Beauty and The Best (Once-Upon-A-Time Romance) (6 page)

“
You know, I don’t know.” Dawn looked puzzled, then shrugged. “But don’t worry about cracking them. They’re made of Lucite, not glass.”

“
Okay.” Jolie was just about to slip the little suckers on when, lo and behold, out popped Mr. Griff from the back, her mangled shoe looking completely new.
Completely
. There weren’t even any smudge marks on the inside.

And he had a book with him.

It was pathetic really how Jolie’s heart sped at the sight of a book. She would’ve thought since she could now afford her own books (and she bought them, thankyouverymuch) that the old hunger for the printed word wouldn’t plague her any more. But nope. She saw that paperback in his hand and it was all she could do not to salivate.

“
Here you go, my dear.” He was practically kicking up his serviceable black-clad heels. “All fixed and fit as a fiddle.” He handed her the shoe and she had to tear herself away from the book.

“
And I thought you might like to have this. To get my new business off the ground, so to speak.” He held out the paperback.

Was he kidding? The guy must read minds. She wanted to grab it, stopping only when she saw the shaking of her hand. For Pete’s sake, it was just a book.

Yeah, and Todd’s abs were just another six-pack.

Not going there.

“
Your new business?” she asked because she was interested; it had nothing whatsoever to do with Todd’s abs.

Really.

Mr. Griff went to tip his hat, but nodded instead, being that he was unable to remove his hat since it had gotten crushed in their—okay,
her
—little mishap. She really hoped he could get it back into shape as fast as he had her shoe which looked brand spankin’ yellow again.

She slipped it on to hide her unbridled curiosity at the book he was offering. “What new business is that?”

“
I’m opening Heavenly Books next door. That way, people heading down to the river can pick up some reading material. It’s a nice way to pass the time on a pleasant day.”

He pushed the book toward her on the counter, right past those Lucite shoes she’d suddenly lost interest in.

All of the happy memories of her childhood were wrapped up in books. Adventure, escape, freedom, family… it was all there, so she simply couldn’t refuse the book—as long as it wasn’t charity. She didn’t do charity. Period, end of story.

“
Take this book and mention me to all your friends. Word of mouth is the best advertising.”

“
Oh, I most definitely will. Thank you so very much, Mr. Griff.” She took out her wallet and the little man patted her hand again.

“
Now, now, you must call me Jonathan and put that away. These are my gift to you. Have a good day and come back when you need another story or a new pair of shoes.”

He was so earnest she couldn’t argue with him. And he was right anyway; she’d definitely mention him to her friends. Minus the running over part, of course.

She thanked him and departed with her treasures into a beautiful, if a bit on the hot side, summer day. Luckily, a nice breeze wafted from the river a block away. She loved this neighborhood. It was one of those old-fashioned ones where people took pride in, and care of, their storefronts and sidewalks. Window boxes overflowed with portulaca and geraniums dotted the second floor apartments above the brick storefronts. Nicely pruned trees lining the sidewalks held little twinkling lights during the Christmas season, making it real festive. Just like today with all the people heading to the river, tons of kids and baby carriages in tow.

Halfway down the street she finally gave in to temptation to see the book he’d given her.

It was a Regency. How did he know that, out of every kind of romance novel there was, Regencies were her favorite? There was something about the women in those books. Their society wanted them to be pretty little brainless ornaments, concerned with nothing but the latest fashion and
on-dit
, but those heroines wouldn’t stand for it. They worked within their mores to assert their independence and make their own way in the world.

She so admired that. It was what she’d always aspired to: to lose the case managers and social workers and make her own decisions. To be responsible for her own life. But no, what kid ever got that kind of autonomy? Especially one in the system?

That had to be why she was drawn to those books. They’d validated her desire to make a better life for herself during all those years when she’d needed the affirmation.

The breeze kicked up again, ruffling her hair, flouncing the hem of her gauzy shirt, whispering over her skin like the soft brush of a feather, and a songbird warbled in one of the trees as Jolie passed an old-fashioned, wrought-iron bench by Arena’s.

She’d love to park her tushy down and read a few chapters, but it probably wouldn’t look so hot when Todd pulled up and she’d sent the groceries home, only to be caught reading on the job.

The job. Right. Work first. Hard Work and Persistence, those were the mantras of her life, with a little Hope and Wait thrown in for good measure.

To that end, she hiked her purse strap farther up her shoulder, tucked the book under her arm, decided to bypass her friend Bella’s restaurant around the next corner, and headed over to Todd’s office—okay, his
brother’s
office.

Yeah, like that was the truth.

Jolie crossed Market, waving to Signore Girondi at his newsstand, then came to a stop a third of the way down the next block in front of the mirrored building.

Best Enterprises.

An entire building. An enterprise. He was
that
good. Or he would be if he’d just pick up a brush. Good thing demand was still high for his prints so he could afford his big ol’ empty house.

Tall glass doors swooshed open as she approached, and a blast of Freon-coated air rushed by, flipping the hem of her blouse, tickling her tummy like that tickle she got when a good-looking guy stared at her but she didn’t want to let him know she’d noticed, but she also didn’t want him to think she wasn’t interested so she’d shoot him eensy-weensy glances out of the corner of her eye, all the while little flips and twinges danced through her stomach. That kind of tickle.

A guy in rent-a-cop gray with a flashy gold emblem on his shirtsleeve stood up behind a desk when she headed over.

“
Hi,” she said, putting enough chipper in her voice to merit a smile. “I’m here to see Mr. Best.”

“
Which one?” The man didn’t crack a smile. Not even a little insincere twitch of the lips. Nothing.

She couldn’t have that. She’d asked a simple question, not the combination to Fort Knox, for Pete’s sake. “Um…Todd?”

He scanned her from head to toe. Now, if Joe Schmoe on the street were to do that she’d be highly insulted—or highly flattered depending where Mr. Schmoe fell on People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive list. But Sour-Puss made her feel as if she was in a doctor’s office. Or a police line-up. Honestly, did the guy think she was packing a gun in this outfit?

So just for kicks and giggles, she did a “ta-da” twirl on her repaired shoe, turning back to face him just in time to see him roll his eyes.

And the faintest glimmer of a smile.
Bingo
.

She only got the glimmer, but it was enough. He tucked his chin onto his security-guard-special collar and lifted a large leather book from somewhere below the chest-high marble security desk. “Sign this.”

Nice manners, buddy. She gave him that eyebrow-raising trick.

“
Please,” he conceded, his smile getting a little bigger.

Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? “Sure, okay.” She scribbled her name in her best USA-Today-Best-Selling-Author autograph (yes, she’d been practicing; it never hurt to be prepared), and headed to the shiny silver elevator bank.

“
Miss? Just a moment, please.”

Wow. He’d progressed from two words to five. She did tend to grow on people.

She turned around. “Yes?”

“
Mr. Best’s office is on the tenth floor, but there’s a retirement party on the eighth, so you might want to stop there first.”

“
Gotcha. Thanks for the info.” She tapped the UP button on the elevators. Retirement party? She doubted Todd was in party mode. Not “today.”

She’d take her chances in Mike’s office.

With a soft little
ding
, the doors opened to a nice,
chi-chi
elevator, all mirrors and muted lighting. And paintings. His paintings. Just like in the lobby.

A soft whir and before she knew it: Top Floor. Of course his office would be on top. Okay, his brother’s office. Yeah, she was getting tired of making that distinction. It was
his
office—his brother was just borrowing it. Or keeping it dust-free for him. Whatever.

She took a few steps into the empty elevator foyer. Where was everyone? At the retirement party? Hmm, maybe Todd
had
gone.

No, that just didn’t ring true. Not with his mood “today.” She’d take a look around.

Steel gray carpet, very plush and sound-absorbing, swallowed her footsteps. Pale gray walls, what few there were, stood as the perfect backdrop for Todd’s vivid landscapes. Banks of windows let in almost a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the town. Traffic on the street was light today. Probably because of all the people hanging out at the park on the riverbank. A rainbow of shirts of all sizes and shapes ringed the fountain there. A couple of paddleboats lazed around on the river with a pair of speedboats rippling past them.

She hung a right at the water cooler and headed toward the offices. Probably where the big guns handled all the sales that got Todd’s pictures into every prestigious building in the country. From the looks of the furnishings and décor, they did their jobs extremely well.

A huge expanse of cherry wood double doors loomed at the far end of the hall. It must be his office. His brother’s—oh, whatever.

A matched set of his paintings graced the doorway. She read the plaques beneath them. Riverwalk South and Riverwalk North.

Ah, yes. There was the fountain. The speedboats. The docks. A perfect depiction of the view from the windows. Man, the man had talent.

She was about to knock when she heard voices. Aha! She was right. He was here. But obviously not finished so she decided to park her butt on the ottoman by the door and wait.

She pulled out Mr. Griff’s book—it didn’t feel right to call him Jonathan—and read the back blurb.

Hmmm, the heroine refused proposal after proposal, determined that no man would be in charge of her life.

Substitute “no one” for “no man” and Jolie was right there with her.

Yep, this story looked promising. Mr. Griff had picked a good one. She flipped to the inside cover and read the excerpt.

“
Destiny is mine,” proclaimed Rebecca Featherington.

You go, girl. Time for Chapter One.

“
You’re taking her to
The Midnight Maiden
?”

Jolie’s ears perked up at the question coming from the office. They had to be talking about her since she was the only one she knew who was going to
The Midnight Maiden
with Todd—
and
qualified as a “her.”

This was better than any book. She put Miss Featherington down on her leg and shamelessly listened in. Self-preservation was a hard-learned battle and those lessons never left a person.

Someone cleared his throat. Todd, maybe.

“
Uh, well, yeah.” Another throat clearing.

Bingo. Todd. The men’s voices were similar, but Todd’s seemed just a bit lower in pitch. Maybe that was because he still had something caught in his throat. She scooched a little closer to the door.

“
Really?
The Midnight Maiden
?” asked his brother.

What was with the disbelief? It was just an old boat someone turned into a restaurant. Sheesh. He was making it sound like the Taj Mahal or something.

’
Course, the Taj Mahal was a monument to some guy’s wife. Like the biggest declaration of love in the world.

“
Yeah,” Todd answered and whatever it was that was stuck in his throat was obviously gone. And yep, she was right, his voice was deeper. It resonated up her spine in a way his brother’s didn’t.

“
I asked her where she wanted to go and she picked that place. So we’re going,” said Todd.

“
Are you ready for that?”

“
For God’s sake, Mike. It’s just a restaurant. I think I can handle it.”

“
Well, after Trista—”

“
Look, Mike, Trista is gone and I’m not. I realize that. I didn’t put any stipulations on Jolie’s restaurant choice, so I’ll have to live with it. I’ve had to live with a lot of things since my wife died. I’ll get over it.”

Why was she not liking where this conversation was headed? What did Trista and
The Midnight Maiden
have to do with each other?

“
Well, if you’re sure—”

“
Let it go, Mike, I’m thirty-four years old. I can handle a restaurant. I’m not an invalid.”

True. Those legs and other body parts had been in absolutely perfect working order this morning.