The Bennett Brothers

Rosemary Dalton’s days in the Winters Gallery blur together—Manhattan’s elite doesn’t have time to actually look at art, so she spends her days literally watching paint dry. Until this Friday, when Alexander Bennett enters her shop and completely upends her world.

With a sigh, Rose looks around at the empty art gallery. It isn’t empty of art, no. The place is jam-packed with paintings; there are just no customers. At least, no walk-ins.

The Winters Gallery on Sixth Street has plenty of clients, but they are of a higher socioeconomic standing. They have better things to do than choose which overpriced pigments will decorate the walls of their overpriced homes, so Rose does it for them.

As an art dealer with such clientele, she has come across a lot of people who buy based on the artist’s name rather than the art. She could slap a turd on a canvas, claim it is a van Gogh, and convince any New York elitist to put away a few dozen grand on it.

Rose has always enjoyed art; she creates her own on occasion but only for herself. Maybe one day her art will cover the walls of her own family’s home.

An NYU art history and business management major who desires nothing more than to live her parents’ life—that is Rose.

Maria and Anthony Dalton are the quintessential perfect couple. They were high school sweethearts who married young, had children, and opened a successful bakery in Brooklyn. They spend every moment of their days together, and Rose has never heard them fight.

They have that rare, special something, and Rose is almost certain she has found that with her beau of two months, Eric Holmes.

Although they haven’t been together long, he has done nothing but showered her with affection, attention, and gifts since day one, and Rose has fallen for him hard.

She leans against the marble counter, tempted to pull out her phone, but she knows that if she does, the Gremlin will appear—that would be just her luck.

Elizabeth Winters, aka the Gremlin, the haggard, pearl-clad snob who owns the gallery, is as cold as her name suggests. And despite Rose’s gratitude for landing a job in such a prestigious establishment straight out of college, Ms. Winters remains a woman of nightmares.

Rose sighs again, tapping her 2B pencil against the table and watching it bounce off the wood.

“Am I interrupting?” a deep voice asks.

Startled, Rose looks up and gasps at who she sees.

Entering the gallery is a well-dressed man with a familiar face. His brown hair is expertly trimmed, and the tight tailoring of his suit leaves little to the imagination, showing off his muscular shoulders.

Butterflies dance in her stomach as her mind flashes through the times her and her mystery man’s paths have crossed over the past twelve years. But on second glance, this stranger doesn’t look entirely like him.

Rose studies his features while he strolls around the gallery, ignoring her, which tells her definitively that he—despite the uncanny resemblance—is not her man. She sighs, shaking her head, unable to stop the disappointment welling up inside her.

The way he holds himself as he looks around the space exudes an air of pompousness, which Rose sees all the time in the clientele. “This is why your gallery comes so highly recommended,” the man says.

She can’t tell if that is a question or a statement, if he is being dismissive or genuinely impressed. However, when he turns his nose up at some of the paintings, she catches on. She can’t help but smile as she notices that the man has similar tastes to her own.

After smoothing out the lines in her navy pencil skirt, she walks around the counter, saying, “If these aren’t to your liking, we can help you find what you’re looking for. Or we can offer privately commissioned pieces.”

He hums, not giving a definitive answer—and still ignoring her.

Rose finds herself studying him again. He looks almost exactly like her mystery man: same hair color, full lips, high nose, chiseled jaw, facial bone structure, build, and—

A sniffle from the doorway pulls Rose from her thoughts. She spins to face the figure standing there and sees that it is a woman she actually does know.

“Benny? Hi,” Rose says, approaching her.

Bernadette Carroll, a longtime regular at her parents’ bakery, has a frazzled look in her eyes as they make contact with Rose’s extended hand. “Oh!” she says, fumbling with the two phones, notebook, and pen in her hands. “Rose, how are you?”

Rose giggles as they awkwardly shake. “I’m good. Can I…help you with something?”

Stray hairs escape from Benny’s bun, which screams practicality instead of style. “No. I believe he’s just perusing,” Benny says with a small smile before giving her attention to one of the phones.

“So, he’s your infamous boss?” Rose asks. “He seems more intense than you described.”

“That’s Mr. Alexander Bennett for you,” Benny answers with a nod.

“These,” he orders in a loud grunt, his voice drawing Rose’s attention behind her.

She jumps, turns, and panics when she sees a shadow moving in the back room. “Oh, I’m very sorry, sir, but that room is staff only,” she says, jogging over to him with her politest smile.

“I want these,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Rose’s heart leaps into her throat, filling with both pride and fear. He is pointing at her paintings, the ones she put there just this morning so she could take them to Eric’s apartment after work.

“Um…those aren’t for sale.” Rose steps toward him, her fists clenched to stop her hands from wringing.

“Nonsense. Everything’s for sale.” Mr. Bennett brushes her words aside. “I’ll take these five.” He spins to look at her. “And another twenty-five by the end of the month.”

Seemingly taking her silence for agreement, he leaves the small space and heads back to the front door. Raising a hand in a sort of wave, he says, “Tell the artist to get to work. Carroll here will sort out the details.”

And then, like a whirlwind that dissipates after disrupting the calm, Alexander Bennett is gone.