EXES - A Second Chance Billionaire Romance Novel

by Aria Hawthorne

Harvey turned toward her. “Yes, my ex-wife—the one ignoring me.” Then he decided to get creative. “She and I are looking for something to exchange when we renew our wedding vows.”

  “Aww…that’s such a lovely sentiment,” the young woman replied. “I can certainly help you find something for that. Do you have anything in mind?”

  The sales clerk’s warm smile put him at ease. “Well, Maribel,” he said, noting her nametag. “Something not too conventional or flashy. My wife isn’t exactly the modern gold and glitz type. And not something that fits on her hands. She lost the first engagement ring during her pottery class. It’s still buried inside the lopsided vase sitting on the windowsill in our house.”

  Surprised, Maribel opened her gorgeous brown eyes even wider. “You mean you didn’t try to break it open to recover the ring?”

  Harvey smiled. He had heard that suggestion before. “It was the first vase she ever threw on a potting wheel. She was pretty excited about that. You can destroy and replace a ring, but you can’t destroy and replace memories.”

  “Okay, then...” Maribel nodded in agreement. “So no rings and no modern gold and glitz. Any other considerations?”

  Harvey leaned into the glass counter, studying Maribel’s innocent gaze that made him want to confess everything. “Just that she hates me and we’re actually divorced. But if we pick the right piece of jewelry, maybe there’s a chance I can win her back.”

  Maribel glanced over at Alma and smiled like she had heard it all before. “Well, she looks like a rather sensible woman.”

  “That’s her talent. Looking sensible.”

  “And women generally are,” Maribel countered, eyeing the furry women’s earmuffs over his head. “It’s the men in our lives who might make us behave otherwise.”

  “Fair enough,” Harvey said, removing the earmuffs and noting how mature she seemed for her age.

  Glancing through the jewelry counter, Maribel sighed and considered the challenge. “So you think just the right piece of jewelry will really do the trick?”

  “No, probably not,” he conceded. “But it’s a lot more sensible than what she really wants, which is trying to figure out which keyhole in this building fits with this key.” He held up the key like a nuisance, resisting the urge to toss it into the nearby trashcan.

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Maribel suddenly said. “I know that key. It looks exactly like my key.”

  Turning away from him, she unlocked a white drawer under the register and pulled out a formidable ring of keys. Finding the match, she paired them together and presented her discovery to Harvey. “See? It’s the key to the old freight elevator that leads to the basement.”

  Maribel pointed to a private corridor in the far corner of the grand atrium.

  Harvey stood up straighter when he realized she was right—the two skeleton keys were an exact match. “What’s in the basement?”

  “Well, there’s the public section with the candy department,” Maribel replied. “But the old freight elevator leads to a private section where there’s a bathroom that all the girls on the floor like to use because it’s the prettiest one in the building.”

  “Any chance there’s a stained-glass window in it?”

  Maribel paused in thought. “Why, yes. Actually, there is.”

  Harvey’s skeptical smile faded away. “Thank you, Maribel. I’m pretty certain you just saved my marriage.”

  Maribel narrowed her eyes at him and teased, “I thought you were divorced.”

  “Only on paper,” he countered with a wink, taking up her sales card and stuffing it into his back pocket. “And when I get her to say ‘yes’ again, I promise to call you for that jewelry recommendation.”

  “No rings. No modern gold or glitz. I’ll remember.” Maribel nodded as Harvey backed away with a salute and returned to Alma’s side.

  “Found it,” he declared, snatching the straps of her overalls and dragging her into the far corner of the lobby.

  “What?” she insisted, attempting to free herself from his grasp.

  “Your precious Eternal Love.”

  Alma halted near the perfume section and crossed her arms. “Oh, really? You found it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where?” she challenged him.

  “In the woman’s bathroom in the basement,” Harvey announced, like it was the most obvious place in the world to hide a priceless Tiffany stained-glass window.

  “In the woman’s bathroom?” Alma repeated, just to verify he heard his own insanity.

  “Yep.”

  Alma rolled her eyes and dismissively settled her attention on the perfume bottles—anything other than his grand revelation, just to signal what little faith she had in it. Spritzing perfume onto her wrist, she tested its scent and rubbed it across her neckline. “Frankly, I expected more from you, Mr. Jones.”

  “Call me, Indy,” he replied. Guiding her toward him, he kissed her mercilessly on the lips. She resisted him at first. Of course, she would…until his tongue melted into her lush mouth, reminding her what it was like to do more than just tolerate him.

  When she closed her eyes, surrendering her body into his embrace, he lost himself in the memories of making love to her. Pressing his chest against her breasts and drawing her hips to his own, he overpowered her with every arousing stroke of his desire, conveying everything he had missed in the year they had been apart, until he forced himself to pull away from her, just to prove to her that she still needed him.

  Passing his nose along the hollow of her throat, he whispered. “And my perfume is still better than that.”

  “True,” she whispered back, attempting to recover her balance—and purpose in life.

  “C’mon,” he said, controlling his desire to win her back with another impulsive deep-throated kiss. “Let’s finish what we’ve started.”

  He led them through a private door, marked STAFF ONLY, but she tugged back on his hand.

  “Harvey…I’m not going to have sex with you in the basement of Marshall Field’s.”

  “Who said anything about the basement?” he tossed back, advancing toward the heavy pair of iron elevator doors, barring entrance like a fortress, at the end of the corridor.

  “Or an elevator—” she insisted.

  “Give me fifteen seconds to change your mind…”

  Like magic, the doors slowly rolled open. Harvey took it as a sign to ignore her.

  Sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her into the elevator cab and eyed the keyhole just below the interior call button. Taking the key from her and thrusting it into the hole, he braced Alma’s body against the wall as it shuddered into motion. His mouth hovered over her lips, feeling her hot, accelerating breath feathering his chin. Just give in, woman. Peering deeply into her eyes, he was waiting for a sign—just one damn little sign that she wanted him—needed him—the same way he throbbed and ached for her. But her taunting gaze only dared him to try to convince her. Slowly, they descended downwards with a cavernous groan of steel. That was their relationship—a furious, incessant, uncompromising tug of war, equal in every way. Which made him want her in every way.

  When the elevator chimed and its doors slid open, he heard the overzealous squeal ricochet off the walls of the metal cab before he saw its source.

  “Oh. My. God. You’re humping in the elevator!?”

  Harvey turned toward the gum-cracking voice behind them.

  “Oh my God, it is really you!” Conchita exclaimed.

  “And you’re in the secret ‘staff only’ basement of the Field’s building because…?” Harvey questioned her, hoping Alma’s sister was a figment of his imagination.

  “She works here,” Alma clarified, looking more annoyed than ever, slipping out of his arms and into the long white-washed corridor leading to an unknown destination. The voices of shoppers above them murmured through the vents and galvanized pendant lampshades marked their path like fireflies. Just ahead were a set of French doors with an inviting interior glow,
brightening their panes of beveled lead glass.

  “In the candy department,” Conchita added, chewing hard on her bubble gum and unabashedly adjusting her push-up bra. “I’m down here, like…five times a day. Depending on how good the free coffee is on the sixth floor.” Turning to Alma, she gushed, “My God, my God! Is this really happening? Have you guys finally made up?”

  “Made up or made out?” Harvey quipped.

  “Either!” Conchita clapped with a bounce, like she would take whatever she could get.

  “Neither,” Alma stressed. “We’re just here to use the bathroom.”

  “Together,” he said, insinuating as much as he could.

  Alma rolled her eyes while Conchita giggled. That’s how it always had been between them. Conchita loved him like a loyal dog. Alma made him work for it like a heartless cat.

  “So you’re here…together…using the bathroom, eh?” Conchita rubbed elbows with Harvey like she got the man code.

  Harvey’s eyes tracked Alma as she pushed through the French doors and into the women’s bathroom. “Your sister is also in the process of ruining my one hundred-million-dollar real estate deal unless we find her priceless Tiffany stained-glass window hiding in this basement. But that’s just my ulterior motive to get her to talk to me.”

  Conchita reached out and wiped the lip gloss off his upper lip. “Looks like you guys were doing more than just talking.”

  “I came. I swooned. I conquered. And…” Harvey’s voice trailed off like a drum roll. “Your sister still hates me.”

  “Ballbuster,” Conchita said with a smack of her gum.

  He suddenly remembered that the name of the drink had been suggested by her, not him. And now, he remembered why he went along with it—because it was true.

  Harvey followed his ex-sister-in-law into the women’s bathroom. “Yeah, and unless I find this Tiffany window, I don’t think I’ve got a chance in hell of getting Alma back.” His gaze flicked up to a small, unimpressive rectangular window, patterned with geometric shapes of stained glass. “And unfortunately, something tells me…that ain’t it.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but there’s nothing ‘priceless’ hiding inside this bathroom except for my secret stash of Twizzlers and tampons.”

  “There’s not a Tiffany window in here…” Alma’s words trailed off as she studied all the bathroom walls, patterned with iridescent snowflakes. “But I think this might actually be original Tiffany snow crystal wallpaper.” She pushed closer to the wallpaper, holding herself back from touching it directly. Even underneath the bathroom’s modest lighting, gilded silver and gold geometric shapes glinted like icicles against a power blue background, mimicking the spiral of snowflakes floating down to earth during a sunny winter morning.

  “I just thought it was vintage Martha Stewart,” Conchita replied. “You know, before she went to jail and got all into cooking with Snoop Dog.”

  “Wallpaper was a huge fad in the 1890s,” Alma corrected her. “Every major designer in America was creating their own signature patterns, including Tiffany. But I’m not sure…I’ve never seen real examples of it. Only black and white pictures. It’s incredibly rare. Most examples have been lost to fire or demolition, or maybe even plastered over during renovations. But this wallpaper actually looks original to the building, like no one’s bothered to touch it for over a hundred years.”

  “You do realize your brain is like a little Wikipedia page,” Conchita said.

  “More like one of those fast-talking QVC saleswomen,” Harvey chimed in. “With their Ritalin-addicted crazy eyes.”

  Alma turned to face him, just to be sure he saw the glare in her eyes. “You think I’m bluffing again?”

  “I think you believe what you want to believe when it’s convenient for you to believe it.”

  “When you love something, you follow it to its bitter end,” she shot back. “I know you’ve never understood that concept, Harvey.”

  “Oh, I understand it. Believe me. Especially when it fights so hard against you that you realize the ending isn’t just bitter—it’s dead.”

  His macho instinct to fight got the best of him, but the moment he spoke the words, he wanted to shove them back down his own throat and choke himself to death. Exhaling with a frustrated sigh, he moved away from her and dropped his head like a man who had just realized he’d won the lottery before accidentally flushing the golden ticket down the toilet. One minute, he had her in his arms, kissing her like she was still his wife; the next minute, he was her enemy and every dumb-stupid-idiotic thing he said just reinforced it.

  Secretly, he caught a glimpse of her expression in the decorative wall mirror—that same mixture of disappointment and disapproval that had become so familiar whenever he failed to meet her expectations. Fuck.

  “Oh dear Lord, all this talk of bitter, dead ends is giving me a yeast infection!” Conchita complained. “Now, you both are just acting like a miserable old married couple.”

  “Except we’re not married anymore,” Harvey corrected her.

  “And Harvey prefers divas now,” Alma added.

  “And you know what they say about old, crabby couples?” he countered with one final jab. “They’re so damn crabby because they’re usually the only ones willing to listen to the other’s bullsh…”

  But he failed to finish the punchline when something in the mirror distracted him from its delivery. “Gu-i-d-ing…an-ge-l?” Harvey sounded out the strange pattern of letters that he was making out in the reflection of the mirror. “Does gu-i-d-ing…ang-el…mean anything to you?”

  “What?” Alma answered slowly, noting the expression on his face, as if he had just seen a ghost.

  “Okay, you win, Miss Castillo. Because our boy Tiffany is sending you a message.”

  He pointed out the letters, hidden within the snow crystal wallpaper in the reflection, but appearing backwards in plain sight.

  “Guiding angel,” Alma read aloud, verifying the encrypted phrase in the mirror’s reflection. “He must mean his stained-glass window, Guiding Angel. It’s an example of one of the many memorial windows that his studio made for his first clients, but I don’t think they know who commissioned it or why. It’s on display in the Stained Glass Gallery at Navy Pier.”

  “Navy Pier?” Harvey heaved a sigh of exasperation. “This guy really had no sense of geographic economy.”

  “Well, Harvey…if this is truly a treasure hunt, Tiffany would have set it up without knowing where his pieces would end up a hundred years later. You’re lucky I didn’t say Paris or London.”

  “No, you’re lucky because there’s no way I’m going to Europe. And at this point, Navy Pier is a stretch.”

  “What’s the matter, Harvey? Got a hot date tonight?” Conchita quipped.

  “Several,” he declared.

  “That makes two of us,” Alma unexpectedly added.

  Both Harvey and Conchita stared at her. Then Harvey remembered Alma in the lingerie shop—and those white virgin stockings.

  “Ohmygod!” Conchita braced her sister’s forearm. “With RomeroLuvsItSlow?”

  Alma held her tongue and challenged his envious gaze. Just to taunt him.

  “You give up your plans tonight and I’ll give up mine,” he suddenly offered.

  Was he serious about giving up his plans tonight to meet up with his mysterious Contessa? He didn’t know. But he did know that he needed to test how serious Alma was about meeting RomeroLuvsItSlow.

  “We could plan to go tomorrow morning instead,” Alma suggested as a compromise.

  Jealousy tightened his chest. Clearly she was serious.

  “No,” he fired back. “My real estate deal can’t wait that long.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, as if she knew he was intentionally pressuring her to choose—her date tonight with Romero or the opportunity to continue chasing long-lost Tiffany art with Monsieur Asshole. Unfortunately, he miscalculated, failing to remember one of the most important characteristic
s about his ex-wife: she was not a woman who would allow herself to be cornered by anyone, especially not by her billionaire ex-husband.

  “Fine then,” she surrendered in an even tone. “Go ahead with your harem of women tonight and your building demolition tomorrow. Just leave me the skeleton key, and I’ll go to Navy Pier on my own. Like you said, salvaging precious artifacts isn’t in your wheelhouse anymore, so there’s no reason to waste any more of your valuable time. Besides, you’re probably right. It’s probably just a dead end, anyway.”

  Ballbuster.

  He shouldn’t have felt the sting as deep as he did. After all, they were his own cruel words, boomeranged back at him. She held out her hand, waiting for him to drop the key into it. Her final gesture of independence. She didn’t care anymore what he did because she no longer needed him, and perhaps that was the true source of the sting—her apathy wounded him more than her anger and disapproval.

  For a moment, he thought about arguing to keep the key. It had been found on his property, after all. He had the right to keep it without turning it over to anyone—not even her. But if he kept it, he would be doing it for the wrong reasons. Petty, selfish, juvenile reasons. And sadly, he would be keeping it as a means for keeping her in his life—just a little bit longer. But clearly there was nothing in the world she wanted less than to continue to associate with him.

  With the gentlest touch he could muster, he placed the key in her palm, closed it into a fist, and sealed it with his kiss. It would be the last time he would kiss her and he intended to remember it. Wildberry hand lotion. Her skin still tasted the same.

  “Enjoy the treasure hunt, Miss Castillo,” he said, holding her gaze, wanting to be clear there was no mockery or condescension in his voice. “I hope you find something that will make you happy.”

  He didn’t wait for her response, nor did he say anything more—not even to Conchita. He simply pushed out the French double doors of the bathroom and walked down the lonely corridor where he rode the elevator back up to street level. Later, when he recounted the moment in his mind, he was unable to tell himself what expression she had on her face.

  Probably relief.