Page 23 of Scrooge

“You are awfully grumpy. I can see why your people don’t like you,” I murmur, and his gaze snaps back to me.

“Now smile,” he instructs.

“You want me to smile on command?” I ask, looking out the shop window but not seeing anything.

“Yes. That is your job in this. Pretend to be in love. So in love, in fact, that I will be proposing to you soon.”

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss, and his lip quirks ever-so-slightly.

“There is nobody here,” he says, looking around, tall enough to see over some of the displays and shelves.

“My dad is. And he is smart. He probably already knows what we are up to.”

“You live with your sister. right?”

I look up at him, my eyebrows raised.

“Someone has been doing their homework?” I say, impressed, wondering why I didn’t think of that. Instead of searching the internet for every last piece of the Alexander Jackson puzzle, I downed two bottles of red wine with my sister, and now we are both regretful of that fact.

“I research everything.”

“What else did you find out about me?” I ask out of interest, smirking as he sighs in exasperation.

“Ended your education as a high school senior and never went to college…” he starts, and I begin to feel uneasy and a little inferior. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go to college, but Jillian moved straight into working at the store after high school and I did the same. Owning Tucker Toys was always our destiny. “Your name is on a lease in the financial district, although you haven’t lived there for months,” he says, then pauses, clearly prying for information that I am not going to supplement him with.

“And you?” I ask defensively, changing the subject.

“I graduated summa cum laude from Yale,” he says, and I roll my eyes.

“Of course you did,” I murmur. I doubt I could feel any worse than I already do about my life.

“You have worked here at Tucker Toys since school, then?” He watches me closely, like he is waiting for me to lie.

“Since before then, really. I have worked here since I could walk. See that chair over there.” I point to the far side of the window, to a small pink chair that is in the tea party room.

“What about it?” he asks, looking at the sweet kid’s chair.

“I painted that when I was five,” I state, smiling genuinely as nostalgia takes over.

“Where is that painting from?” he asks, looking at the large painting that hangs in the tea party room. The one I painted a few years ago. It is a landscape. Magical, with fairies and wizards, a little silly, but lots of fun.

“I painted that,” I tell him. It’s easier to admit it’s my work when he’s looking at it the way he is, with awe and clear interest.

“You painted that?” Glancing back at me sharply, surprise is plastered on his face. “You like to paint?”

“I bet that didn’t show up in your research,” I say with a smug look on my face.

“I got invited to an art gallery showing at Maddison Miller Gallery later this week. We should go.” It isn’t a question, but merely a verbalized thought.

“Our first outing?” I ask, not wanting to get excited because Maddison Miller is one of the best galleries in the city, and while I have never been invited to any of her exclusive showings, I have walked past that gallery more times than I care to admit.

“I wouldn’t ordinarily go, but…” he trails off as his eyes flick to the painting before they land back on me, and he clears his throat. “We might as well start the media wheel turning.”

“That would be amazing,” I say quietly, my heart thumping as he searches my eyes.

“I will send my driver to collect you at seven on Thursday.”

I try to push my eagerness to the back of my mind and focus on the logistics.

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