Free Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) by Samanthe Beck Page A

bite them back. He already knows the pathetic state of your personal life, and now you want to parade your professional failure in front of him? Maybe he hadn’t noticed the self-directed sarcasm in her voice.
    “Did the glass art market take a downturn?”
    Nope. He heard. She pressed the heel of her hand to the place above her eye where a headache tried to take root. “It did for me.”
    “I have no idea how the art world works. Did you get a bad review or a lousy write-up or something?”
    “No, nothing like that.” Though taste was subjective, and negative opinions came with the territory. Those she could handle. “I climbed into bed with the wrong people. And despite how that sounds, it’s a boring story. Forget I said anything.”
    The mattress gave as he rolled onto his side to face her. “It’s on your mind. Seems like the kind of thing your fiancé would know about. Maybe I can help?” He found the ache over her eyebrow, and ironed the sore spot with his thumb.
    Paramedic by trade, rescuer by nature. She’d best remember that. “You’re sweet, but there’s nothing you can do. Oh, hey, look at the time. I should go. I’m supposed to wake you up, not keep you up.”
    A warm hand curled around her forearm when she started to move.
    “How am I supposed to pass the fiancé quiz if I don’t know about your career? C’mon, Smith. Spill.”
    Shoot. Trapped by her own argument. And yeah, a real fiancé probably would know her first effort to make a name for herself in a regional market had failed miserably. lf not for the fellowship, she’d been at serious risk of celebrating her twenty-eighth birthday by moving back in with her parents.
    “Okay. Fine.” She flopped onto her side, facing him. “Here’s the deal. Earlier this year a hot new gallery in Atlanta offered to represent me.”
    He folded an arm behind his head and turned to look at her. “Congratulations. Is that what brought you here?”
    “Yep. The gallery owners suggested I move closer so I could support their marketing investment by attending showings, doing client meet-and-greets, and generally circulating in the local art scene.”
    “Sounds logical, I guess.”
    “I thought so. I’d done well in Athens, but the scene there is only so big, and mostly supported by my school. After undergrad and my MFA, I felt like I’d wrung all I could out of Lamar Dodd.”
    “Time to stop being the big fish in a pond?”
    “Exactly. Moving represented the next logical step in my growth, and I arrived with a smile on my face and stars in my eyes, but not enough hard information about my new business representatives.” She fiddled with the sheet, folding a corner into the world’s smallest accordion. “I ignored rumors about financial problems, and some not-so-legit deals. A couple months ago the owners got busted for selling forged Warhols on eBay, and the gallery shut its doors soon after.”
    “That sucks. Can you get your work back and jump to another gallery?”
    “Unfortunately it’s not that easy. They sold five of my pieces—presumably collected payment in full—but only paid me partial commissions for two. In theory, I can sue them for what they owe me, but Mit…um…my legal adviser said he didn’t see the Feds unfreezing their assets to pay my judgment while the mail and wire fraud charges drag on. Meanwhile, despite marketing myself like crazy to other reputable galleries, no one’s calling.”
    “Screw ’em.” He stared at the ceiling again, a slight furrow in his brow. “Represent yourself. Get a good photographer and a web designer and open your own virtual showroom online. Who needs a gallery?”
    She appreciated the show of support, but she knew better. “I do. In part because nobody knows who I am, so I need a gallery to publicize me and present me to potential collectors, and in part because my works are three-dimensional and respond to nuances of light and shadow. People need to view them in person to get the