the work to an artist who is too flakey to make it to a meeting in a timely fashion.
The seconds tick past.
I swallow one more sip of my drink and then set the glass, which is still nearly full, aside and search for a server. I’m not going to sit here sipping a drink when I could be at home enjoying a much-needed massage from the high- pressure jets in my bath.
I spot the waitress who brought me the drink, raise my hand, and wave her over.
As she nears the table, I see her priming her blonde hair. She flutters her lashes at me as she approaches. “Yes, Mr. Knight? I hope you’re not leaving already.”
I’m used to being treated this way… like an eligible bachelor. Which, technically, I am. I don’t wear a wedding band.
However, the women who see that bare left finger, and presume I’m looking for a mate have me all wrong.
I’m not some shark, on the move in the dark waters of this city at night until I bump into a single female.
On the contrary, I hope to not bump noses with anyone. Especially not a single female. They’re the worst kind of person to bump into, in my experience. I’d rather be cornered by that Fizzy fellow at the bank than endure the fawning and fussing that most women lay on me any chance they get.
I barely look at the waitress as I pull my wallet out. “I’m afraid so. If you could clear my tab…” I slip my Amex Black Card from my wallet. But before I can hand it over to her, I catch sight of a woman hurrying across the patio area. She’s making a beeline for this table.
Ah. This must be Bella.
Her hair’s long and wild looking, a mass of black waves. She's wearing a simple black dress and black high heels that she seems uncertain about walking in, especially over the uneven, natural stone patio floor.
I can’t help but notice that she’s not what I expected when I agreed to this meeting.
When Fizzy mentioned her name at the bank, I conjured up a vague memory. The face I attached to her name had dirt-smudged round cheeks, messy hair, and a fiery look in her dark, defiant eyes.
This woman heading my way now, however, is not that pudgy-faced, spunky girl from my memory banks.
Bella Sinclair grew up into a beauty.
I hesitate, my hand on the card.
“Of course, I can settle your tab, Mr. Knight.” The waitress gives me a few more flutters of her fake lashes as she holds out her hand.
But I tuck the card back into my wallet. “On second thoughts, I’ll stay.”
“Oh?” My adoring server glances over her shoulder, notices Bella, and scowls. “Oh. I see.” Her shoulders slump, but she manages to paste a professional smile back on. She’s less flirtatious now that she sees I have company. “Would you like me to get something for your guest?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
Bella reaches the table. “Damian Knight, right…? Hey. I am so sorry I’m late.”
I don’t bother answering the question of my identity, because clearly, she knows it’s me, seeing as she’s now lowering down into the chair across the table.
The candle between us flickers, casting a warm, golden glow over her features. Her eyes are still lively like I remembered. They’re chocolate brown, lined in black, and fringed in dark lashes. She scrunches her nose at me. “What is this place? I’ve lived in the city for years and never even heard of it. And they held me captive outside— even though I said I was here to meet you.”
“Did they?”
“The bouncer left me waiting while he came in to check with management. I’ve never been to a place like this. Members only… whooey! You really are a big deal these days, hm?”
So, she’s a talker.
I feel a headache edging in on my temples. As a rule, I don’t do well with talkative people. I prefer peace and quiet. Solitude.
Again, I think of my waiting jacuzzi bath.
It’s been a long day, and I’m not in the right frame of mind to endure small talk. In an effort to move the meeting along, I gesture to the drink menu. “Would you like something?” I ask Bella.
The waitress posies her pen over her pad. Bella picks up the menu, scans it, and quickly sets it back down. “You know what? I’m sort of over the whole over-priced drinks thing tonight. Just a water. Thanks.”
I shouldn’t speak up. This isn’t a date, and if I offer to buy her a drink, I might give her the wrong impression.
Then again… I hope to recruit her for a job. So, I open my mouth and blurt out, “Go ahead. My treat.”
“Really?” She blushes and flicks her eyes down to the menu she’d discarded. “Hm... well, okay then. I’ll have a Shirley Temple.”
A mocktail. She ordered a sugary, cherry-topped mocktail.
I find myself making more snap judgments about the woman across from me. On top of being disrespectful of other people’s time and too talkative, she’s perhaps childish and frivolous.
I try not to look at the graceful curve of her shoulder as she props her black clutch on the edge of the table.
The server hurries off. Bella flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I really am so sorry I’m late. I was way up past the north side of the park at this new place called Le Petit Lapin. Have you been? It’s super fancy. Like, fancier than this.”
She glances around us, then scrunches her nose again. Why is it so adorable when she does that?
Little wrinkles appear on the bridge of her slender nose, then fade as she gives me a quick smile. “Well, maybe not fancier. This place is over the top. Are those real magnolias over there?”
I don’t bother looking. “They’re not fake.”
“Wow. I swear, I never go out to places like this, and now here we are, two in one night. How did you even hear about this place?”
Good manners would dictate that I wait for her drink to arrive before launching into the meat of our discussion, but I’m not sure I can endure this chatter.
So, without answering her question, I cut to the chase. “Fizzy says you’re serious about your artwork. I looked at some of your paintings online. I’ve never seen one in person, but I found your website.”
“Oh, okay. We’re getting right into it, are we? It’s good to see you again, by the way. We grew up together, you know.”
What does she think we’re going to do, sit here and reminisce about the good old days in Silver Springs? Catch up for hours over drinks?
I don’t think so.
Time to get this meeting back on track.
But then she does that wrinkly nose thing again and I can’t remember how I planned on doing that.
She tucks her hair behind her ear and leans in toward me. “Is it a total treat for you, coming into the city? Or is it a drag? All the traffic and smog and everything, I mean. Compared to the country, the air here is like pea soup. I miss Silver Springs sometimes. It’s such a cute little town. My parents and I moved away when I was still a kid, really. Sixteen.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m boring you, aren’t I? Shoot.” She nips her plump bottom lip with her pearly white teeth, and—lord, help me—it’s nearly as adorable as when she wrinkles her nose. “I ramble when I’m nervous, and I’ve been on edge all day. That dinner took a lot out of me. Sorry. You go ahead. What were you saying?”
“I need a painting. Your friend Fizzy seems to think you’re more than capable of creating it for me. I took the liberty of checking into your bio, and I see that you attended the Rhode Island School of Design, as well as the graduate program at New York University. Impressive. I’m sure you’ve heard that I’m building a collection of abstract pieces…?”
“Right.” She averts her gaze.
“What I’d like to do is hire you to create an original work of abstract art. Hard-edge. Clean lines. Geometric forms. I can give you more specifics if we move forward. I’d like to unveil the piece at the museum I plan to open at the end of the summer. Are you familiar with the Founders Festival?”
“Oh yeah, for sure. From the time I was two or three until I was sixteen, I ate so much cotton candy and popcorn balls and all the rest at that festival, I usually had a stomachache for days after. My mom used to call it my “Founders Fest Bug.” She laughs. It’s a bubbly laugh, and a dimple digs into her right cheek.
The waitress drops off her drink, and Bella plucks it up and draws in a long sip through the straw. “Whew, I was thirsty. Is it hot out here, or is it just me?” She leans back and fans her face.
I must be making her nervous. It’s not hot on this patio.
In fact, the air’s abnormally cool for this time of year. “Is something wrong?” I ask.
She shakes her head vigorously and sucks down more of the drink. Buying herself time to think, maybe. About what? What could be going through her head, right now?
“I’m aware you’re probably tied up with other projects at the moment,” I tell her. “This work I’m proposing is on a tight timeline, and that’s not ideal. I’m also well aware that your style of painting is far from what I’m requesting. Your friend was insistent that we meet, otherwise I wouldn't be wasting your time.”
She keeps sucking down her Shirley Temple. I watch the second half of the bright red drink disappear.
Finally, she eats the cherry garnish and sets the empty glass aside. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Okay, I’ll take the job. Your painting… I’d be happy to work on it for you.”
“Well, that’s good news.” Why does she sound upset? Why is she frowning down at her hands? I scrunch my brow as I scrutinize her. “Are you sure? It’s a big project and I need full commitment.”
She keeps frowning as she nods. “I’m—I’m sure. Yeah, I’m sure.”
She doesn’t sound sure.
She reaches for her clutch and sets it down in her lap. “Hey, it’s been a long day, and I should probably get home to Bo. Can we iron out the rest of the details over the phone?”
“I’d rather solidify our agreement tonight.”
This knot in my neck will not go away. I reach up and rub the spot as I consider my massive to-do list. They haunt me—all the day-to-day tasks I
manage. I’m eager to tick this item so I can put my time into other projects, like getting the museum space ready for the big opening on August 29th.
I pick up my cell phone and unlock the screen. “I’ve written up a document about the painting. I’ll forward it to you so that you can read over my expectations. In the meantime, I’ll transfer twenty percent of the final payment. Do you use PayPal? Venmo?”
“Venmo’s fine but wait—We haven’t even talked money yet.”
“I’m offering fifty grand for the final piece, so I’ll send along ten thousand tonight. And when you’ve purchased supplies, send me the invoice and I’ll cover that, too.”
Her jaw drops. She adjusts her expression swiftly and then sticks out her hand. “Deal.”
I grip her hand and we shake. Her hand feels clammy and cool. She won’t look me in the eye.
What’s she hiding?
I don’t like it, but I’m not a man to second guess my decisions. I’ve just hired Bella Sinclair to paint for me, and how she handles the job will be up to her. Hopefully, she won’t disappoint me.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 4 Bella
I have skills.
Somehow, in the past twenty-nine years of surviving life on this planet, I learned how to jump from a frying pan into a fire.
My “Maxine Problem” just became my much bigger “Damian Problem.”
The elevator in my apartment building has been out of order for months. The stairwell smells of rotting fish and old sneakers. By the time I reach the sixth floor, I’m out of breath.
Breathe, Bella, I tell myself, as I teeter down the hall. I can’t wait to see Bo and get out of these freaking heels.
It’ll all be okay. I now have ten grand in my bank account, so I can afford to take time off from my stupid day-job as a remote administrative assistant to a tile company. Good riddance to that particular time-suck. I hope to never invoice another box of Desert Sands Matte Beige ceramic floor tile again in my life. And I won’t have to pick up waitressing shifts, either. I can focus on my art.
I’ll use the next two months to create a beautiful land‐ scape, exactly like Maxine requested. Damian won’t be happy when he sees it, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes. I’ll even give him all his money back. Soon enough, I’ll be rolling in dough. The show in Maxine’s gallery will finally launch my career, so refunding Damian’s ten grand won’t be a problem.
Breathe, I tell myself again. I’m going to get through this.
My hammering heart finally starts to slow down, but when I turn a corner and catch sight of my apartment’s front door, it fires up to the pace of a jackhammer all over again.
There’s a piece of paper taped to my door.
Even from halfway down the hall, I can see the angry red text stamped across the top: EVICTION NOTICE.
I feel woozy as I step up to it and start to read the fineprint. It’s a jumble of legal jargon that might as well be a different language altogether.
Behind me, someone coughs.
I turn and see my landlord, Lou. He’s in his usual saggy dungarees and sleeveless white muscle t-shirt. The gold chain around his neck disappears in the bed of gray fuzzy that sprouts up from under his shirt collar. “Hey hon, I thought that might be you passin’ by my door. Look, I know this isn’t pretty.” He gestures to the sign. “We all love havin’ you in the building. But rules is rules, ya know? I got people pounding down my door, askin’ for your place. Heck, I already got another guy lined up to sign a lease.”
“What are you saying?”
He shrugs. “Sorry. I hate to do this to you, but you’re out. Technically, you got sixty days, but I’m getting maintenance in to fix that leaky sink of yours, starting tomorrow morning.”
“I put in a work order for that thing last winter!”
“Sure, but what can I say? Been busy. But now that we’re turning the place over, I gotta make sure it’s up to snuff. Got the guys doing a complete upgrade that will take a couple of weeks, at least. My advice is you get out as soon as you can unless you like a side of sheetrock dust with your morning coffee.”
This day needs to end.
I need to fall into my bed, pull the covers over my face, and wake up to a world that doesn’t include overpriced restaurants, grumpy Damian Knight, or eviction notices.
Lou steps forward and pats my shoulder. “Sorry, kid.” He turns and waddles off.
I wish I was a kid. If I was, I’d have kid-sized worries on my mind. Memorizing the week’s spelling words. Whether mom packed me PB and J or tuna fish for lunch. That kind of thing.
But I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a grown woman.
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THE “MONITOR” AND “ALBEMARLE”
From a Painting by Müller.
FEDERAL GUNBOAT “ST. LOUIS.”
From Photographs supplied by the U.S. Navy Department.
Another most notable example in these improvised ironclads was the ram Tennessee, which was designed and commanded by Commodore Tatnall. This vessel played a conspicuous part in the defence of Mobile against the Federal fleet under Admiral Farragut, in August, 1864. The Tennessee was admirably designed for the purpose intended, which was that of an ironclad, heavily armed, and able to ram; but unfortunately for her, she could not be got completely ready in time, nor was it possible to give her the armoured protection or the weighty artillery which had been contemplated at first; nevertheless, her commander fought her well, and that she came absolutely to grief was due to hasty construction and lack of material to put into her, rather than to any fault in the design of the ship itself. Her battle with the Union fleet shows with what grim determination the ship was fought.
“There was a brush with the ironclad ram,” says an American writer, “but it was not serious, and the fleet came to anchor three miles up the bay. Farragut was planning to attack the ram as soon as it should be dark enough to prevent the garrison seeing which was friend and which foe; but the ram anticipated him and steamed direct for the flagship (the Hartford) in the midst of the fleet. The Admiral at once gave orders for every ship to attack her, not only with shot but by ramming, and a desperate contest ensued. The ram had the advantage in that she was sure of striking an enemy with every blow, while the fleet had to avoid running and firing into one another. Their shot had no effect on the sloping iron sides of the monster, and when the wooden vessels rammed her they only splintered their own bows and only heeled her over. But the monitors, with their enormous guns, shot away her smoke-stack and steering apparatus, and jammed her shutters, while one 15-inch shell actually penetrated her armour.”[38]
This heavy cannonade proved too much for her. With her armour battered, her machinery damaged, her commander badly wounded, her steering gear disabled, she lay helpless at the mercy of her foes and surrendered.
Another type of ironclad which the Confederates employed was known as the David, because though small it was hoped it would
deal as effectively with the big northern warships as its Hebrew namesake had dealt with Goliath of old. The parallel, however, ceases with the name. The first American David was tried at Charleston, in October, 1863. She was cigar-shaped, 54 feet long, and 6 feet in diameter, and carried a small steam engine to drive a small screw propeller. Her one weapon was a spar torpedo, and when she had exploded it she was expected to go to the bottom with such of her crew as did not happen to be able to save themselves.
Many brave deeds have been done in war by combatants and noncombatants alike, but the cool courage of the pilot or steersman of the first David will take some beating. Her initial attack was directed against the ironclad ship Ironsides, named in commemoration of the “Old Ironsides,” and whether failure or success attended the attempted destruction of the ship, those on the David knew they were engaged in a forlorn hope. Only the funnel and pilot-house of the little vessel were discernible above the sea level, and even they were not very conspicuous. The David was hailed, and replied with a volley of musketry, and an instant later a torpedo exploded against the sides of the warship. It lifted her and shook her, but inflicted no material damage worth speaking of, but the moral effect was considerable, as the Federals knew the Confederates had now devised a new means of attacking them. At the moment of the explosion the four or five men composing the crew of the David jumped overboard, as it was thought she would be swamped by the backwash of the explosion. She did not sink, however, and the pilot held on to her for his life, for he was the only man on board who could not swim. The engineer swam to her, and together they took her back to Charleston.
On the Mississippi and the other American rivers both sides improvised as gunboats anything that had an engine in it and a platform upon which a gun could be carried. Small tug-boats were given turtle-back armour, too thin to be of use, whence some of them got the name of tin-clads in contradistinction to the ironclads; big side-wheel steamers were protected with anything that could be utilised for the purpose, from logs to bags of ashes, and ordinary river cargo steamers and barges were also found very adaptable. It
may, indeed, be doubted if in any war there has been such an assemblage of opposing warships improvised from the most unpromising materials as in the American Civil War. The majority of them were not of great use as combatants, notwithstanding that their crews usually handled them with reckless bravery, and after the passage of the Mississippi mouth had been forced and the northern warships were able to ascend the river, the fighting value of these makeshifts became almost a negative quantity. In the absence of superior force, however, there was no telling what they might attempt, for their crews were as reckless as they were daring.
When the Civil War began, Edwin Stevens offered the Federal Government, at his own expense, a small vessel called the Naugatuck. This was a twin-screw vessel, which could be immersed two feet below her load-line and raised again in eight minutes by pumping out the water admitted into the tanks. The solitary gun was mounted on a revolving carriage, and the recoil taken by rubber disc springs. It was loaded, directed and fired from below the deck, the loading being accomplished by bringing the depressed gun opposite a hole in the deck, provided for the purpose.[39] She carried a Parrott gun, a 100-pounder, and was one of the fleet that attacked the Merrimac. Her twin screws enabled her to turn from end to end in seventy-five seconds. She did good service on the James River, until her gun burst; her crew, thanks to her protecting deck, escaping injury. This vessel is chiefly of interest because of the method of placing and loading the gun.
THE NAUGATUCK
THE GUN-CARRIAGE OF THE NAUGATUCK
Ericsson’s inventive genius was responsible in 1861, before the war broke out, for a vessel of 3,033 tons, which he named the Dictator, but she was not launched until 1863, the builders being the Delamater Iron Works. She was an iron-framed vessel, and had a wooden skin 3½ feet thick. The iron protecting her sides was 11 inches thick, 5 inches of which were solid bars measuring 3 inches by 5 inches, and the other portion was built up in single 1-inch plates. Her ram, a heavy structure of oak and iron, projected 22 feet beyond the bow. On deck she carried a single turret with an inside diameter of 24 feet. The walls of the turret were protected by 15 inches of iron plates, each 1 inch in thickness, and weighed 500 tons. Her engine was of Ericsson’s vibrating lever type with two cylinders 100 inches in diameter, and indicating 5,000 h.p. The screw was 21 feet 6 inches in diameter, with a pitch of 34 feet, and was cast in one piece, its weight being 17 ⅖ tons. The Dictator’s armament was two smooth-bore 15-inch guns, known as Ericsson guns, which were of the same type as he introduced into America on behalf of Col. Stockton, and with a charge of 80 lb. of powder, threw a round shot weighing 460 lb. The ship was 320 feet long, 50 feet broad, and drew 22 feet of water.
In the subsequent monitors the conning tower was placed above the turret as in the case of the Passaic. Monitors were built later with two turrets, and a flying deck connected them. They were of much greater dimensions than the single turret ships, and carried twice the number of guns, and being considerably heavier and faster and more extensively armoured, were exceedingly capable fighting machines.
But the wooden warships were not destined to pass away without making a gallant struggle well worthy of the traditions of centuries. The last great battles in which they engaged were at New Orleans and Mobile, and well they acquitted themselves. Stranded, rammed, and almost set on fire, as they were time after time, they yet carried on an unequal contest until they achieved splendid victories at these places. Not even torpedoes, as mines were then called, daunted Admiral Farragut, who, at Mobile, when a ship that was leading hesitated and nearly threw the whole line into disorder, inquired, “What is the matter?”
“Torpedoes,” was the answer.
“Damn the torpedoes,” roared Farragut from his usual place in the rigging, to which he was accustomed to mount in order to see over the smoke. Whereupon his ship, the Hartford, assumed the lead.
On the Atlantic coast the South endeavoured to maintain its unequal contest by means of blockade runners and privateers. Foremost among these were the Shenandoah, which has the distinction of being the only ship to carry the Confederate flag round the world; the Sumter, a small commerce destroyer, commanded by Captain Raphael Semmes, who afterwards had the Alabama; and the lastnamed herself. The Sumter was described by Captain Semmes as a “stone which had been rejected of the builders,” and he says that he endeavoured to work it into the building which the Confederates were then rearing. “The vessel was reported to him as a small propeller steamer of 500 tons burden, sea-going, with a low-pressure engine, sound, and capable of being so strengthened as to be enabled to carry an ordinary battery of four or five guns. Her speed was reported to be between nine and ten knots, but unfortunately, said the Board, she carried but five days’ fuel, and has no accommodation for the crew of a ship of war She was, accordingly, condemned. When I finished reading the report, I turned to the Secretary and said, ‘Give me that ship; I think I can make her answer the purpose.’ My request was at once acceded to; the Secretary telegraphed to the Board to receive the ship, and the clerks of the Department were set at work to hunt up the necessary officers to accompany me, and make out the proper orders. And this is the way
in which the Confederate States’ steamer Sumter, which was to have the honour of being the first ship of war to throw the new Confederate flag to the breeze, was commissioned.”
He got her into shape somehow, and she began her adventurous career by running the blockade in a most daring fashion at Pass a l’Outre, in spite of the presence of the Brooklyn, which was faster and more heavily armed. She beat the northern ship simply because she could sail nearer to the wind. After six months’ experience of this ship, he says that “in her best days the Sumter had been very inefficient, being always anchored, as it were, in the deep sea, by her propeller whenever she was out of coal. A fast ship propelled entirely by sail power would have been better.” She captured seventeen ships, consistently dodged five or six northern ships, and at last had to be laid up at Gibraltar. She afterwards sailed as the Gibraltar under the English flag as a merchant vessel, and made one successful voyage as a blockade runner to Charleston, South Carolina, and went to the bottom of the North Sea soon afterwards.
The Sumter’s battery consisted of an 8-inch shell gun pivoted amidships and four 32-pounders of 13 cwt. each for broadside firing. The slide and circle for the pivot gun were constructed of railway iron. She captured seven prizes in two days, and escorted six of them into the harbour of Cienfuegos at once.
The Alabama was built at Birkenhead under a contract with the Confederate States, and was paid for out of the Confederate treasury. “The Alabama had been built in perfect good faith by the Lairds. When she was contracted for, no question had been raised as to the right of a neutral to build and sell to a belligerent such a ship.”[40] Be that as it may, the settlement of the Alabama claims proved an expensive item for Great Britain. She was responsible for the destruction of no fewer than sixty-seven American ships, and such was the terror she inspired that the armed frigate Kearsarge was sent to hunt her down and exterminate her. Soon after embarking on her privateering, the Alabama fought and sank the Hatteras in the only engagement she was concerned in until she met her fate at the guns of the Kearsarge. There was not much to choose between the ships in size, but in all other respects the advantage lay
with the northern ship, which had further strengthened her sides with a concealed belt of chain cables.
“As for the ships,” writes Captain Semmes in “Service Afloat,” “though the enemy was superior to me, both in size, staunchness of construction, and armament, they were of force so nearly equal, that I cannot be charged with rashness in having offered battle. The Kearsarge mounted seven guns—two 11-inch Dahlgrens, four 32pounders, and a rifled 28-pounder. The Alabama mounted eight— one 8-inch, one rifled 100-pounder, and six 32-pounders. Though the Alabama carried one gun more than her antagonist, it is seen that the battery of the latter enabled her to throw more metal at a broadside, there being a difference of three inches in the bore of the shell-guns of the two ships. Still the disparity was not so great but that I might hope to beat my enemy in a fair fight. But he did not show me a fair fight, for, as it afterwards turned out, his ship was iron-clad. It was the same thing as if two men were to go out to fight a duel and one of them, unknown to the other, were to put a shirt of mail under his outer garment.... By Captain Winslow’s own account, the Kearsarge was struck twenty-eight times; but his ship being armoured, of course, my shot and shell, except in so far as fragments of the latter may have damaged his spars and rigging, fell harmless into the sea. The Alabama was not mortally wounded until after the Kearsarge had been firing at her an hour and ten minutes. In the meantime, in spite of the armour of the Kearsarge, I had mortally wounded that ship in the first thirty minutes of the engagement. I say ‘mortally wounded her,’ because the wound would have proved fatal but for the defect of my ammunition. I lodged a rifled percussion shell near her sternpost—where there were no chains—which failed to explode because of the defect of the cap. If the cap had performed its duty and exploded the shell, I should have been called upon to save Captain Winslow’s crew from drowning, instead of him being called upon to save mine. On so slight an incident—the defect of a percussion cap—did the battle hinge. The enemy was proud of this shell. It was the only trophy they had ever got from the Alabama We fought her until she would no longer swim, and then we gave her to the waves.”
CAPTURE OF NEW ORLEANS ATTACK ON FORT PHILIP
From a Contemporary Steel Engraving, showing improvised warships employed. The Shenandoah was the name given by the Confederates to the Glasgow-built auxiliary steamer Sea-Horse, which was the only ship to carry the southern flag from Dixie’s Land to the Cape, thence to Australia, and up to the North Pacific. She found her chief prey among the American whalers.
