Page 33 of Diamond In The Rough

“What is the result you’re looking for?” He stalks closer, a dark shadow deep in my peripherals. “What do you want?”

“To never have met you.” I set down my bottle and gently caress a pothos leaf that’s almost as broad as my palm. The dark green, almost matching Micah’s eyes. “For some odd reason, the universe decided to tangle us up a month ago. I didn’t leave my home that evening expecting to meet you and jack my life up. So if I could go back in time and choose a different club to meet my friends in that night, I promise you,” I peer over my shoulder, and groan internally when I find him impossibly close.

Just three feet away. His body warmth, emanating forward. His cologne, trickling into my lungs.

“I would have stayed away from CeCe’s if I knew this was the mess I would walk into.”

“Sell me the chest,” he orders, low and dangerous. “Convince me to want it, Tiia.”

“It’s old.” I bring my attention back to my plant and ignore the man whose stubble draws my eyes each time I look his way. “And it’s severely underpriced. You could buy it today, insure it for three times its cost, lose it tomorrow, and take your payout. It’s practically printing money.”

His brows pinch, noticeable even from the corner of my eyes. “If you could make that much money in a day and a half, why haven’t you done it?”

“Because I don’t have seventy grand to drop on it in the first place.” I gently release the pothos limb and pick up another, careful not to snap the delicate lengths. “I work here, Micah; I don’t run the place. And I assure you, whatever you pay for that chest today, even at rock-bottom pricing, it will far exceed my yearly income.”

“So convince me to buy it,” he presses. Another step forward. “Convince me to love it. Maybe I’ll gift it to you.”

I scoff, loud and jarring and not at all me. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want such a grand gift?”

“I don’t want you to be here!” I release the next limb and half-turn to meet his gaze. “It’s closing time. I have things to do. Places to go. People to see. None of which include sharing space with a man who thinks threatening a woman with his knife at her throat is in any way excusable or forgivable.” I grab my supplies and step around him again, taking back my space and leaving him to a corner. That’s more than he deserves. “If you insist on hating me, and wish to slit my throat, then please do so sooner rather than later. If I’m going to die, I’d rather not spend time sweeping the floors first.”

“I’m not going to kill you.” He turns on his heels and watches me. So at ease. So relaxed. “I’ve decided you may be telling the truth.”

“Oh! Well.” I roll my eyes and stride across to my desk. “So magnanimous of you. Will you hurry and buy your chest, then, so I can leave? It belonged to a soldier who went off to war. He traveled in his youth, at just twenty-something years old, and fought god knows who, for whatever reason the men in power deemed suitable. He gifted this chest to the woman he loved.” I set my spray bottle down and perch my hands on my hips. “She cheated on him while he was gone. Had another man’s baby, and sold the chest to buy a farm.” I flash a vindictive, horrible smile; poison, partly for the man who studies me, and partly for myself, for telling a lie and besmirching history when I know the chest’s real origins are far prettier.

And more tragic.

“She was a nasty, lying whore who laid with another man. When it was all said and done, and she’d sold all of her belongings for fast money, she went searching for her soldier—hoping to rekindle her net wealth, I suppose. But he’d died at war.” I present my hand, palm side up. “I’ll cut you a deal and part with the chest for sixty-nine thousand dollars. You can use the other thousand to buy another suit and maybe a night with a whore.”

“A thousand dollars for a suit and sex?” He starts in my direction, his expression thoughtful, and yet, carrying himself with confidence, commanding of the space he walks within. “Either my suit is gonna be ugly, Ms. Hale, or my cock will be red and rashy tomorrow.”

“Is it not already?” I give him a pithy smile and hate that our conversation has somehow landed here, on the subject of his penis. “Do we have a deal?”

“We do not.” He comes to a stop ten feet from where I stand, and tilts his head to the side. “I’ll pay full price for the chest, but only after you tell me its real origins. And…”

My eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “And, what?”

“And I want the devil’s ivy.”

“The…” Stunned, I look around. “What?”

He hooks a thumb back toward the door. “She needs a bigger pot, less direct sunlight, better soil. And more love.” He broadens his chest, though I swear I thought it impossible. “I want the ivy.”

“Ummm… Jakeline said it’s called a pothos. So maybe it’s not what you think it is.”

“It’s exactly what I think it is. And your treatment is criminal at best.”

“My treatment? I was wiping it down! I was giving it love.”

“You were strangling an already yellow leaf,” he tosses back. “I want the ivy. The pot. The spray bottle. The chest. And I want a truce.”

“A tru—” My heart thumps to a standstill. Nerves strangling me, just as surely as he asserts I strangled the plant. “Y-you want a truce?”

“It would seem I acted rashly when we crossed paths last night.” He swallows, grimacing as though crow doesn’t taste all that nice. “I have always, and will always, be protective of those I love. I’ve had to circumvent a thousand beautiful women, over the course of my lifetime, who thought their pretty faces and damsel acts could hide the threat they posed to me or mine. I assumed you were another one of them.” He drops his chin. “I’ve yet to decide I was wrong.”

The ground he was making, if only infinitesimal, washes away on a wave of anger.

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