Chapter 1

Chapter One

Savannah, GA

Samantha (Sammy) Ledford double-checked the notes to be sure she hadn't read the delivery form wrong. Heading an art gallery had seemed like a great job opportunity when she'd accepted it and made the move to the area a month back, but if these types of surprises were the norm, she wasn't sure she'd made the right choice.

New York City had been her home. It was all she'd known. Savannah seemed like another planet compared to the hustle and bustle of New York. Everything moved slower in Savannah. No one seemed to be in much of a hurry to do anything .

It drove her nuts.

She was the type who liked to get up early and have everything checked off the day's to-do list before eight in the morning. Since moving to the South, she'd learned many things weren't even open at eight. She was also told more than once that she talked fast.

Frankly, she didn't see it.

And then there was the whole bit about everyone waving and smiling at her when she was out and about. People being nice wasn't something she was accustomed to. Weirdly, it sort of freaked her out.

But it was moments like the current one that made her really miss the city and the job she'd left behind in exchange for a higher-paying position, better job title, and lower cost of living. The cramped apartment that she'd grossly overpaid for—and came with two roommates who were the worst—and the nonstop grind seemed like heaven in comparison to what her last couple of weeks had been.

Her new apartment was spacious and picture perfect, but the girl next door kept dropping by to be neighborly or something. The first time, she'd shown up with a pound cake, and the next it had been a casserole, something Sammy wouldn't know how to make if her life depended on it. Then it was just to say hello.

It was downright unnerving, since she'd never once met any of the other people in her apartment building in New York.

She silently wished herself back to the big city, even adding a click of her heels for good measure, but nothing happened.

She was still in the loading area in the back of the building the gallery was located in. And she was still stuck dealing with the fact the wrong item had arrived in place of a piece that was required for the upcoming exhibition, one she'd spent a lot of time and effort curating. Not to mention the South's version of Laurel and Hardy had brought said wrong item. To make matters worse, no amount of explaining as much was sinking in with them.

She'd tried everything, including showing them photos of the item that was supposed to have arrived, as well as that item's Certificate of Authenticity.

Nope.

She might as well have been trying to explain the intricate workings of brain surgery, not that she even knew them. Still, it would have been as effective. At the very least the two men she was explaining it to might have shown something in the way of interest.

As it stood, they did not.

They pretty much looked bored and slightly annoyed.

Her gaze went to the larger of the two delivery men. He, like his partner, was dressed in a pair of dingy, dark gray coveralls. The patch sewn onto the front right chest area announced they were from "Al's Moving Company."

Whoever Al was, he had a very lax policy on personal hygiene for his employees, as noted by the mustard stains dotting a line down the man's coveralls, before stopping at his thigh.

"I need to try to reach the artist again," she said, having already tried three times since their arrival. The artist was locked away for the weekend in his version of meditation and reflection in preparation for the exhibit.

"Miss, you've already tried to get in touch with him," said the large male.

His partner, who had somehow managed to rock a combover and slick it down with what smelled like bacon grease, from the close proximity she had to him, was currently picking something out from between his teeth with the nail on his pinkie finger.

The same finger he'd been using to hold the very clipboard that was in her possession.

Sammy made a mental note to scrub her hands the second they left, but first things first. She needed to deal with the elephant in the room. Or rather, the massive stone statue of a hot guy, who was in form-fitting jeans that were undone in front. It was borderline erotic, with its pose and the man's body, yet his groin was technically fully covered.

Barely.

If the artist had used a real-life model to sculpt from, Sammy wanted to meet him because he was almost too good to be true. Never had she seen a male specimen as pristine as the one depicted in the statue, and she'd been around some hot guys in her time.

Also, there was something about the statue that left her feeling a little giddy, almost schoolgirl-like. She couldn't stop stealing peeks at it. Had she been bashful, she'd have felt slight guilt over the matter. As it stood, the statue was the hottest thing she'd been around lately, and if he counted in the male department, the best date she'd had as well.

Since he was stone and not real, that was saying something about her run of bad luck in the male department.

"The thing is, I don't think this is the right item. It doesn't match what I have on my list or what I was told was coming."

They didn't look like they cared.

"See, this can't be right," she said, managing to pull her thoughts together before they went straight to the gutter. "I'm expecting a metal sculpture. That isn't metal. And the one I'm expecting is supposed to be an abstract representation of the plight of the modern woman. I showed you the picture and the scale model of the exhibit. Nothing about that statue says plight of women. Not to mention, it's huge. The dimensions I have listed for the one I'm supposed to have are nowhere near this size."

The deliverymen shared a look and shrugged at the same time.

Combover Guy pointed to the order form in her hand. "You gotta sign for it so we can leave it, miss."

"But you can't leave it," she protested for what felt like the hundredth time but was more like the fifth or sixth. "It's not the right item."

"Listen, miss," said the other man, sounding exasperated but still polite because of his Southern accent and use of the word "miss" in place of "lady" like she was sure his New York counterpart would have used. "The sender paid a lot of money to get it shipped fast and in one piece. We did like we promised. Do your part. Sign the paper so we can go home. It's way after our normal delivery hours as it is. No one is at the main office to sort this out right now anyways. They won't be back in the office until Monday morning."

"Yeah," added Combover Guy. "We already missed the game to get this over to you."

His buddy grunted. "I had money on that game. Lost my backside."

"I told you not to take that bet. I said it ain't worth it," argued Combover Guy.

Having heard more than enough of whatever gambling issue they'd incurred, Sammy let out a frustrated growl and signed her name to the paper. She then thrust the clipboard back at Combover Guy and waited as he tore off the carbon copy, handing it to her. She didn't really want to touch anything else that he did since he'd been picking his teeth.

Combover Guy went to the tow motor that was parked behind the massive crate, got on it, put it in reverse, and began to back up toward the ramp at the open loading bay door. The moving truck was backed up to the spot with a ramp extended. The man backed over the ramp like he'd done it a million times prior. Before she knew it, he and the piece of machinery were on the truck.

Sammy lunged forward, with her arms out. As she realized they fully intended to leave the giant statue where it was, right smack-dab in the center of the loading area, which was nowhere near the exhibit display space, she panicked. "No! You can't leave him, erm, it there. I can't move it to the main room by myself. It's still mostly boxed. Look at me. How in the world am I supposed to move it?"

She wasn't being dramatic. She stood just over five feet tall. The statue was well over a foot taller.

The larger of the men gave her a look that said he didn't much care about her plight but didn't want her to continue to shout over the beeping of the tow motor. He waved a hand in her direction, and then balled his fist and hit the side of the wooden crate. Backing up, he watched as the remaining three sides fell to the floor with a loud thud.

Sammy jolted in place, staring at the mass of packing material surrounding the statue. "That's it? What am I supposed to do with it now?"

"No offense, miss, it's your problem now. You signed for it," said the man with a grin before he turned and followed Combover Guy toward the ramp. He gave her another partial smile before he pushed the ramp back into their delivery truck and waited for his buddy to hop off the back before closing it.

The men were in their truck and pulling away before she could dare to comment again.

"Butt-munches," she said, only partially under her breath. Come Monday morning, Al, whoever he might be, was going to get an earful from her. She might very well show up on Al's doorstep to lodge a complaint.

She went to the bay door and stared up at it, wondering how she'd even reach it to pull it down. There was a strap affixed to it, but it was too high for her to get to with any ease.

Leaving the rolling door standing open wasn't an option. There were far too many things in the gallery to risk exposing them to theft. And in New York, if she dared leave an area exposed, by morning nothing would be in the joint.

The men who normally helped in the loading area were off for the night and not due back in until Monday morning. She'd been told the item coming was small enough to move herself and fit on a tabletop. There hadn't been a need to have the guys put in extra time, or so she'd thought.

Nothing about the statue she was staring at would fit on any table she'd ever seen. She was almost certain the statue wasn't the correct piece for the show. But with the sheer number of times the eccentric artist had already changed up the pieces he was showing in the exhibit, this might very well be the new focal point. Her luck, she'd get yet another email from the man, who fancied himself a feminist, demanding a change of something else as well.

She was too drained to deal with him and doubted very much he'd break his weekend of silence to respond to her calls. Just as well, she'd be likely to commit a felony if she was face-to-face with the man. An overwhelming amount of time, planning, and press releases had gone into the exhibit. The buzz was amazingly high. So were her stress levels.

The show must go on.

Now she just needed to find a way to secure the statue and the gallery.

The more she stared at the massive stone piece, the more she realized one of the man's thighs were nearly as wide as her waist. There was no denying the man depicted in the statue was physically fit. She wished real men came like that.

She'd order a matching set.

"The artist sculpted Hercules in jeans," she said with a shake of her head as she went to the bay door. Once there, she proceeded to jump up and down in vain, attempting to reach the pull-down door strap.

It didn't work.

Not that she really expected it to.

She was half tempted to tap into the side of herself that just might be able to achieve the impossible and close the damn door. Doing so would mean unleashing a part of her that she didn't entirely trust, not to mention risk exposing her secret to the world.

That, and she had nearly no control over it all.

Making things float and shooting electricity from her body sounded cool in theory, but really had no helpful uses. At least none that she'd ever found.

It would be just her luck to find out there were security cameras on one of the other buildings that could pick up the area and its happenings. Explaining away what she could do, if it was caught on film, wasn't something she wanted to try to do again.

She'd already dealt with that enough in New York.

It wasn't like she'd meant to use what she could do. It had just sort of happened. Her last boss had been very handsy and didn't want to take no for an answer. He'd cornered her in an elevator after a cocktail party, where he'd tied on too many drinks. For some reason, he'd felt the fact he was inebriated justified his behavior and entitled him to try to take what he wanted.

She and the abilities that she'd been born with had other things in mind.

One second the man had her pinned to the wall of the elevator, and the next he was shot back as electricity arced between them—lifting him up and off the floor before slamming him into the other side of the elevator.

And her crummy luck had left it caught on tape. She still wasn't sure how she'd gotten lucky enough to have the tape go missing after the fact, but they had.

Thankfully, everyone had attributed her boss's account of the ordeal to the amount of liquor he'd consumed, so they hadn't believed him. That hadn't stopped him from turning into a creepy stalker, convinced she was a witch. More than once she'd found him lurking outside of her apartment building after work hours. He was downright unbearable to be around during the workday.

She'd been left no choice but to seek another job.

That was for the best. It had been past the time for her to expand her horizons.

She'd basically lucked into this job and wanted it to work out.

"I'm not repeating that," she said to herself as she stared up at the rolling door.

Frustrated and tired after putting in long hours for days in preparation for the showing next week, she slipped off her four-inch-high heels and winged one at the door. All it did was bounce back at her.

While the gallery had ladders, they were currently locked in the storage room, just off the loading bay. And it was the one room that she'd yet had duplicate keys made. So, as it currently stood, the key was with the man who normally worked in the area.

Not with her. No key meant no ladders.

A line of colorful and inventive curses fell free from her lips as she caught her heel with one hand.

It was already after ten. There was no way she was going to be able to find anyone who could move the statue for her or help close the door. She was on her own at least until morning. Even then she wasn't entirely sure how many employees she'd be able to track down on a Saturday morning, especially since she'd given them all some much needed time off before the big show.

When the brilliant idea to grant time off had hit her, she'd been attempting to sway them all since she was still new to being their boss. The last person who ran the gallery had been referred to as "particular" more than once and, from what Sammy could gather, wasn't liked much by the staff. It hadn't taken her long to realize "particular" was code for "bitch" in Southern speak.

She'd hoped to have a different working relationship with everyone. And since the only thing left for the show was the tabletop-size metal sculpture, she didn't think she'd need anyone on staff for the weekend.

Had she realized just how massive the piece really was, and that it was anything but metal, she'd have had men there ready to move it to its spot in the main gallery showing room. At the very least, she'd have worn clothing made for trying to handle things herself. Not the form-fitting red dress that came to a stop just above her mid-thigh.

Her attention returned to the massive stone statue of the hot guy. "Seriously, how in the heck do you represent the plight of women?"

For a second, she half expected the thing to answer her—it was that lifelike. She liked to think she was fairly well-versed in the world of art, having a degree in art history and experience at one of New York's biggest galleries, but she couldn't recall a time she'd ever seen a sculpture that was so realistic.

The man depicted in the statue had hair that hung just past his ears and was wavy. The artist had even managed to re-create facial hair on the thing. If that wasn't enough detail, every ripple of muscle on the man's body was visible as he was shown in mid-run, an arm extended. Apparently, the model had been instructed to run from the bedroom or something because his pants were dangerously close to showing all there was to see.

Not that Sammy would have complained had the artist opted to forgo the jeans. In fact, part of her was a bit disappointed the thing wasn't shown nude.

The harder she stared at it, the more her hormones took notice. With a wry grin, she licked her lips. "Okay, so my plight in the dating department would be advanced with a guy like that in my bed, but beyond that, I'm not seeing the correlation to the exhibit."