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Owen pulled out two pieces and set them on the table. He pointed at the tip. “This isn’t solid glass, either. This bit is partially hollow and could cause some actual damage.” He pulled out the remaining glass pieces and laid them on the table, taking a photo of each one with his phone.
I glanced at my watch and groaned. We had a meeting at ten a.m. with the new owner of the Waveland and Ash warehouse at their office downtown. Well, former warehouse, apparently. I had texted our attorney late last night after finding out our lease had been canceled. When he had called me back early in the morning, it hadn’t been good news. The lease was pretty specific: If the landlord wanted to sell the property, then the landlord had the right to end the lease with thirty days’ notice. There was nothing we could do about it. The only reason we could score a meeting with the new owner was because our landlord said it was the least he could do for a couple of “good girls just starting out.” Gag.
There was no game plan. Begging? Pleading? I had no problem doing that so long as we got a new lease signed. The Waveland and Ash warehouse was perfect for us. We had spent months working with a broker looking for the perfect spot, and nothing had even come close to this place. Everything else had been too small or too big, and way too expensive. This warehouse had just the right amount of space, in the absolute best location, and best of all, it had a storefront. We could finally open a store for in-person shopping. It was also very cheap, like cheap enough that we had paid three months’ rent up front. Not to mention the lease to the space we were currently leasing on Monroe was expiring soon. We had no choice. We had to move, and it had to be soon.
“Shoot. I’ll have to deal with this later.” I chugged the rest of my coffee and reached for my purse.
“You guys go. I’ll call the manufacturer and take care of this.” Owen stacked the pieces back into the box.
“You sure? ’Cause I can do it when I get back.” I reached for the box, dragging it closer to me.
“Nova,” Juliet warned as she slid on her jacket.
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, then back to Owen, who stood with his hands on his hips. “You have more important things to worry about than this.” He dragged the box back to his side of the table. “Let me take care of it.”
I unclenched my jaw and smiled. “OK, thanks, Owen.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. There’s another package for you. More flowers. It’s out front.” He grabbed the box and headed for his desk.
I sighed, Juliet patting my arm. It had started three months ago. One rose a week delivered to my office. No note, no explanation, just one black rose in a matching box tied with lace addressed to me. I had been so freaked out at first. Was it my crazy sister messing with me? An ex-boyfriend? Not that there had been too many of those. I’d called every local flower shop looking for answers but found none. I’d even gone to the police, but they’d just laughed in my face and sent me on my way. There was nothing I could do about it, except carry mace and practice my “I am a crazy woman” facial expressions in case someone approached me. But now wasn’t the time to worry about that.
Twenty minutes later, Juliet and I stepped out of our Uber in downtown Chicago. I glanced down at the paper in my hands, then up at the enormous sign with silver letters shining on the front of the building. “You’re sure this is the address they gave you?”
Juliet grabbed the paper from my hands and squinted at the address, then back up at the building. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I’ll be damned” was right. I threw my head back and sighed, the name “Goodacre Corporation” staring back at me. OK, this meant nothing. The plan was not changing. And—andthere was a good chance the man in the elevator had been lying.
“He could have been lying,” Juliet said, mimicking my thoughts, although her face didn’t show the same conviction her voice had. “He was probably just some regular Joe Schmoe giving you a hard time.”
I pushed my shoulders back and gripped my manila folder of documents tightly. “You’re right. Let’s do this.”
Fifteen minutes later, we sat in the lobby on the thirtieth floor. Employees came and went, swiping badges at the glass doors to get in and out. An unarmed security guard stood in the corner, never taking his eyes off the doors. For a real estate company, the building sure was secure. Juliet squirmed in her seat, uncrossing, then recrossing her legs. We wore outfits in matching styles, something we did often, but most certainly not on purpose. That was just what happened when you spent almost every waking hour with the same person for years and years. She had on baby-blue slacks with a matching blazer and white blouse underneath. I had on the same, but red and black. Her light hair was pinned up tightly, my dark hair let down in waves around my shoulders. We had complementary personalities too: Juliet, soft-spoken, the cute librarian; and me, the total opposite.
“So, are we doing good cop, bad cop?” Juliet whispered. “I can be the bad cop this time.”
“First of all”—I kept my voice low—“you have resting angel face. You could never be the bad cop.” I looked around the room and caught the receptionist eyeing me with a curious look on her face. “Second, when have weeverbeen in a situation where we did good cop, bad cop?”
The receptionist answered the phone buzzing on her desk. We smiled in unison at her when she glanced our way, then covered her mouth while she spoke low into the phone.
“That time at the trade show, when that guy scammed me into buying those cheap vibrating rings and you made him cry and apologize in front of all those people.” Juliet hurried to get the words out as the receptionist stood and walked around her desk.
I giggled as the receptionist held open a side door I hadn’t noticed before. “Mr. Goodacre will see you now.”
My hands were clammy as we walked down the hall. This area was quieter than the lobby, no employees to be found. A hidden private wing. That was peculiar. When we reached the end, a guard with a wired earpiece in his ear greeted us with a nod. The knuckles on his right hand were bruised, as if he had spent the night before participating in a fight club.
I looked at Juliet and shrugged as we followed the receptionist down the hall and she opened a black door. A man sat at a large mahogany desk, his head bent as he scribbled on a piece of paper. He glanced up as we entered and stood, straightening his jacket.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding in. The man staring at me was not the man from the elevator. There was a stab of disappointment in my stomach, but I quickly dismissed it. Like I cared if some random weirdo lied to me. Pff. Juliet glanced at me and nodded towards him. I shook my head no.
“Miss La Roux, Miss James.” He came around and shook our hands in a tight grip, then indicated for us to sit down in the plush chairs in front of his desk. I glanced down at the nameplate.R. Goodacre.“From what I gather, you are inquiring about a property Goodacre Corporation recently purchased on Waveland and Ash.” He went around to his side of the desk and pulled out a file. “You have my attention.”
I told him our story—well, a brief version. That our company, The Shiver Box, was a growing business and we had searched and searched for a perfect location, and had found it, but now the lease was canceled because Goodacre Corporation had bought it. Our current lease on Monroe Street was expiring soon and that we were hoping to sign a new lease with Goodacre and promised to be the best tenants they ever had.
He nodded, fingering through the documents in the folder. I glanced at Juliet, and she opened her hand, showing me a push pin in her palm, the kind you used to hold notes on a corkboard. She mouthed,Should I cry?and closed her hand around the pin again.
I bit the side of my cheek to stop the laugh from coming out. This was why I loved her so much. She would do anything to keep our business going, even prick herself with a pin to make herself cry if she thought it would do us any good. Something about this man told me he would not fall for the old crying bit.
He closed the folder, set his pen on top of it, and slid it away from him. “I appreciate your story and am thrilled at your success.”
