Page 16 of Diamond In The Rough

“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.”

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