Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
MORGAN
“…shame we’re not going again this year because the parties were off the hook, and…”
As quickly as Morgan had tuned into Gareth— yup, still talking about the 49ers —he tuned him out again and focused on moving the ice around in his drink with the swizzle stick.
After two weeks of trying to find Dmitri with no success, Morgan had finally conceded that it was a lost cause and set up a date with Gareth. They’d had one date that was moderately successful and led to this one which was decidedly…not. But it wasn’t because Gareth wasn’t trying or there was anything wrong with him, though he did go on about football a bit more than Morgan would have preferred.
Morgan was as big a sports fan as the next guy, and the 49ers were his team until the end of time. His and Joe’s family had had season tickets since the team started, and when Candlestick was torn down, he and his brother had bought their seats as a present for their grandfather. Gareth working for the franchise was kind of thrilling, and on paper, he and Gareth were a good match. Morgan had to concede that Delia had been correct.
The problem was that on paper was one thing. Reality was proving to be more challenging. Gareth wasn’t a bad person or had terrible hygiene or was even boring. He was good-looking, engaging, dressed well, and listened when Morgan talked. They shared a common interest in rock climbing, similar taste in movies and TV, and had the same relationship goals. With the exception of an enthusiasm for the home team that was taxing even Morgan’s fanaticism, Gareth should have been someone Morgan was drawn to. But he wasn’t.
Try as he might, Morgan couldn’t stop comparing everything about Gareth to Dmitri. Even though it was ridiculous, and he kept reminding himself that he’d only known Dmitri for a few hours— and getting-to-know-you conversation over dinner could hardly be called “knowing” someone —Morgan couldn’t help it. Gareth was athletic where Dmitri had been refined and lithe, polished where Gareth was blunt almost to the point of rudeness. Dmitri spoke to parts of Morgan that he hadn’t been fully aware of needing attention, desires he kept under wraps while with his family. Gareth would fit right in at their tailgate parties and backyard BBQs, but Morgan doubted he’d have any interest in wine tasting weekends with Morgan’s friends or evenings at the theater or going to museums.
Morgan wasn’t a snob by any means, but he’d cultivated an interest in art and fine dining because of his clients, learning to love nuanced conversations about viticulture as much as robust discussions about who the 49ers should go after in the upcoming draft. He’d always loved going to plays and museums, but rarely had anyone who was interested in going with him, or with whom he could discuss books and films. Sure, Joe was able to talk about the Marvel Universe with as much gusto as he talked about sports, but that wasn’t all Morgan wanted. Dmitri had opened up that desire in him, and now Morgan wanted to have it back.
While Morgan was willing to believe Gareth could be interested in those things as well—they hadn’t come up in conversation yet, so he had no idea—one single fact was glaringly obvious above all others, and it was a deal killer. There was no chemistry between them. When Gareth had kissed him goodnight after their first date, it was nothing even close to the way Dmitri’s kiss had set Morgan’s world on fire. It was like all other men had ceased to exist in that moment, and Morgan couldn’t figure out how to see anyone but Dmitri. Gareth’s kiss hadn’t even produced enough of a spark to light a match.
“This isn’t working, is it?” Gareth asked, startling Morgan back into the present.
Morgan laughed out of surprise as he replayed what Gareth had said in his mind, wanting to be sure he’d heard what he thought he had before shaking his head. “I don’t think so. I’m really sorry.”
Gareth shrugged. “To be honest, I was surprised when you agreed to a second date.”
“I was hoping,” Morgan said. “I mean, I like you. You’re a great guy, and we have a lot in common.”
“But the attraction isn’t there. I know. Weird, huh?”
“It is,” Morgan agreed. “I can see where Delia and Sophie thought we’d be a good match.”
“I can, too.”
“To be one hundred percent honest, though, I met someone the night we were supposed to meet.”
“Ouch,” Gareth said, but he was grinning. “Cupid’s arrow hit the wrong target, I guess.”
Morgan laughed again. “Possibly. I actually ended up having dinner with him thinking it was you, and he was supposed to be meeting someone else who was a no-show.”
“That’s got to be fate, man. Now I don’t feel so bad. Who’s going to mess with that kind of how-I-met-you story?”
“Except,” Morgan took a deep breath. “He left saying he knew how to get in touch with me, and I figured it wasn’t a great end to the evening, but he knew Joe, so it would be okay. Then it turned out that Dmitri wasn’t actually who I’d been set up with.” Morgan shrugged. “I don’t know how to find him. Joe and I went back to the restaurant, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“That’s rough. What do you know about this guy besides his name?”
“He’s a jeweler. Probably pretty high-end stuff if I’m going by his clothes and his own jewelry. Plus he mentioned having a pretty full calendar for the holiday season.”
“Hmmmm.” Gareth scrunched his mouth up as he thought. “I can poke around in our database and see if he’s ever been to one of our events.”
“I don’t think that’s the kind of…” Morgan trailed off as Gareth narrowed his eyes.
“We do sponsor other events besides tailgate parties,” he said. “Those skyboxes don’t come cheap, you know.”
Morgan did know. He’d been invited to watch a game from one of those skyboxes by a client. “So, I’d be in your database even if I was a guest?”
“Probably. More likely you’d be in our database because your family’s been season ticket holders since the beginning of time. I’m just saying, if he’s been to an event or if he contributed a prize for one of our charity auctions, I might be able to find him for you.”
With a shake of his head, Morgan silently acknowledged that Gareth was a great guy and it was a shame there was no chemistry between them. “It would be really nice of you to take a look.”
“I won’t be able to give you his number or anything, but I might be willing to ask him to meet with me for some reason.” Gareth gave Morgan a sly smile, then shrugged. “It’ll be fun doing my part to help Cupid out since he seemed to have screwed up with us.”
“Anything you can do, I’ll be really grateful.”
“How grateful?” Gareth asked, then laughed when Morgan tried to stammer out an answer. “No worries. I’ll settle for help finding a date for Joe and Delia’s wedding.”
“Deal.”
Unfortunately, finding Dmitri proved to be more difficult. Gareth had no luck, and Morgan’s internet searches had proved fruitless. He finally wondered if Dmitri had lied about what he did for a living or his name because the man seemed to have no internet presence whatsoever. Time and again, Morgan reminded himself that he used his middle name and mother’s maiden name for his business and only took clients referred to him by previous clients, so he didn’t have a website or social media accounts that would lead someone back to himself.
It was getting close to Thanksgiving, and Morgan was increasingly convinced Dmitri had been a figment of his imagination. Or maybe he was blowing the chemistry between them out of proportion. Maybe it hadn’t been that great a kiss, and maybe they hadn’t really had a connection at all. Maybe, deprivation and hope had turned Dmitri into something no one else could ever match and Morgan was closing the door on other possibilities because of a fantasy. He could almost convince himself of that, except when he remembered the heat in Dmitri’s eyes, the jolt of desire that had arced through his body at the touch of his lips, and the memory of his silky, sultry voice as he assured Morgan he’d be able to find him.
Please find me , Morgan thought at least a hundred times a day, but his hope was beginning to falter.
It was the week before Thanksgiving, and Morgan was meeting up with a client couple to have them sign the papers to finalize their purchase of a twenty-four-million-dollar home in Pacific Heights. There’d been last-minute negotiations, and if his clients were going to be able to move in before Christmas as they wanted, Morgan had to go to where they were.
He called for Lyft and headed for the appointment.
Morgan was not a fan of Union Square. It was busy and crowded and parking always sucked unless he wanted to use one of the garages, which is why he took Lyft rather than drive there himself.
The building where he was meeting his clients was on Post Street above the Cartier store, and Morgan took a moment to admire some of the jewelry that was displayed in the windows. It made him think about Dmitri and wonder what his pieces looked like. Which was enough to set him thinking about the man all over again. He found the building’s entrance, signed in, and got onto an elevator which creaked as it began to rise to the sixth floor.
Like many of the buildings in this part of San Francisco, the ground floor had been renovated into a high-end store but the upper floors were still offices and small showrooms and galleries. To Morgan, it sometimes felt like an entire part of the city was hidden to most people because if you didn’t have business above street level, you’d never know what was up there. In some ways, the galleries and showrooms were more impressive than the flagship stores down below.
Case in point. The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor and Morgan exited, following the signs that pointed him to D Atelier. The hallway was unadorned. There was no artwork on the walls, the lighting and flooring were functional rather than designed to impress. Even the door for D Atelier was painted a plain white with the business’s name written in black in Copperplate font. The only ornamentation was the doorbell which was done in an ornate art nouveau style.
Morgan rang the bell, his thoughts still on Dmitri. For the thousandth time, he told himself to get over it, to move on.
The door opened to reveal a slender young man dressed impeccably in a plum-colored suit that fit him like a glove.
“Mister…” the young man’s polite smile faltered slightly as his gaze met Morgan’s. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. Mister Ellis, please come in. Mr. and Mrs. Covington are waiting for you.”
For some reason, the use of his business name sounded strange to Morgan’s ears, and he stared at the young man in confusion.
The man held the door open, motioning subtly with his right hand for Morgan to enter, which he did. He found himself in what looked like a very nicely appointed living room. He still didn’t have a clue what kind of business this was though he assumed it was a showroom of some kind. For what, he couldn’t tell. His clients—Rebecca and Mason—were sitting on a Sarah Solis sofa, champagne flutes resting on top of a Theresa Ory coffee table. Several small display trays were arranged on the wooden surface. As he got closer, Morgan saw that they each held a necklace. Rebecca’s ubiquitous Birkin 35 rested on the tabletop. Today’s version was a two-tone pink and rose that matched her Chanel outfit. The Covington’s were tech money, Mason having developed several apps that had hit big. His latest venture had just gone public with investors gobbling up shares immediately.
Mason stood as Morgan approached and held out his hand. “Glad you could accommodate us, Spencer.” He motioned to the young man who had retreated to the side of the room, standing at just the perfect distance to be unobtrusive but not so far away that he seemed disinterested. “Brody, could you get Spence something to drink?”
“Certainly. Would you like champagne? Coffee? Tea? We’ve got still and sparkling water as well as wine.” The young man was staring at Morgan a bit more intensely than Morgan would have expected. Was he flirting? He had to be flirting. A very subtle kind of flirting.
“I’m fine,” Morgan said.
“Oh no, I insist. It’s no trouble.”
“Have a glass of champagne, Spence,” Rebecca said as she picked up one of the necklaces and held it out to her husband. “What do you think, Mase?”
Mason sat down next to his wife and turned his attention to the jewelry she held.
“Mr. Ellis?” Brody asked politely.
“Oh. Um. Sure. A glass of champagne.”
“Please have a seat and admire Mr. Novikov’s work while I get that for you.”
Morgan sat, amused with—Brody, was it?—Brody, but left admiring the jewelry to Mason and Rebecca while he opened his briefcase and pulled out the documents that needed to be signed. This should be a quick meeting, Morgan thought. Fifteen minutes tops . But then Brody returned with his champagne, eyes almost twinkling with mischief as he placed the glass on the table in front of Morgan. He also brought Morgan a leather-bound book.
“These are some of Mr. Novikov’s designs,” he said and held it out so Morgan had no choice but to take it. “I thought you might like to take a look.”
“Thank you.” Morgan took hold of the book with no intention of opening it up.
Brody leaned in and whispered in Morgan’s ear. “I think we should give them a little bit of time. Mrs. Covington is having difficulty making up her mind because all of Mr. Novikov’s work is exquisite. You should take a look.”
“Of course,” Morgan said. It made sense to him that Brody was asking him not to interrupt the Covingtons. If he were in the middle of showing a house, he wouldn’t like his clients being distracted by some other business. He sat back in his chair and idly opened the book.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Brody had returned to his previous position. Instead of standing still, he was busy tapping away on his phone, that gleam still in his eyes, especially when he lifted his head and winked at Morgan.
Morgan wondered again if Brody were flirting with him as he flipped through the impressive glam shots of necklaces and rings and bracelets. This Mr. Novikov, whoever he was, definitely had talent.
He was about halfway through the portfolio when Brody approached the table to refill the Covingtons’ champagne flutes then returned to his former spot. Rebecca and Mason were no closer to choosing which pieces they wanted. After having shown them almost every single available home in San Francisco, Morgan was familiar with the way they approached their purchases. Rebecca was waiting for what she called the right vibe. So far, none of the pieces Brody had shown her were working.
Morgan closed the portfolio book and stood as unobtrusively as he could not wanting to disturb the intense conversation happening across from him. He picked up his champagne flute and walked over to Brody.
“Do you have anything else to show them?” he asked, his voice pitched as quiet as he could make it, almost mouthing his words so Brody had to lean closer to him.
Brody shook his head never taking his eyes off the couple. “Just some of Mr. Novikov’s concept sketches.” As he spoke, his eyes opened wide, and he turned to take Morgan in. “Oh,” he said, then tapped his lips with a forefinger before picking up his phone and sending another text message.
Inadvertently, Morgan saw that he was texting his boss and got a quick glance at a couple of the previous messages Brody had sent all insisting that his boss needed to get to the showroom IMMEDIATELY. The all caps was difficult to miss, and Morgan thought it strange that a salesperson would be so desperate for support and need their boss to come close the sale that they’d be demanding his arrival. Still, he’d do all he could to help.
He asked Brody to top off his glass even though he’d only taken a few polite sips of the champagne, then returned to his seat. “You know,” he said as he leaned forward over the display trays and tapping one in particular. “This one reminds me of the view from your new bedroom.” The room in question had a grand view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Marin Headlands, and while it was a stretch, there were some similarities in the lines of the bridge and the necklace.
“Oh, it does,” Rebecca said. She reached out and picked up the necklace, holding it in front of herself and watching as the lights reflected in the diamonds. Holding it out to Mason, she swept her hair off her neck and turned her back to him so he could put it around her neck.
While their attention was on the necklace, Morgan glanced at Brody who mouthed “Thank you” at him, then resumed looking at his phone. So, maybe not flirting? Morgan was hopeless at this dating thing.
Half an hour later, Rebecca had a new piece of jewelry, and she and Mason had signed the papers for their new home. As he bent to return the documents to his briefcase, a stray piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Morgan surreptitiously picked it up. It was definitely a note meant for him.
Stay for coffee?
Morgan smiled as he rose from his seat. Brody had been flirting after all. Now the ball was in Morgan’s court. Did he want to stay and see what would happen? A voice in the back of his head told him he should even though, if he were honest with himself, he didn’t feel that jolt of attraction like he had with Dmitri. That ship had definitely sailed, so maybe it was time to get back out there. Brody was cute.
As he reached the table where Brody was wrapping up Rebecca’s new pretty, he leaned close and asked where the restroom was. Brody pointed him to the back, Morgan nodded. He returned to the Covingtons and said his goodbyes before returning to Brody and whispering, “Coffee sounds nice,” before he passed through the curtain that separated the showroom from what turned out to be an office.
In order to keep up appearances, Morgan made use of the facilities, washed his hands and was all set to return to the showroom, but paused as he heard Brody in the final moments of getting the Covingtons out the door. If he went out there now, he’d probably end up heading down to the street with the couple, so he hung back.
Curiosity made him glance around the office, taking in the small kitchen area, a standing worktable, and a desk with a computer. Everything was neat and orderly with a decidedly stylish flare even though it was a utilitarian space. Morgan assumed this was where Brody spent his workdays and wandered a bit trying to figure out who this person was without being too intrusive or nosy.
This obviously wasn’t where the jeweler did his work. Morgan might not know anything about making jewelry, but he was pretty sure the workspace here was primarily for easy repairs or adjustments rather than creation. Did Brody do those? And then there was the desk. Taking a moment to listen and confirm that Brody was still getting the Covingtons out the door—it sounded like he had almost succeeded—Morgan cast a glance over the desktop.
There were only a few personal items in evidence. A photograph of Brody and another man on a beach made Morgan pause to wonder if this was a relative because he had no interest in being a piece on the side, but before he was able to consider it too much, his attention was caught by his name on a piece of paper.
Morgan ?
Real estate
SF
49ers
Rock climbing, parasailing, bungee jumping
How on earth did Brody have his name and what looked like more than a few personal details? Morgan felt as if he’d stepped into the Twilight Zone, and as soon as he heard the front door close, he marched back through the curtain determined to get some answers.
“Whew!” Brody said as he leaned against the door. He eyed Morgan, that amused smile playing about the corners of his mouth again. “I don’t know about you, but I could use something a little stronger than coffee after that.” He breezed past Morgan and into the back space unbuttoning his jacket as he went, then tossing the jacket on top of the standing table. “Whisky?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at Morgan, then gave him a smirk and a wink. “Without the ‘e’ of course.”
“Is this some kind of game?” Morgan asked. “I’m not in the market for jewelry.”
Brody’s smirk turned into a full-on sly smile. “No? Then what are you in the market for, Morgan?” He gave a sassy tilt to his hips.
“How did you…?” Morgan glanced over at the desk.
“I’ve been looking for you for a while. You’re a very difficult man to track down.” Brody snagged a couple of glasses from the cabinet above the sink and then a bottle of Highland Park 15 from the counter. He held the bottle up so Morgan could see. “I assume this is okay? We’ve also got a Glen Morangie and a Laphroaig, if you’d prefer.”
“It’s fine.” Morgan wondered if he should take advantage of Brody’s attention being on the glasses as he poured them each a dram and get out while he still could, but something made him want to stay and figure out what was going on.
“Using a different name for your business really threw me for a loop. I was having no luck tracking you down, and Mr. Novikov was beginning to doubt my abilities. But then you walked in the door just as perfect as can be.” Brody handed him a glass of amber liquid then tipped his own against Morgan’s. “It’s just going to have to be our secret that I didn’t find you on my own. Sláinte!”
Morgan didn’t take a drink. “Are you a serial killer or something?” He looked around the back room. “Should I be looking for a way out of here?”
Brody snorted, then coughed until tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “Oh my God.” He grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk and dabbed at his eyes. “That’s funny. No. You’re not in any danger. Come here.” His eyes were twinkling again as he motioned Morgan closer to the worktable and pulled out a large sketchpad. “Come on. I don’t bite unless I’m asked to, and you definitely want to see this.”
Without taking his attention off Brody, Morgan made his way over to the table making sure it was between him and the young man who was clearly having too much fun at his expense.
Flipping through the pages, Brody found the one he was looking for and turned it around so Morgan could see. When Morgan glanced down, he nearly fell over. In spite of his wariness about Brody’s proximity, he reached out and drew the sketchbook to him. Staring up at him was a drawing of a man. No, not just a man, it was him. His face and shoulders. He was turned three-quarters of the way toward the viewer wearing a button-up shirt open at the neck to show off an intricate chain.
“How?” Morgan asked. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
Brody didn’t get a chance to answer because at that moment, the door to the showroom opened and a voice boomed out. “Okay, Brody, I’m here. Now tell me what the hell was so important that I had to leave the foundry?”
Footsteps fell hard on the wood floor as they approached the curtain, and Morgan turned, heart racing in his chest. He knew that voice, and as the improbable pieces started to fall into place, he headed for the curtain.