Page 45 of Diamond In The Rough

He said he’d come back for his chest, but didn’t specify a time.

Had he communicated better, perhaps the exchange could have happened at nine this morning, the second I opened the place to the public. We could have done that awkward two-step, and he could have been on his way.

That would have been ideal. Not great, since I don’t particularly relish the idea of seeing him at all. But at least the deed would be done, and the rest of my day could move forward.

But nooooo. Micah Malone isn’t so courteous—though, really, I’m not sure I was naïve to think he could be.

Ten a.m. passes, and Jakeline gives me the beady eye over the Mongolian wooden chest sitting in the middle of our store like a beating heart, because her bank account is noticeably missing a deposit of sixty-nine thousand dollars.

By eleven a.m., anyone would think I’ve committed cardinal sins against her and her mother.

Twelve noon, and no sign of the mafioso or his money. So while Jakeline skips lunch and sticks around for her financial infusion, I hang on tenterhooks, while simultaneously praying that he stays far, far away.

“What did you do?” Jakeline thunders out of her office at a quarter to one, her hunger pangs in overdrive, but her desire to remain a size two ensuring she starves herself and takes her rage out on me. “Tiia! That sale was guaranteed.”

“No sale is guaranteed.” I avoid looking to the empty chair by the door, so as not to highlight the missing plant I somehow gave away for free.

He didn’t pay for it. He didn’t buy the chest. He just… stole and left.

“He seemed interested, Jakeline. I did my best to entice him,” —to leave— “and he assured me he would be back today. So…” I peer across and fake a sweet smile. “We just have to be patient. If he’s changed his mind, then that’s his prerogative. No sale is certain until money exchanges hands.”

“What did you speak to him about?” She clips her way across the store, around a grand piano that only the truly wealthy could consider owning, and plops her ass on the corner of my desk. “I wanted so badly to stay and listen, but a businesswoman knows when she’s needed and when she’s not.” She steeples her fingers and grins like the Cheshire Cat. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard him mutter more than three words.”

“I would hope not.” I glance down at my printed files, the history about jilted lovers who once made love on the piano Jakeline walked by.

To sell this stuff, I have to know a piece’s life before this shop. Not always is it a desk whose story intrigues me, or a chest whose past saddens me.

“He’s the friggin’ mafia, Jakeline. You should want to keep your distance. I think you’re romanticizing a handsome man, conveniently forgetting the danger he poses.”

“I trust you’ll cling to the sordid details enough for the both of us. You’re obsessed with his criminal past, while I,” she smirks down at her nails, “am far more interested in who he is outside of work.”

“It’s not just work!” I clap my hand to the printouts on my desk. “He doesn’t just clock out, ya know? He doesn’t leave at five and cease to operate within the criminal world. His entire existence revolves around this city’s underbelly. His whole family, and their wealth, stands on the backs of those less fortunate than them. The money he’ll pay for the chest was not earned at a regular job.”

“I imagine he’s quite the accomplished lover,” she purrs, her throat vibrating with the thought as she completely hurdles my argument. “He seems… intelligent and thoughtful, don’t you think? Not like Felix, the figurehead and show pony.”

“You’re folding yourself into a shameless pretzel to avoid acknowledging his family’s guilt.” I push up from my desk. “I have no interest in joining you in your weird, non-logical version of reality. But thanks.”

She slides off my desk and firms her lips into a smug smirk. “Just so you’re aware?—”

The bell above the door jingles, drawing our attention as the door swings open and admits Micah Malone himself.

With a relieved exhale, Jakeline steps up on my left, then whispers, “You blush when he’s within fifty feet of you. Not everyone can tell, because you already have that color to your skin, but I see it.” She wanders away, her heels clacking against tile as she moves toward her next paycheck.

“Mr. Malone.” She damn near curtsies. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Back to complete your purchase?”

“Yes.” One word. A single syllable. And no eyes for the woman who so desperately wants them. Micah looks straight over Jakeline’s head and holds my stare. “Ms. Hale makes the commission, no matter who rings me up?”

“Of course.” Bravely, or stupidly, Jakeline places her hand on his forearm and squeezes, just hard enough to pull his fiery gaze down. “However, I won’t interfere. Ms. Hale would love to finalize the documents and help you out.” Releasing him, she peeks my way. “I’ll be in my office. Once you’re done with Mr. Malone, you’re welcome to take your lunch break.”

“You haven’t eaten?” Micah’s eyes lock onto mine again, and narrow as he looks me up and down. “Did you have breakfast?”

I turn on my heels to hide my scoff, passing it off as a cough. “My diet is hardly your concern. Did you bring a check, Mr. Malone, or would you prefer bank transfer?”

“Transfer.” He strides past Jakeline, oblivious to her ogling observation, and comes around to stop by my desk. Though, I keep my back to him as I search my files for the documents that go with the chest to prove authenticity. “And food.”

“Hmm?” I look over my shoulder and hate that his emerald stare is like a tractor beam.

It sounds so stupid. So fantastical. But his eyes are powerful and, I’m learning, often his preferred method of communication. Unlike the always-talking Jazzy, Micah chooses silence. Surveillance. Action.

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