Page 263 of Tormented Billionaire Romance Series

“You have microphones around the store so you can listen to what I’m telling customers, don’t you?” I ask.

Tactfulness has never been my strong suit.

“How many times am I going to have to go over this?” he asks. “Yes,the customer needs the armoire. You can’t findanythinglike it anywhere. I’m surprised we got one here.”

“Now, just so I’m clear,” I say, “Louis XV originally commissioned the armoire, but there was a problem with Amazon’s shipping service, and so it got sent to his friend, The Duke of Troy, to sell in his shop in the middle of nowhere, right?”

“People don’t come in for antiques because they’re cheap; they come here because they can’t find this stuff anywhere else,” Troy says.

I look behind me at the barren store. Mrs. Taber must have gone after I left her.

“Troy, peopledon’tcome in here,” I tell him.

He’s leaning forward as if he’s expecting me to say more on the topic, but my point finally starts sinking in. “So your contention is that because we don’t get a lot of customers, it’s okay if we lose the few we do get?”

He’s running his fingers through his hair with little, flicking motions, trying to add body to the depressed line of hair where his headphones were. It occurs to me he might not have been spying. Could be he was just looking at porn.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” I tell him. “I just don’t think we should try to push expensive stuff on people we know can’t afford it.”

“How do you know she couldn’t afford it?” Troy asks.

“First off,” I tell him, “the armoire is almost two grand. Second,” I continue, “I know Mrs. Taber. She was my third-grade teacher. Troy, I know you want to think we live in some large town where everybody doesn’t already know everything about everybody else, but—”

The bell above the shop’s door rings.

“Why don’t you get out there and see if we can sell something today,” he says. “That’s how businesses stay open: they sell things.”

I roll my eyes, saying, “Oh,nowyou tell me.”

“If you’re not going to bother with what I’ve asked you to do on the sales floor, maybe it’d be best if you just sit up front or do some dusting or something,” he says. “Or are you going to have trouble ringing this guy up if he wants to buy something?”

With a sigh, I slink from the office doorway. I wonder who I’m going to strong-arm next.

The shop’s not all questionable antiques. Pretty much anything you’d imagine would be in a thrift store, pawn shop,orantique emporium is in this shop.

The problem in this town, Mulholland, is that it’s so small, everyone has a job, but it’s hardly ever a job they would have wanted. When people here reach the age of eighteen, they either move away, or they fill out a form with the local job broker, Grant. That’s what I did.

I’m still not sure if Grant is the man’s first or last name, but I do know that he’s as good as HR for every shop, store, and company in Mulholland. Nobody gets a job without his approval because there aren’t any jobs to be had.

I guess he’s the only one who knows where to put people where they’ll do the least amount of damage.

When someone like me does the stupid thing and decides to stick around Mulholland after graduating high school, Grant’s got to look for somewhere to put them. So, here I am.

If I didn’t live in the village proper, I wouldn’t have been able to get anything in town at all. I guess I should feel lucky or proud or something, but Troy and I have never seen eye-to-eye when it comes to sales or business strategy or advertising or ethics.

I don’t know that we’ve ever agreed on anything, now that I think about it.

Grabbing the feather duster Naomi, my sister, got me on my eighteenth birthday as a gag gift, I set about prettying up the shop. I’m not going to lie to this guy, and Troy’s going to get after me again if I go up to the man and start telling him the truth, so I just keep my distance.

After a while, though, I come to about where the man is standing, only the next aisle over, and I can’t help but saysomething.“Are you looking for anything particular today, or just browsing?” I ask.

“Actually,” the man says, keeping his back to me, “I was hoping you could help me.”

Oh dear. “Sure,” I answer. “What is it that you’re looking for?”

“I’m looking for a few things,” he says. “First, I wanted to see if you had anything Fabergé.”

I hate it when this happens. It’s only ever happened a couple of times since I’ve been here, but this guy seems like someone with an interest in actual antiques.

---