Page 12 of A Billionaire Rebel

Seven

Jae

One of thethings I loved about working here was that it rarely got crazy. Times we ran specials, like Black Friday, we usually had to have three people in the store, and when we did inventory, Starla sometimes scheduled two, but the rest of the time, we could usually handle everything alone, so we generally only had a half or quarter shift overlap.

Which was why being scheduled to work alone until close today wasn’t strange. Normally, I didn’t mind this shift, especially on the quiet nights since I rarely had much in the way of silence in my life. This evening, however, I wished Starla had scheduled someone with me, or someone else entirely.

After Starla had left a few hours ago, Spencer had shown up. He hadn’t come inside, just leaned against the hood of my car and stared at the store. Then he’d disappeared for a little while, only to come back and stand closer, looking in through the windows.

Almost twenty minutes ago, he’d made his fifth pass, this time waving at me when he walked by. The jewelry store closed in an hour or so, and I hoped that meant he’d leave, but there was always the possibility that he’d decide to actually come inside and make his harassment a little more personal.

But I’d be damned if I let him intimidate me into changing a single thing about me or my life.

Which meant I needed to start cleaning the glass cases around the store. I let myself fall into the familiar rhythm, my mind pleasantly blank. It could have been a few minutes or a half an hour later when I heard the door open. My heart gave an unsteady thump. He’d come in. Shit.

I turned, ready to greet Spencer with professionalism, even if it wasn’t genuine…except it wasn’t Spencer.

Over six feet, muscular, and tan…damn. The expression ‘a tall drink of water’ immediately came to mind. Then he smiled, dimples deepened next to his mouth, making all sorts of things inside me squirm. Even though a cowboy hat covered a good portion of his face, he was devastatingly handsome.

He looked familiar, but it took enough of an effort to greet him without sounding like an idiot. I wasn’t about to make it worse. I didn’t need to know why there was a hint of recognition.

“Are you okay?”

For a moment, I thought I’d start drooling or something equally embarrassing, so I kept my gaze focused on his throat instead of searching for his eyecolor in the shadows of the hat.

“You look like you were expecting someone else.” His voice held a hint of Texas, but it was faint enough to tell me that he’d worked at losing it. “Someone you weren’t looking forward to seeing.”

I gave him a tight smile. “You just startled me, that’s all. How can I help you?”

He gave me a puzzled look, an amused expression on his face. What, exactly, was so funny, I didn’t know, but it wasn’t my concern, not unless it affected why he was here.

“I need a new guitar.”

I nodded, pleased to have something to do. “Over here.”

He had already started moving to the right section, and I wondered if he’d been here before or if he’d seen the guitars before I’d turned around.

“Is there something particular you’re looking for?” I asked. “Acoustic or electric?”

I’d found that asking questions this way worked a lot better than asking if he was a novice or amateur or professional. People tended to either vastly over-estimate or under-estimate their abilities. Asking questions about types and brands helped me gauge what would work best for him, even if he didn’t know.

“Acoustic-electric. I want to try something new, and I usually stick to one or the other. I think a hybrid might give me what I’m looking for.”

Well, that probably meant price wouldn’t be an object. Not if he already had at least two other guitars and was looking for a third just because he was looking for a different sound or look. Now, I needed to figure out whether or not he actually knew what to do with those guitars or if he was some spoiled rich boy wanting to spend daddy’s money on a new toy.

“Do you have a particular brand preference?”

He didn’t answer right away, running his gaze across our selection in a way that told me he wasn’t trying to feign being knowledgeable. He was genuinely assessing each one.

“I’m looking for something different than what I usually lean toward.” He pointed at one. “What’s your opinion on this one?”

“Takamine. Part of their Legacy series. Cedar top, maple body, rosewood fretboard.” I lightly touched the glossy black surface. “It’s a beautiful instrument. Rich, full sound. Springsteen uses it, if you’re looking for an example of professional use.”

He gave me a sideways look, as if I was missing something important. “Would you recommend it?”

“It depends on what you want to use it for,” I said. “That’s a solid performance piece right there.”

“What would you use if you were writing music?”

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