Around their meal, Linzi gave an update on Autumn’s inquiry into buying the building. “You picked a difficult one. Your lawyer said its ownership is currently being challenged, but he says he’ll get to the bottom of it.” She looked down at her phone, most likely reading off a list. “Shipments and projects already in the works are right on track.” She paused only half a second and looked up. “An Emily Wood contacted you through your website. I’m not sure why she didn’t just call you here, because she’s local. Anyway, when she found out where you were, we made an appointment for her to meet with you after closing. In—” Linzi checked her screen. “—a couple of minutes, actually.” She took a sip of her soda. “She wanted to introduce herself and promised details for the event.”
Details would be good. “Anything else?”
Linzi shook her head. “I met with your builder this morning. Your house is squared away, though the interior designer wants you to approve her plans for the living areas so she can get working on them. Which reminds me—you said something about adding a studio for casting on-site?”
Autumn raised her palms. “It makes sense to do one. I don’t know why I didn’t include it in the original house plans.”
“You said you were going to treat your house in The Cove like a retreat from work, that’s why,” Linzi said, jumping to Autumn’s defense. “Vacation homes don’t have workspaces.”
Autumn winced. “Not necessarily true.” She smiled. “But thanks for trying to spare me.” She took a sip of her water. “I don’t think I could live here for any amount of time and not have access to the tools I’m used to. It would be like a writer going on vacation without her computer, or an artist going without a sketchbook. But if I’m going to build a shop, it’ll have to be perfect. Maybe you could set up an appointment with the architect and come up with a plan.”
“No problem.” Linzi tapped out a few notes. “I was planning to head back to Dallas for a couple of weeks—”
“Of course. Enjoy your family and the holiday.” Although Linzi had been working for her for a couple of years already, Autumn’s middle-class upbringing struggled with the need to have a personal assistant, especially when she’d spent the last few days playing cashier in a boutique tourist shop. But without Linzi’s expertise in shuffling Autumn’s day-to-day affairs, she never would have had the time to do anything like this.
“While I’m there, I’ll still have time to keep your website current, check on the studio, and ship out orders.”
“I know you will. I’m not worried at all.” Autumn balled up the wax paper the sandwich had come in. “Your flight leaves tomorrow?”
Linzi nodded.
“You’ll get a chance to relax a little and then spend the Fourth with your family, and by then, you’ll be so bored, you’ll be ready to come back to Eureka Springs to help me out.”
“That’s the plan.” Linzi tossed her long, pink-streaked blond tresses over her shoulder before she gathered their trash.
At the knock on the door, Autumn waved in the woman peering through the glass. Dressed in a business skirt and fitted blouse, their visitor walked purposefully toward them with a warm smile that lit up her eyes. “I’m Emily Wood, the director of Eureka Springs’s chamber of commerce. Is one of you Autumn Molinero?” She tucked a lock of her blond bob behind her ear, and that one motion put Autumn right at ease.
Autumn welcomed her in and excused Linzi, who wanted to pack for her trip.
“Tell me a little about your background,” Emily said almost conversationally as Autumn led her to a small sitting area. “I heard you designed the engagement ring for the American-British princess?”
Autumn was pretty sure that wasn’t the official title or anywhere close to it, but she knew what Emily meant. She also wasn’t going to mention that she’d been commissioned to create a new piece for each member of the wedding party and the royal family to commemorate the occasion. “It was an amazing opportunity.”
“Yeah, I did a little research.” Meaning Emily had Googled her. “It seems you’ve had a lot of celebrity clients. Wow! Not too many people can say their work has been highlighted at the Oscars and the Met Gala.”
At least Autumn didn’t have to sell herself, but with every “accomplishment” Emily referenced, Autumn felt the expectations build. She smoothed her slacks and looked back up at the eager but down-to-earth woman sitting in front of her. “I’ve been lucky enough to have some high-end clients.”
She really had been blessed. Sure, her designs were unique and had been gushed over by experts, but if she hadn’t been introduced to the right people, this kind of success would never have been possible. It could all be traced back to her college roommate Talia—the one who’d come to visit her last weekend. Talia’s professional soccer player fiancé, Camden Sharpe, had opened the right doors at the right time. To keep the momentum going, though, she needed to knock this private auction out of the park.
“Eureka Springs is lucky to have you.” Emily shifted in his seat. “Let me tell you a little about the event . . .” She laid out the details almost exactly as Autumn’s father had, only she unconsciously dropped a few celebrity names that motivated Autumn to make this work. “Not everyone at the party will want to wear the jewelry, of course, though I think most will—especially the women. And you’ll want them to.” Emily leaned forward, hands clasped. “They’re fashion icons.”
“How many pieces are we looking at?” Autumn tried to keep her mind from spinning out of control with the math before she became overwhelmed.
“We’ll have guests coming in and out of the auction for the Barefoot Ball upstairs, but invitations are limited for the silent auction. Don’t worry. There will be strict security, so no one will take off with any of the pieces you don’t want to sell. What do you say? Could you come up with fifty pieces?”
With shock at the number, Autumn took a moment to breathe. Realistically, did she have the ability to come up with a large number of custom designs and the time it took to create each? She swallowed her concerns. She would find a way to make it happen.
As soon as the door closed behind Emily, Autumn grabbed her sketchbook. She was relieved not only to have time alone to create, but also to have a better idea of what to expect for the silent auction. She sat in a high-backed stool at her father’s workbench and flipped through previous drawings, her eyes scanning each quickly. The designs for this event needed to be unique but classy, each piece individual but thematically part of a collection. She willed a brainstorm of themes and ideas, but nothing inspired her.
Undeterred, she opened to a fresh page and let her pencil doodle. Something would occur to her—it always did. If her sketches started out light, as the idea formed more concretely, so would the solidness of the lines in her designs. A swoop for a necklace, a square became a ring, a circle would morph into a bracelet.
Should the swoop have one strand or more? Should it be a collar or a choker? What kind of pendant? An idea was rolling in, as soft as the first wisps of fog off the lake at night, and she closed her eyes to picture it better—
Boom! Ka-Boom!
Random, loud music started up downstairs, startling her right out of the moment. She shook her head, determined to ignore the thumping. Surely it would stop after one song, right?
With as much patience as she could muster, she concentrated on the project, but the idea was gone, repeatedly beaten out of her with every reverberation. She blew out a breath, concentrating on the drawing in front of her and pushing everything else away. It didn’t work. The more she pretended the music wasn’t there, the more prominent it was in her mind.
Acceptance. That was the only way through it. Allow the bass to whatever rock song this was become her heartbeat, the pulses to push her brain waves. She willed herself to do this, and she looked back at the sketches so far. They were garbage. Too expected. Too generic. She tore the page from her sketchbook and crumpled the thick paper into a jagged ball. The bracelet had been too chunky, the n
ecklace too cumbersome. She needed something more elegant. This was a ball.
In her mind, she started anew, closing her eyes and willing something to come to mind. Though the song wasn’t over, it faded, and she sighed with relief. Now she’d be able to concentrate again. In the quiet, ideas flowed a little faster, and she started sketching again, her hand in a rush to keep up. When she stepped back to study the effect, the designs were still off somehow. Frustration grumbled inside her. As if mocking her, noise burst from below her in an explosion of—was that laughter? After a moment, it died down, only to repeat a few minutes later, a laugh track to her failures. But how? Why?
What in the world was going on downstairs? Wasn’t Spokes a bicycle shop?
Music thundered now, louder than ever, this time in the hard rock vein. There was no way Autumn would progress with this kind of noise pollution infiltrating her space—and she wasn’t one to stand by and take it. Sure, she could work from home, but there was the principle of the thing. If she let her neighbor’s rudeness go this time, what was to say it wouldn’t happen night after night? Her best inspiration came in the evenings and late nights, and with watching the Looking Glass during the day, she wouldn’t get the chance to work on her own projects any other time. This had to stop, and stop now.
Grabbing her dad’s key ring from behind the counter, she stomped out the front door, locked it behind her, and scrambled down the stairs, barely able to control her steps in her fury. The sign in the door said Closed, but light spilled through the frosted glass. Not bothering with pretended politeness, Autumn pounded on the wooden door. This much closer, she recognized the so-called music as an ’80s hair band, the screeching like fingernails on a chalkboard up close. No way the person holed up inside would hear her. The song faded, and applause took over. What could possibly be going on if the sign said closed?
In the lull between the clapping and the music that would start again any minute, she pelted the door again. With each knock, her heart thumped anticipating confrontation.
“Just a sec!” The carefree call told her he had no clue he was being a pain.
Well, she’d been heard. She stepped back, bracing herself.
After a moment, the door opened. Kian. The man from the concert, the street, her father’s shop. A wide grin split across his face, but she was in no mood to return it.
Frustration swirled around her. She couldn’t get rid of him. Kian showed up everywhere—whether she wanted him to or not. She didn’t want to be mad at him, but a boor who blasted music this late deserved it. It made her want to lash out, to bully her way into the real estate office and buy the building out from under him so she could kick him out.
The rational side of her brain held her back. A few loud songs and canned laughter—were they worth this emotional reaction? Only a few days before, he’d been her hero for jumping in to rescue her from the creep at the concert. With as confused as she was now, she could just as easily picture being in his arms as see arguing with him—though neither was appropriate, especially not when he was her father’s friend. She needed a road map, a Magic 8-Ball, a GPS to tell her which way to take this conversation.
She crossed her arms. “Of course it’s you.”
6
Autumn’s flat statement, “Of course it’s you,” —poisoned with disappointment and laced with disgust— cut Kian to the core. He had no idea how to follow that. He could easily lash back, but he’d give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she hadn’t expected him to open the door.
In the moment before he spoke, she continued, “That explains a lot.”
Gone was his restraint. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He mimicked her stance, feet shoulder-width apart, arms crossed, chin defiant.
“The lack of after-hours respect.” Autumn shifted to one side, her eyes darting from his face to over his shoulder, like she was trying to catch a glimpse of the shop behind him.
He stepped forward and pulled the door closed on his heels, leaving the door only slightly ajar behind him. The sidewalk darkened markedly. He’d need to install some brighter sconces before tomorrow night. One more thing to add to the list, but priority went to getting rid of Autumn’s sour glare. She was going to have to get used to late-night sound, because it would happen at least three nights a week indefinitely. “Your dad’s business closes at eight except on the weekends. He’s never complained about my music before.”
She started to turn away. “Maybe keep in mind you’re not the only one in the building.”
And neither was she. “I can do what I want—it’s my building, my shop.”
She placed a fist on one hip, and fire jumped from her eyes, making her way more attractive than she had a right to be. “Is it really?” she asked, as if she owned the place. News flash: she didn’t.
“It really is.” For now.
A recent complication in the building’s ownership had materialized. While the Gould family had occupied the building for decades, another family in town, the Lumans, somehow also claimed a right to it. Though Kian’s dad insisted the building was theirs outright, Kian had no legal proof. He’d spent the last five years trying to find some definitive tie between the Gould family and the building. At the same time, he’d also been working to save enough to buy out Roger just so the stalemate would be over. He’d made quite a bit of progress until the guy started negotiations with some billionaire. With his luck, the building would go for way more than it was worth, and Kian wouldn’t have a chance. If he would have known, he might not have taken the leap to start his comedy club, but it was a little late for that.
“I’ve been told that might change,” she said with authority.
How? As a tenant, her father didn’t have a say in the building’s ownership, so although his shop would ultimately be affected, Kian hadn’t brought it up. Not until he knew something concrete. Perhaps the buyer had approached Tommy or Autumn.
Kian reached for the door, ready for the conversation to be over. “Thanks for your input. If you don’t mind . . .” He needed to get back to his rehearsal.
“Could you at least keep it down?”
Of all the entitled attitudes . . . “No,” he retorted, knee-jerk style. “I don’t think I can.” It was almost slightly true. He was in the middle of a solo dress rehearsal, trying out different bumper music—still unsure which genre was best—and making sure the timing of his jokes was smooth. The sound check was also a necessity. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“I didn’t say you did,” she argued. “Though I do wonder if the city is aware what you’re up to. I heard hammering a couple of nights ago.”
Kian swallowed. He’d applied to the city for the food permit but hadn’t exactly bothered with one for construction. He didn’t want to mess with all that historic preservation red tape. The building had been in his family for the better part of a century, and he wasn’t going to do anything to permanently change it. So what if he built a little stage area, added a few chairs?
“Hammering?” He made it sound like she’d been hearing things that weren’t there. “Not me.” He pointed to his chest and shook his head. “Must have been Mafalda.”
That stopped Autumn. The hard lines of anger in her face gave way to a look of confusion. “Who is Malfa—” She gave up, unable to repeat the name.
“Mafalda.” He folded his arms again with contentment. “The ghost of Al Capone’s sister. She haunts the building. Your dad didn’t say anything?” Of course, he hadn’t, because it was a big, fat lie.
“Hmm. A ghost.” Autumn smirked. “Yeah, I don’t believe that.”
Kian shrugged to show he didn’t care whether she did or she didn’t believe him. Unsure what possessed him to make up a ghost, Kian ran with it. “Well, apparently, you heard her the other night. She was in an even worse mood tonight, and the music seems to be the only thing keeping her away.”
“Uh-huh.”
He didn’t exactly blame Autumn for not believing. Although they were in a town
steeped in tragic history and shrouded with paranormal tours, Kian was fairly certain the only ghosts in this building were the ones that had haunted him for years—the phantoms of missed opportunities. But no more. When it came to the Al Capone family history mystery, his gut told him he was headed in the right direction. He would find something soon if he could just kept at it.
To add to that, this weekend, he was finally making his dream happen. No more putting off life for fear of making the wrong choice. Tomorrow night, he would be onstage in his very own comedy club—with or without this new neighbor’s consent.
“Good night, Miss Molinero. I’ll be sure to turn my music off before I leave the building.” That was as close as he was getting to backing down. He pushed open the shop door, but paused before stepping inside. “Can I escort you back?” He wasn’t a monster; a beautiful young woman walking up the hill in a space tighter than a New York alley alone at this hour in a tourist town did not sit well with him.
“I got it.” She turned defiantly and marched around the corner.
He gave her a few seconds’ head start and then followed. He’d watch her until she was safely inside, and then he’d go back to his rehearsal.
Autumn jogged up the stairs without looking back. The highlights in her long, brunette tresses caught the moonlight as her hair swayed back and forth with each step. She was a stubborn woman, that was for sure. She was so certain he’d lose possession of the building, it made him want to do everything he could to stop the sale. Spite wasn’t a valid reason for blocking a real estate contract, was it? Though he probably wouldn’t have a say, which frustrated him beyond reason.
Wasn’t there anything he could do to prevent it? If Autumn wanted the sale, and the buyer was communicating with her, maybe Kian—and Mafalda—could convince her otherwise.
Bargaining with the Billionaire (Billionaire Bachelor Mountain Cove) Page 4
