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I look from Chelsea to the ‘sold’ sign. I believe the answer to be pretty obvious. Still, I like the game of cat-and-mouse and decide to humour her. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve bought the shop.”
Nonchalantly, I shrug. “As you wish. I won’t tell you.”
“This isn’t a joke, Lucian,” Chelsea scolds, rubbing her hands over her eyes exasperatedly. “People’s livelihoods are on the line.”
Relaxed, I lean against the wall. “No, I haven’t bought the shop.”
Chelsea draws in a long breath. At the same time colour seeps into her cheeks. “Thank God.”
Her lips lift into a smile before they come crashing down. Her gaze is locked on the ‘sold’ sign as confusion washes over her face.
I don’t doubt the girl’s intelligence for a second, but it’s taking her longer than I had anticipated to form the next question, so I’ll make it easy for her. I push off the wall and close any remaining distance between us. She doesn’t look at me, and I know why. Truth is a bitter pill, a bitter pill I will take great satisfaction watching her swallow. I capture her chin between my thumb and index finger and gently tilt her head. With nowhere else to look she is forced to meet my stare.
“Do you really think I’d set my sights so low? I have little interest in retail.”
“Then what…” Her words are a hushed whisper.
“What I want is something money can’t buy,” I breathe into her ear. Or more specifically a million pounds can’t buy, although I keep that thought tucked away for now.
For every problem there is a solution, and mine is simple. If I can’t own the bird, then I will own her cage.
Chelsea trembles in my hold, be it fear or anticipation I’m not sure. I won’t drag this out any longer than necessary. “I own the building.”
She steps back, and I release her chin. I expect her to shove me, to get upset, to do anything but instead she does nothing. It’s as though it is taking longer for realisation to hit her.
“You’re bound to have a lot of questions,” I say, and rock on my heels, awaiting her reply.
Silence.
“Chelsea?”
After a couple of long and slow exhales, she raises her right hand, whilst the left is cupped over her chest. “Just stop talking.”
I’m well versed in emotionally erratic women; I’ve had to deal with them plenty of times in the past when ending relationships. But this, this complete lack of emotion is uncharted territory. She isn’t yelling, isn’t cursing, isn’t doing anything. A foreign feeling overwhelms me, that being the unexpected need to comfort her. I advance toward her, but my path is blocked when Josh steps in my way.
“I see you’ve already met my cousin,” Josh pipes up. Shouldering past me, he takes Chelsea’s hand. “I’m Josh Ambrose. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
My jaw ticks at his untimely interruption, and I want nothing more than to yank him back by the collar of his shirt. I don’t, of course. If being a Calloway has taught me anything it’s never, under any circumstances, to make a scene publicly.
Chelsea doesn’t pull her hand free. I wonder if Josh’s words have even registered with her. Josh places a kiss on her hand (the bastard) whilst at the same time peering up into her eyes. Though her gaze does not meet his, and she just stares at me, or more specifically through me.
Josh clears his throat, and just like that she is snapped out of her trance. Chelsea eyes my cousin with scepticism, her expression giving nothing away in regard to whether she likes what she sees. Josh is three years my senior, tall, good-looking with thick black hair. Chelsea smiles politely before wiggling her hand free from his grip.
“Excuse me,” are the words she leaves us with as she sweeps past and disappears into the shop, leaving me only with the aromatic scent of her lavender shampoo.
After several deep breaths I glower at my cousin.
Josh shrugs. “What?”
I loom closer and, placing my hand on his shoulder, I squeeze. I’m about to speak but instead we are forced apart when the shop door swings open and Tyler, the previous owner’s son, storms out.
“Jesus, not him again,” Josh spits out. He slaps his palm to his forehead and drags his fingers down his face.
Tyler discovered the building had been sold when we let ourselves in earlier and began measuring up. To say he hit the roof is the understatement of the century. He demanded we leave and when we didn’t oblige he began charging around like a man possessed, yelling and tearing clothes from their hangers. Needless to say, he was causing quite the scene for passers-by, who gathered outside the shop peering in through the large front window. Having an audience is the last thing we want, and for that reason alone, Josh and I stepped outside. Tyler’s little outburst worked to his advantage as he quickly locked the shop door behind us and has been on the phone ever since.
“What the fuck are you still doing here?” His voice is erratic, his cheeks beet-red. “No, Dad, I will not bloody calm down!” he yells into the phone before cutting the call.
