Page 9 of Fairy Godmothers Aren't Cheap

James laughed, then nodded at Greg, who was covering for Kendrick in the gift shop tonight. Greg usually ran tours, asking me for random facts to sprinkle into his spiels. I loved it when I overheard him sharing the things I’d told him, and seeing it intrigue others.

Tonight, he reached under the back counter with a ring of keys before revealing a beautiful necklace with a perfect, small black and orange-red pottery fragment edged in silver. The artist, from well over a thousand years ago, had illustrated the shape of two hands on what had likely been a water jug.

James took it from Greg, proudly draping it over his palm for my inspection.

“James,” I gushed, “it’s perfect.”

“Thought you might like it.”

He knew me so well.

“Yeah, she loves everything old, doesn’t she?” Greg joked.

“And yet, she doesn’t like you,” James muttered, his eyes flashing to mine to catch my reaction.

Was he jealous of Greg? He was outgoing and cute, and I’d crushed on him for approximately a day and a half before downgrading him to merely fun-to-flirt-with. In other words, James had nothing to worry about where Greg was concerned. But I was charmed that he might think he had competition.

“Hey!” Greg complained. “I’m the same age as you are.”

I giggled as James turned his back to Greg and slipped the piece into my hand, his fingers brushing my palm with a gentle feathering. I flipped the fragment, taking it in. Ancient Athenian clay. Differential firing. Artistic detail. Very much one of a kind. Did I mention ancient? I hefted it gently, considering whether it was a perfect reproduction. No. It was too heavy. Cracked. Carried old world vibes. It was the real deal, unlike the fakes that had replaced several of the more priceless exhibit items in the Grecian wing last week.

“This is an amazing piece,” I stated.

“Why?” Greg asked.

“The illustration’s detail, mainly. To have it survive for so long, and then the way it’s centred in the fragment definitely increases its value.” I turned the piece over again, feeling a tiny bit like I was on an episode ofAntiques Roadshowwith the guys waiting for my evaluation. “It’s nicely set in the silver, and it’s in amazing shape.”

“So it’s a good one?” Greg confirmed. He often asked me which were the best pieces so he could guide his tour patrons directly to them, and earn a commission on their purchase.

“It is very good.” And I wanted it. Desperately. “How much is it?”

James flashed me the price tag, delicately stuck to the chain’s clasp, and I cringed. My life had been pretty charmed lately, but notthatlevel of charmed.

“I get a staff discount,” he said. “I could buy it.”

“I wish you would…” Realizing I sounded wistful, I quickly added what was implied, “I’d pay you back, if you did, of course.” I was unable to take my eyes off the piece, even as I returned it to him.

Financially, it was out of reach. I was doing my best to stick to the plan Samantha had outlined for me, and I was still slowly saving up for the Greece trip for my dad. Assuming his health improved, we’d hopefully go sometime next year. This necklace, as gorgeous and amazing as it was, could push the trip back by at least a month in terms of my savings.

I stepped away from temptation and sighed. “I love it.”

“But?”

“Come on,” Greg urged. “You only live once.”

“It doesn’t go with any of my outfits.”

“Greece,” James said, and I confirmed with a quick nod, pleased he remembered that I was saving up for my dream trip. Not only was the man hot, but he listened like he cared. Total aphrodisiac.

Greg took the piece with a shake of his head, locking it up in a nearby display case. I didn’t own any jewellery that belonged locked up. Obviously, today I was lusting after numerous things that were beyond my league.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“Don’t apologize,” James said, guiding me out of the gift shop with a warm hand on my lower back and sending a shower of sparks through me like someone had lit a sparkler.

“I appreciate you setting it aside for me.”

A feeling of FOMO—otherwise known as a fear of missing out—settled into my bones, and I almost turned around to empty my savings account. That piece was one-of-a-kind. Ancient.Special. Nothing new would be made by that artist or his peers. Ever.

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