4. Tiia
Several weeks later
“Tiia! Where are you?”
I whip my head up from my desk, my neck wrenching from the speed, and lock eyes with too-loud, too-exuberant Jazzy as she clip-clops her way across wide tile flooring. Her shirt is still too short, and her heels, unnecessarily tall considering it’s the middle of a workday. But she creates quite the vision of flash and color in an otherwise elegant space.
She runs, so her thin legs and bony knees are a display within themselves, and her handbag swings in the breeze—or, well, it would, if a breeze could exist inside a building.
“Tiia!”
I set down my pen and press a finger to my lips. “Shh!” Then I look left, to Jakeline’s office, and right, to a client who wanders through the gallery.
The latter has headphones in their ears and hears nothing except whatever track they’ve chosen on their phone. But Jakeline’s pointed brow comes up. Her shrewd, no-nonsense, eagle eyes drilling into the side of my face promise I’m about to get my ass handed to me.
Gritting my teeth in a kind of silent apology, I push up from my desk and wave Jazzy closer, but shoot her a shut the hell up glare that has her bright red lips slapping closed.
Though, her feet continue galloping.
When Jaz arrives at my desk in the center of Jakeline Colby’s Antiques, her perfume hits me first. Then her minty breath as she pants from exertion.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper-hiss. “You trying to get me fired?”
“They’re in the paper!” she wheezes out, as though she’s just competed in a hundred-meter sprint. Reaching into her oversized purse with talon-like nails, she drags her hand out again and slams a newspaper—not the Cannon Daily, the city’s most influential publication—to my desk. “Felix Malone. Front page, baby.”
“Uh…” I spy the headline, though I try really hard not to. “Okay.” I press the tip of my finger to the very center of Felix’s forehead in the photograph, and push the newspaper away. “I don’t care.”
“You totally care! We were inside that club, Tiia! You were literally talking to him.”
“I was talking to his brother.” And that… was close enough. “It’s been weeks, Jaz. I’m not stalking the guy via the newspapers.”
“You should!” She grabs the paper and unfolds it with a threatening tear, slamming it back to my desk with a noisy flourish that has Jakeline’s eyes once more burning into my temple. “‘Felix Malone and Christabelle Cannon to be wed!’ And this isn’t even in the Cannon paper, which means the story was scooped.”
“Or…” I fold and set it back down gently, though I’ll be damned if I don’t catch a familiar face just inches from Felix’s. That of the middle brother, Micah Malone himself. “Sounds to me like, unless Cannon Daily announces it themselves, then everyone else is lying.”
“A reasonable assumption, except—” She snatches up the paper again, so we become embroiled in the world’s oddest game of tug-of-war. “Page three says cakes are being sampled and NDAs are being signed.”
I roll my eyes and take the paper back. But instead of setting it on my desk, I drop it into the wastebasket and sit back in my chair. “If NDAs were being signed, then they wouldn’t be announced in the newspaper. Which means you…” I show my friend a pleasant smile, “have been hoodwinked. They’re a powerful family, Jaz, and not new to the world they operate within. So if they’re getting married, they know how to do it quietly. If they wanted to be loud,” I raise my hand when she opens her mouth to argue, “then Cannon would make it front page news. This wouldn’t be the first time they needed a bakery, or a florist, or a pretty dress. They’ve conducted business discreetly for decades, so I find it difficult to believe they’re making headlines now over a slice of cake. Besides,” I cross my legs and fix my dress on my thighs, the soft, floaty fabric a preference Jakeline made clear after my first time turning up to work in denim cutoffs and a tank top. “Your fascination with this family is next-level. It’s like how the British ‘royal watch’, except you m—” I clear my throat after the m sound—m for mafia, “watch. But you’re not gonna marry any of them, so it’s time you move on.”
“You’re being unkind.” She lifts her chin and broadens her shoulders, mock-offended. “If I wanted to marry one, I could.”
“Oh? Felix is banging Cannon,” I drawl. “Micah’s NDAs are ironclad, it seems, because we hear nothing about the women he’s dated. Archer is married. Tim… well, he’s a bit like Micah, I guess. Exceptionally private. And Cato is just a kid. I’m not sure that family’s gonna work out for you.”
“It could,” she gripes. “I got us into their club, didn’t I? And seats at the bar.”
“We literally walked into the club. It’s not like there’s a VIP list keeping people out. And we sat at the all-access bar, where you flirted with the bartender—not with a Malone.”
“Because you were talking to the Malone! Girl code says you had claim and I had to walk my ass the other way.”
“I have claim to nothing. Micah got in my way that night, in the club you insisted on going to. Some dude outside was being obnoxious, I was trying to move fast and get out of the street, and Micah just so happened to be there. We talked for all of thirty seconds, then I was gone.”
“He’s hot, though, right?” She plops her size-four ass on my desk, nudging my water bottle to the side and pushing my computer screen askew. Her movement sends a second wave of perfume wafting into my lungs. “There’s no way I wanna date Felix, because he’s the boss, and honestly, word on the street is the boss’ lovers rarely survive the night. Honestly, Felix scares the bejeezus out of me. And the other three aren’t even in the city. But Micah…” She purrs. Purrs! “If you try to say he wasn’t sexy, then I’ll call you a big fat liar.”
“I have no interest in Micah Malone.” I settle back and link my fingers in my lap. “Even if he is… aesthetically pleasing.”
“Aesthetically pleasing!” She throws her head back and laughs. “Listen to you, Little Miss I Work In A Fancy Antique Shop. You sound conceited and sexually frustrated.”
The headphoned customer studying a desk worth two hundred and thirty thousand dollars, turns to us, his brow quirked as he meets my eyes. His expression is not necessarily one of anger, but examination.
“Jazzy!” I glare at my friend. “You are making a fool of us both. My boss is watching, clients are listening, and I’d really like to not have to explain to Jakeline that I’m the reason her sale tanked.”
“But—”
“Take your hooker heels and your loud mouth, and get out of my shop before I lose my job.” I smack her thigh, not so hard it’ll hurt, but definitely hard enough to get her moving. “Don’t come down here and gossip about people I met for thirty seconds several weeks ago. I’m not interested.”
“You are interested!” Pouting, she pushes to her feet and grabs her purse. “And you love my heels, so don’t act all high and mighty just because you have to wear a virginal dress between the hours of nine to five.”
“Get,” I widen my eyes in threat, “out. I’ll see you later.”
“Wet blanket.” She tosses that long, bottle-red hair over her shoulder and puffs out her C-at-best chest. “Have you seen Roscoe this week?”
“Of course.” Groaning, I press the pads of my fingers to my eyes. “He brought me a pastry this morning.” I drop my hand and meet her gaze across my desk. “He is a much more discreet, classier kind of friend. Pastries and coffee, delivered with dignity.”
“Ugh. You’re so grumpy, now that you work with New York City’s elite. I mean, who wants to buy someone else’s yard sale desk for a year’s worth of rent?”
“Oh my god.” I shove up from my chair, the frame squeaking under my weight, and the wheels rolling across the tile, then I circle my desk and pretend I don’t see the beady stare of the man who probably was going to spend a fortune on someone else’s secondhand desk.
I wrap my hands around Jazzy’s arms and not-so-gently steer her toward the door. “You’re leaving now. You’re banned from stepping inside this shop ever again.”
“Such a grump. You used to be cool, Tiia! You used to wear the hooker heels too,” she stumbles to show me her shoes, “but now you have that new apartment and a new job, and suddenly, you think you’re better than me?”
Laughter rolls through my belly as my friend puts on the best show of her damn life. “You’re so dramatic.” I release one of her biceps but keep hold of the other as I reach for the door handle and yank the glass open, then promptly deposit her on the other side. “You literally get off on being over-the-top. Now go away.”
“Fine. Dinner tonight?” She fixes her skirt and grins, completely and totally at ease with how loud she is.
We’re opposites in that way. I like to blend in; comfortable clothes, flat shoes, and a hair tie within reach at all times. But not Jazzy. No, she likes color and noise and bright lipstick.
She doesn’t mind being uncomfortable—her clothes typically made of fishnet mesh or too-small leather—so long as she looks good. And the risk of breaking her ankles in six-inch-high shoes? Worth it.
“We could head over to Biano’s,” she suggests. “I’m hormonal and can’t stop thinking about their pasta.”
I snort. “Sure.”
Stepping back to my side of the threshold, I fix my dress—cream, with teeny tiny pink roses sprinkled all over—and look down at my wedge sandals. Respectable. Cute.
Finally, I bring my focus up and push my long, brown locks over my shoulder to keep them out of my way. “I’ll meet you there at seven.”
“Eight.” She winks, spinning and peeking over her shoulder. “I have something on at seven.”
“Can’t be that desperate for the pasta, then.” I step back, rolling my eyes, but I keep my voice down, conscious of the fact that our headphoned customer is now listening to everything my colorful friend says. “I’ll see you later. Don’t come back here today, or Jakeline will destroy me.”
In a faux whisper, Jaz asks, “Has Jakeline considered banging a Malone? Could be just what she needs to loosen up.”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” I release the door, shutting my friend out for good, and turn on my heels, ignoring the threatening stare of the woman in question, who is potentially more dangerous than the Malones.
With a brush of my palms over my dress, I make a beeline for the man whose purchase will pay my rent next month. “I’m so sorry for that, sir.” I come to stop at his side and peer across with a kind, innocent smile. “My friend can be a little loud sometimes.”
He chuckles, his broad chest and large shoulders reminiscent of the Malone I sometimes—a little too often—think about when I have a minute to spare. “Loud friends are often angels sent from above to drag us from our comfort zones and into real life. Allegedly, that’s where we’re supposed to exist.”
“Yeah, well…” I clasp my hands together and smirk. “That’s Jazzy’s purpose, I’m certain. She likes noise and glitz and a side of drama. I’m more of a ‘stay inside and watch Wheel Of Fortune’ kind of girl.”
“A balance must be struck.” His eyes remain absorbed by the desk he wants. Solid wood build, with a dark green finish on top. Handcrafted drawers with secret compartments I wonder if he has discovered yet. “You’re new to this job, Ms…” Finally, he looks my way. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”
“Tiia.” I offer my hand, pleased when he takes it. “Tiia Hale. And yes. Sort of. I started working for Ms. Colby about eight months ago. But I’m not new to the antique trade. In fact, I majored in art history in college, with a minor in antiques. I’m glad to be putting my knowledge to use here.”
“Hmm.” He releases my hand, dropping his into his pocket, and nods toward his potential purchase. “Well… tell me its history, then. Wow me, if you will. The price tag is quite commanding. Certainly, it must come with a rich past?”
“And so it does.” I step forward and run the tips of my fingers over the wood’s smooth finish. “This desk was built in London in eighteen eighty-three, and comes with the builder’s seal in the top, left drawer, proving authenticity. Which,” I add with a playful smile, “is a detail important to the story. Documents we possess, and will provide to the buyer, states this piece was a gift from Queen Victoria herself to the president at the time, Chester A. Arthur, as a peace offering between their countries during times of tension. Arthur, as we know, was America’s twenty-first president and wanted nothing but peace. Unfortunately, the desk never made it to the White House, because on its long journey across the Atlantic Ocean, pirates intercepted the vessel carrying it, and hid its contents for the next thirty years. This created a divide between the countries, as the queen declared she had, indeed, sent it, and President Arthur, of course, denied ever receiving her grand gesture. The desk simply…” I shrug, “vanished into obscurity for the next few decades. Later, in nineteen thirteen, on the eve of a great wedding, the desk resurfaced with a hefty price tag and a promise to hand it over in one piece, should America’s current sitting president pay the price.”
“Blackmail?”
I snicker. “Encouragement, perhaps, from scoundrels. By the nineteen hundreds, though, this desk had achieved notoriety because of its previous vanishing act. So an American businessman—not the president—paid the ransom, swooping in before anyone else could make the purchase, and accepted delivery of the desk that would, eventually, be home to one of our country’s most cherished novels.”
He glances across, quirking a brow. “Dare I ask which one?”
“Well, the greatest of all time,” I tease. “Documented in the files, alongside one of the just half a dozen bound and autographed copies of the book in existence. This very special edition also becomes the property of whoever buys this piece. The desk spans six feet long, and three feet deep, with leather-set drawers, four on each side, and bronze hardware, original and certified for proof. A central drawer,” I step forward and gently pull it out, “is lined in original leather, and contains the etched spacing for what was a silver and iron quill.”
“And the quill?” He looks to me, sharp, blue eyes boring into the side of my face. “Does it come with the desk?”
“Unfortunately not.” Bested, I drop my gaze and wish, for my own sense of satisfaction, the quill did remain. “Tragically, it never made it to the mainland, and to this day, has yet to be recovered. Though, according to our files, it surely exists. The central drawer is flanked by four graduated drawers, each with leather interiors and original hardware. The top left drawer comes complete with a vertical panel inside, which is the craftsman’s seal. Each drawer is key-lockable?—”
“And the keys?”
I bring my eyes up and grin, feeling an odd fluttering in my stomach when his stare drops to my lips.
“They do come with the desk. Original and stamped. This piece is timeless, and too intricate for fraudsters to even attempt. And with a walnut outer, burl inners, and leather inlays, this desk is simply too unique to be sold to just anyone.”
“And its value?” He takes a step back, allowing himself space to look me up and down.
I do the same. He wears jeans and a shirt; nothing particularly fancy. No brands stand out. If I were to see him in the street, I doubt I’d look a second time or assume wealth. But, I’ve discovered that’s what people with old money do.
“How much is this desk worth, Ms. Hale?”
“Well, we’re asking?—”
“No,” he cuts me off, smiling when our eyes meet. “I’m not asking for the tag price. I’m asking your opinion. What is this desk worth, to you?”
“Uh…” Swallowing, I bring my focus back around to the piece in question. It is seemingly plain, amongst other seemingly plain things. But the history it comes with, the journey it took across the ocean, and its time lived amongst pirates; that’s what makes it so beautiful.
The journey is what makes it special.
“I don’t know.” I fold my arms, hunching in on myself as I wish for the ability to someday buy my very own slice of history.
Or at the very least, be a part of history.
“I consider it priceless,” I finally admit. “There’s no dollar amount that I, personally, would consider fair to assign to this desk. But if we’re talking craftsmanship…” I chew on my bottom lip, thinking and grieving what I know will soon be the loss of a piece of history, once this man buys it and takes it away forever. “I think the tag Ms. Colby has attached is reasonable. For that same amount, you could buy other, historically rich pieces. Wardrobes. Beds. Desks. Cars. Everything comes with a story, no? Even the stick of gum I placed in my purse a week ago, where it has since journeyed from my home, to work, to a local club, into a cab, and then all through Central Park. And back to work. I still, at this moment, have not unwrapped or chewed it. And so, until I do, it remains something valuable to whoever wants it most. Me,” I add, laughing when he smiles. “It’s valuable only to me. But if I was Queen Victoria, or Cher, or someone a wealthy man loved… then I guess my stick of gum could be a coveted item. This desk, too, might merely be a worthless pile of wood, if not for where it’s been and who has touched it. Its value, as with all things, lies within whoever wishes to own it.”
“And do you wish to own it?” He reads me all too well. “Do you wish it could be yours?”
“So much. But since it can’t, I wish for you to appreciate it as much as I would. If you have the means and the desire to own this piece of history, then,” I gesture in the desk’s direction, “buy it. The price tag is irrelevant.”
“‘The price tag is irrelevant’?” Jakeline stalks up on my right, her eyes on the back of our latest client as he strolls outside with a little less money in his pocket, but with the promise of a very sexy, very regal desk making its way toward his home in the next couple of days.
Jakeline’s perfume is far sharper than Jazzy’s. Harsher, and with no hint of floral tone, no matter how hard I search for other scents amongst the pepper and wood. “The price tag is irrelevant?” she repeats, circling on me as the door closes and we’re the only two souls left inside her store. “Are you crazy!?”
“It sold.” I turn, and head toward my desk. “He asked my opinion. I made the sale.”
“You fawned over the product you were attempting to sell?—”
“Did sell.” I drag my chair out from behind my desk and step to the front, plopping down with an undignified huff of exhaustion. “I don’t understand why you’re mad, Jakeline. We have his money.”
“You told him the price tag doesn’t matter!” She whirls in place, her dress flaring, and her hair following just a beat later. “He’ll probably never come back, since the prices don’t matter.”
“You’re being theatrical.”
But when her eyes flash, I acknowledge I’m being dismissive and flirting with unemployment.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Colby. I did what I thought was best. The desk sold for above asking price, it’s going to what I can only assume is a good home, and now you have a new name in your records who may be interested in more of your wares.”
“You’re causing disruption inside the building I’ve prided on elegance and elitism.” If she could stomp her feet and remain dignified, I’m sure she would. “This is not an alleyway shop that poor people through in search of a bargain. This is a gallery of artwork, set aside exclusively for those who are worthy.”
“And I sold a unique piece to a man who fit the parameters of your desired clientele.” You snobbish jerk. “But don’t discount alleyway antique stores. They are, after all, where countless treasures hide. Just as I told Mr. Harrison, a piece is worth only what someone is willing to pay for it.”
I check my computer screen, relieved as the clock in the corner clicks over from four-fifty-nine to five. Switching the monitor off and opening my drawer, I grab my bag, toss my phone inside, and snatch out that stick of gum surely worth trillions.
“I’m done for today, Ms. Colby. I remain abundantly conscious of your discomfort having me here. I’m not the usual type—” ofelite, stuck-up bitch, “you would employ, I know. In acknowledgment of that, I sincerely appreciate your grace.” I slip my bag over my head, crossing the strap over my chest so the leather rests between my breasts. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Nine a.m. sharp,” she sniffs. “Our couriers will be here to transport Mr. Harrison’s purchase, and he has specifically requested that you be here to see it off.”
Is this how rich men flirt?I wonder.
But I slide my chair back under my desk and smile away the thought. I’m not interested, and it’s time for me to leave. “I’ll be here. Goodnight, Jakeline.”