Falling in Love & Other Diasters

Impulse

I'm halfway through my third cappuccino for the morning when Brenton walks into my office.

"Ready to go?" he asks, contradicting the urgency in his voice by slumping down in one of the peanut butter colored scoop chairs on the other side of my desk. I have to stop myself from snorting at how he manages to not wrinkle his perfectly tailored charcoal suit in the slightest.

He's always impeccably dressed and sometimes I wonder if it's not all just a form of armor to keep him safe from those vultures who work for his family's company. Though I guess I can't really judge, as ever since I left school, I've had a weakness for pencil skirts and stilettos.

"Yeah, let me just finish off this email," I say, focusing my gaze back on my laptop screen. "We're supposed to be getting a new piece installed next week and I'm just confirming the details of its arrival."

I've worked at the Harrington Gallery for three years now and I honestly still can't believe that I'm so lucky. After choosing art history as my major in college, I'd sought out internships that would put me in the presence of as much art as possible, reaching out to all the local museums and galleries, and getting very little response. The Harringtons had been the kindest to me, offering me a summer job as an assistant to the gallery's manager, Mrs. Harrington. And I loved it. Even the coffee runs and sometimes meaningless errands were a thrill for me, because at the end of the day, I still got to work in a place where I was constantly surrounded by beauty. It's hard to work among masterpieces and ever be sad. So when the Harringtons asked if I wanted a full time job when I graduated, I jumped at the offer.

The first year of my full time job wasn't too different from my internship, but as Mrs. Harrington began to trust me more, she gave me more responsibility. The experience came in handy when I ended up having to run the gallery on my own starting six months ago. Mrs. Harrington was involved in a car crash which left her bedridden for weeks, and although she's currently on the road to a full recovery, she did confide in me that the accident left her seeing life more clearly and she thinks it might be time to pass the mantle. And if that's the case, then I'm more than ready for the challenge.

"Take your time," Brenton says in a bored voice, fidgeting with the Rolex on his wrist. "It's not like I'm starving or anything."

I role my eyes as I click the send button on the email and shut my laptop. "Why are you so dramatic today?"

"No reason," he sighs, lifting himself from the chair as I reach down to grab my purse and head for the door.

I've known Brenton my entire life. As in, his one year old self literally visited me in the hospital the day I was born. Which means that I know when something's on his mind, and today he's definitely distracted. Still, he's always been open and honest with me, sometimes too much so, which also means that he'll tell me whatever's got him so moody at some point and I just have to wait it out until he does.

So I say, "Okay," with a shrug and lead him out my office door, locking it behind me before we head out to the street.

I don't even bother asking where he wants to go for lunch, because I already know the answer is going to be Sushi Palace. We're regulars there every Wednesday, so today will be no exception.

To lighten the mood, I ask him about the dog he fostered over the weekend. He's always loved animals, and one day, he wants a dog of his own, but right now he's so busy with work that he feels it wouldn't be fair to own a pet that he can't give the proper attention it deserves. So he goes for the next best thing: fostering dogs on weekends when he actually has the time to look after them.

His eyes light up at the mention of the Beagle puppy he'd picked up on Friday night and it sets him off on a conversation that allows him to completely forget whatever was bothering him a few minutes ago.