“Happy Valentine’s Day weekend, girls,” Thomas called out with sing-song glee. “Kick off those heels and let’s zip through closing so we can get the hell outta here.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Roberta cried out.
“Amen and hallelujah,” Crystal rejoined.
Suddenly, the signature boom-boom-boom base of one of Thomas’s many favorite hip hop artists filled the Grand Lobby. The girls smarted off with sassy expressions of relief, threw up their hands, and grooved to the beat. Thomas uncorked a contraband bottle of champagne. Everyone screamed with delight. Soon, they would be home, relaxing for the night, until they had to return tomorrow afternoon and do it all over again. But for now, there was only hip hop, free liquor, and freewheeling jubilation.
Maribel smiled to herself and carefully locked up all her jewelry cases. She tapped her ladybug slippers to the heavy boom-boom-boom of the music, and accepted a paper daisy cup filled with champagne. Thomas pulled Crystal away from the sweaters, and together, they danced and mouthed the rap song’s swear words to the stores security cameras. They tried to wrangle in Maribel, but she escaped behind her register. She sipped from her champagne, and watched her co-workers living it up in the Grand Lobby of the department store, and smiled. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad, after all, she thought, not being a princess invited to the ball.
Chapter Two
When Maribel left the department store, it was almost ten o’clock. She walked out with Thomas and Crystal, and they all screamed when a gust of wind chilled them to the bone. Maribel bundled herself up in her black wool coat, earmuffs, scarf, and snow boots.
“Girlfriend, you gotta let Crystal help you find something more stylish than those thangs.”
Thomas always made fun of her earmuffs, but Maribel didn’t care. They protected her ears from the biting Chicago wind and kept her long hair out of her face.
“Better than hat head,” Maribel sassed, tossing a glance over to Crystal.
“Don’t you know it,” Thomas agreed.
“Bi-aaaaatches,” Crystal countered, adjusting her rabbit fur cap and matching gloves.
“You takin’ the train?” Thomas asked Maribel.
“Yes.”
“Wanna a ride?”
“No.”
“Damn, girl, why can’t you be as independent as Maribel,” Thomas suddenly chided Crystal.
“Because I’m a moocher,” Crystal confirmed. “And I’m wearing heels.”
Crystal compared her stilettos to Maribel’s snow boots. It was a valid point.
“Wanna come over tomorrow, Maribel?” Thomas offered. “Patrick and I are having a V-day parteeeee. He’s making the red Jello punchbowl spiked with a whole lot of orgasmic berry Schnapps.”
Maribel smiled, “Maybe.”
Everyone knew Maribel preferred to spend her free days—home and alone. She simply had been alone for so many years that she forgot what it was like not to be alone.
“No, I want to hear a ‘yes’ outta you. Don’t go spending tomorrow night alone. It’s Valentine’s Day, for heaven’s sake. I’ll even let you make out with me, if you don’t find someone better at the party…”
“Ouuuuuwwww….!” both Maribel and Crystal squealed.
“I’ll close my eyes and pretend you’re Matt Damon,” Maribel joked.
“Prrrrr… although I much prefer the tall and dark Ben Affleck type,” Crystal added.
“I’m just sayin’,” Thomas defended his offer, “don’t go choosing to be all by yourself when you don’t have to be.”
Maribel waited to see if Crystal would mention her interaction with Miles Braxton-Worth to Thomas. But it had already been forgotten, and she decided not to bring it up, as if Maribel could preserve her memory of it better without talking about it.
“What about me, Thomas?” Crystal whined. “Do I get to come?”
“Excuse me, honey bunny? You’re working tomorrow night. Didn’t you look at the schedule?”
“Well, that doesn’t mean I can’t come after?”
“And what…? Bring that Frank-Sinatra-karaoke-lovin’ manwhore again?”
“Hey, I’ll have you know that I’ve got an even better manwhore now,” Crystal said with pride. “And he sings Boy George flawlessly.”
“Tempting,” Thomas considered, then turned back to Maribel. “Seriously, think about it. Ta-ta…”
Thomas and Crystal waved her goodbye as they parted in opposite directions. Maribel approached the street corner and heard the cheery “Happy Valentine’s Day” greeting of a homeless man. He had carved out a cardboard heart and draped it around his neck in front of his worn coat. She peered into her wallet. She had three dollars, and she needed two for the train ride home. She handed him her last dollar, guilty she didn’t have more cash to offer him. He nodded with appreciation and wished her a safe night as she crossed under the “L” tracks and into the dark streets.
Yes, it had already turned out to be a pleasant start to her Valentine’s Day weekend, Maribel thought, as she mounted the steps of the elevated train station, and indulged in the memory of her interaction with Miles Braxton-Worth.
* * * *
Maribel trudged up the staircase, three flights to her studio apartment. She wondered if her used books—ordered last week from her favorite online retailer—were waiting for her outside her door.
The apartment door across the hallway suddenly swung open. “Late, late, late… Little Miss Maribel Martinez,” Emma Jean cried out.
“Oh, did I worry you?”
“Yes,” Emma Jean said with serious concern. “Work work, work, that’s all you ever do.”
“That’s because I don’t have a fabulous Sugar Daddy like you do to pay my way.”
“Carl? Oh, he’s history. Never liked his moustache, anyway. Working on securing me a new one. When are you going to work on that for yourself?”
“Tomorrow,” Maribel sighed with hardy sarcasm. “I have the day off. And it is Valentine’s Day. Hey, did you pick up a package for me? I was hoping it would come today.”
“Books?”
Maribel perked up. “Yes?”
“Nada,” Emma Jean shot her down.
Maribel frowned, exhausted and disappointed. The only thing Maribel truly looked forward to all day was curling up in bed with her new used books.
“Well, good night, Emma Jean,” Maribel sighed, unlocking her apartment door and flicking on the lights. ‘Thanks for staying up and worrying about me.”
“Come over, tomorrow, sweet pea,” Emma Jean’s voice chased after her. “The whole building is going to celebrate like we’re Melrose Place. Sort of an official Valentine’s Day bash. We’re wearing name tags and role playing our favorite characters. Eddie from the second floor is going to be bad boy biker, Jake. Raul is going to be Matt, the token gay. And I’m going to be that devious doctor, Michael Mancini.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Damn straight. You can be my sweet innocent neighbor, Alison Parker. I know it’s such a stretch for you.”
“Is she the one who Heather Locklear was always trying to sabotage?”
Emma Jean winked. “I knew you were a closet Melrose Place fan. Party starts at eight. There’s going to be free wine, deviled eggs, and several eligible divorcées. Don’t sit around all day, reading books. We’re allowed to be alone and lonely all year-round, sweetheart—just not on Valentine’s Day.”
Maribel heard Emma Jean’s door slam shut. She sighed with relief. Finally, after a long, long, long week, she could slip into the solitude of her own cozy studio apartment, peel off her work clothes, rest her blistered feet, and ignore the rest of the world for an entire day. It was nice that she had friends who had invited her over, but it was also nice that she could disappear into her own little blissful haven of peace and not be bothered by anyone or anything.
Buuuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Her buzzer rang out like a hornet in a tin can. It felt like a shot through her heart. It was
Friday night. Who on earth could be buzzing her door bell at this time in the evening? Clearly, they had the wrong apartment. Suddenly, she was inflated with unrealistic hope. She forced herself out of bed and peered down through her window at the front door. Maybe it was her package of used books, and they had been delivered to her after all. Her heart raced when she saw the white van parked along the curb with its familiar Express Delivery logo. She quickly pressed the intercom button and called into its speaker.
“Yes?”
“Express Delivery for a Miss… Maribel Martin?”
“Martinez? Yes, please… I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Maribel rushed to throw on her fleece jacket, pajamas, and slippers. She shuttled down the staircase and ran into the delivery man as he bounded up to meet her.
“Here you go,” he said, passing over a silver gift box, wrapped with a silk red ribbon.
“Oh,” Maribel said with confusion. “Are you sure this is for me?”
The driver referenced his delivery slip. “Maribel Martinez, 4892 Paulina St?”
“Yes…but…?”
“Then, it’s definitely for you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
The delivery man shuttled back down the stairs.
“Wait!” Maribel called after him. “Let me at least get you a few dollars for tip.” Then, she remembered she was completely out of cash.
“No worries,” he replied, jetting down to the foyer. “It’s already been taken care of.”
Maribel slowly started back up the stairs. She expected to see Emma Jean throw open her door again and interrogate her about the package. But the hallway was quiet. It was late on Friday night. Everyone was either out-on-the-town or huddled up watching TV in their own private seclusion. Maribel entered her studio, closed the doors, and placed the silver gift box onto her kitchenette table. For a brief moment, she admired its elegance before tugging on the silk red bow and lifting up the lid. There, resting in a bed of pink tissue paper was a silver ornamental jewelry box and a small pink calling card. It read:
A less conventional gift for a less conventional woman. See you tomorrow for brunch. Will pick you up at ten. Miles.
It was his sweeping handwriting. Maribel recognized it immediately. It matched the confidence and flare of his signature on the credit card receipt. Her hands suddenly trembled as she creaked open the hinges of the ornamental case. The ruby pendant necklace glinted up at her with the flare of fire and ice. Maribel swept up the necklace into her hands and rushed in front of her bathroom mirror. She searched for how to undo its clasp before draping it around her neck. The diagonal crack in her mirror disjointed the reflection of Maribel’s neckline, but still, she could see the full view of the ruby pendant and feel the weight of its eminence resting against her bare skin.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Maribel could barely breathe. She had wanted the necklace—more than she cared to admit it. The commission was certainly nice, and for that reason alone, she resisted the urge to yearn for more. But while packaging up the gift for Miles Braxton-Worth, she had felt a deep, uncontrollable pang of envy for the mysterious woman who was special enough in his eyes to receive it. Without truly knowing why, Maribel suddenly had wished to be that woman. During the train ride home, she had fantasized that there had been more to their connection than just superficial attraction, and she yearned to believe that he felt it, too. Now, it was no longer a hopeful fantasy; it was a certainty—Miles Braxton-Worth had noticed her; he had believed that she was someone special; and he had bought her the most expensive necklace in the jewelry case—just to prove it.
Chapter Three
G-I-L-L-I-A-N
His gold-plated smartphone vibrated in his hand as the name of the caller flashed across its screen. Miles Braxton-Worth swallowed—hard. He was in the elevator. It was almost 8:45PM on a Friday evening. There was no good reason why he needed to take the call. And yet, he wasn’t the kind of man who avoided people. They avoided him. And he certainly wasn’t about to hide from Gillian.
Miles punched the elevator’s emergency STOP button. The cab ground to a halt and its piercing alarm rang out with warning. He flipped open the emergency call box, lifted up the phone receiver, and peered up into the security cameras.
“Kill the alarm, Kent,” he ordered. It was his elevator, after all—his building. He could do whatever the hell he wanted.
“Yes, sir,” Kent immediately confirmed.
The alarm died like a piglet in a metallic pen. Silence bled out of the elevator cab like escaping oxygen.
In the security and privacy of the elevator, Miles Braxton-Worth could finally take a moment to just think. He watched his smartphone ring with urgency, then he glanced at his reflection in the shimmering elevator doors—he was tired, annoyed, and generally disinterested in taking on another fight, but his thirst for domination persuaded him to take the call.
“I’m not signing the deal,” he answered, preparing for battle.
“Well, Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too,” the sly feminine voice countered.
“Tell your tenant to find another landlord. I’m not signing that deal.”
“Oh, trust me, Brax. I’ve tried,” Gillian replied, “but there’s a short supply of prestigious downtown properties with curb appeal, and you own half of them.”
It was a back-handed compliment, and they both knew it. There was a short supply of prestigious downtown properties, and Miles Braxton-Worth did own most of them. Gillian was forced to stroke his ego, and he was forced to work with her if he wanted to lease up his buildings with high-end commercial retailers.
“Thirty-year lease, thirty-five percent expense share of the common elements, and a fifteen percent annualized rent escalation,” he countered with corporate aggression.
“Brax…” Gillian lowered her voice in deference. “Fifteen percent rent escalation is a little much, don’t you think?”
“No,” he punched back, “and besides, it’s better for you and your broker’s commission, and you know it.”
Gillian laughed. It peeled out like a gold bell, which was fitting because Gillian loved gold. Miles had bought her more gold jewelry than he cared to admit, and now she was spoiled and used to getting want she wanted.
“You know, Brax…these deals were a lot easier and a lot more fun when we were sharing a bed. Let’s go have a drink and hammer out the details. It is Friday night, after all.”
Miles pulled the phone away from his ear. Getting Gillian out of his bed was the best business he had made all year, but he fought the urge to say it. He pounded on the emergency STOP button. The elevator cab revved downwards. Having a drink with Gillian to finalize the terms of a business deal they had been negotiating all day was the last thing he felt like doing, but he also knew that she was going to make it hard for him—very hard—to get what he wanted. He had to play this just right.
“C’mon on, just one drink. I know we can come to a consensus. Besides, what else are you doing for Valentine’s Day?”
“Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, Gillian,” Miles corrected her. He hated her imprecision, but hated being boxed in a corner by her even more. Day in and day out, he coordinated with property management companies, lawyers, real estate brokers, potential tenants, accountants, business partners and investors, which had slowly become a listless routine, a constricting tourniquet that seared off every other passion in his life. He was sick of hammering out escalations, lease terms, commissions, contingencies. It filled him with scorn. It had become all about maintaining, maintaining, maintaining everything—including his wealth.
Miles stared at his stern reflection in the elevator, then looked up at the descending numbers of chiming floors…four, three, two… He rubbed his forehead and glanced up at the final floor chime—ping, ground level. The mirrored doors shimmered open and he peered out across the Grand Lobby of the department store. Then, he spotted her. Yesterday, he had noticed her in the lingerie section. Tonight, she was back at the fine jewelry counter and fi
nishing her shift. He glanced at his watch. It was 8:50PM. The department store closed at nine. He suddenly felt inclined to make a purchase.
“I have to finish some shopping tonight,” he finally said.
“Really…? How romantic of you,” Gillian sassed back with honey and spice. “Try not to spend too much money on me. Although it does always help to sweeten the deal.”
Miles listened, but did not respond. His eyes were fixed on the jewelry counter; he knew the only way he was going to save himself tonight was by getting there before nine.
“I’ll be at home, Brax, drinking wine and taking a long bath,” Gillian dangled the offer with finesse, “in case you change your mind and feel the need to close a thirty-five million dollar deal tonight. Making us wait until the morning for a formal counter offer may work against you, love. Remember, there is always the Zale building. Just letting you know—as a friend—because I know how much you like to have the upper hand.”
Gillian ended the call. Miles indulged in the silence, as if the weight of a headstone had been removed off his chest. Sure, it was true. He could simply accept the deal and move on. But he didn’t like giving up more than he should, especially not to Gillian. He returned his attention back to the jewelry counter—considering his plan. Yes, it just might save him.
He approached the jewelry counter with casual cheer. “Hello, Maribel.” There had been so much corporate formality in his day that he sought out an interaction with someone who would remind him that there was more to life than just deal-making.
He watched Maribel flush red and fidget with her long hair. Perhaps he had been too informal. After all, she was younger than he was by almost a decade. And yes, he had remembered her when she first started working there as a struggling part-time high school student. But now, she was a woman—at least twenty-six, twenty-seven—and he had the pleasure of seeing her last night in the lingerie department, wearing a tight cigarette skirt, stiletto heels, and fishnet stocking. It was an image that he had a hard time putting out of his mind. Now, she gazed at him with her long black eyelashes and sweet smiling lips, and sealed a moment of silence between them, as if nothing in the world mattered except for the way that she was looking at him.
Priceless: Contemporary Billionaire Romance Novel Page 2
