“You don’t need to pay us back,” Tate says.
“It can’t be that expensive.” Charles shrugs. “I’d be surprised if it’s more than a thousand nine hundred.”
“$2,437,” Anderson says, flipping the box over to show him the ticketed price.
“That’s a rip off,” Charles says.
“I’m usually willing to negotiate,” Anderson shrugs, “but considering it’s already broken...”
“That’s no reason to try to hike up the price,” Charles snaps. “If the item were a 16th century sugar bowl, I would understand this ticketed price. But after Napoleon’s reign, the trade underwent massive changes, and then by the time of the Industrial Revolution—”
“Okay, okay.” Anderson raises his hands in obvious surrender. “Two thousand, one hundred. Final offer.”
“Split between the three of us,” Charles says.
“Yes, of course.” Anderson nods, and my heart sinks.
“I’ll start looking for another job,” I tell the guys as they hand Anderson their credit cards.
“It’s okay, Roonie,” Charles growls. “You don’t need a job. We’ll take care of it.”
I melt inside, but I know deep down I can’t accept this. I can’t just let them pay for everything when I didn’t earn a single penny.
“I want to get a job,” I say softly.
“Okay,” Charles replies gruffly.
“But there’s no rush,” Tate adds.
“None at all,” JJ agrees.
When the box is paid for, I start to stand, but Anderson stops me. “Just one more thing.”
My heart nearly stops. Do we have to pay for something else? The broken shelf? The time I wasted?
“Your necklace is ready,” he says, slipping into the back and returning with a small jewelry box. He pops off the lid and for a split second, I feel whole again.
The four pieces of my fractured heart necklace have been sanded down, smooth and even. They sit on their cotton pillows like magical fairy tale treasures resting in the clouds.
Sure enough, each piece has been drilled with a hole and slipped onto a thin, gold chain.
“Whatcha got there, Roo-Roo?” Tate asks.
“My necklace.” I grin.
“It’s back in one piece?” JJ asks, when I didn’t even realize he knew about it.
I shake my head and slip it out of the box so the guys can see.
“Here, let me.” Charles takes it from me and opens the clasp like he’s done it a hundred times.
“Turn around,” Tate says gently as he sweeps my hair out of the way.
I do, and then I feel Charles’s warm fingers graze my neck before the cold pieces of my heart land on my collarbone. Their presence is reassuring. It makes me feel like myself again.
“Beautiful,” JJ says softly. I know he’s talking about the necklace, not me. But when Charles and Tate both nod in agreement, I feel like Cinderella, transformed.
Chapter 18
JJ and Tate head back to class, but Charles decides to take the afternoon off.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he places his hand on the small of my back and leads me along the quad.
“It’s a surprise,” he winks, stopping in front of the cutest little cafe I have ever seen. The sign above the shop is a sweet floral pink with a graphic of a fleur-de-lys sitting in a dainty china cup. The name is printed next to it in stylized white writing. Nigel’s.
This is the tea shop Charles went to last Friday while Tate and I attempted to go to Bean Scene?
I never would have guessed a place like this might be Charles’s favorite cafe. If anything, Bean Scene, with its modern, black and white decor, seems like a much better fit for a tall, broad-shouldered Beast. Nigel’s looks more well-suited for princesses and fairies.
The window is framed with a delicate lacy circle of white paint. Blush pink and white fleur-de-lys patterned wallpaper lines the walls. An enormous black-framed mirror hangs off to one side while the other has a series of evenly placed white shelves. They are home to specialty tea sets and decorative painted plates that feature floral gardens. At the rear is the sales counter. An antique-looking cash register sits to one side, while on the other is a chalkboard that displays a handwritten menu.
There are a handful of tables inside, too. Small round marble surfaces supported by elegantly curling black metal framing. In the middle of each sits a floral arrangement featuring dark green foliage and blush and burgundy flowers in a black vase.
The sunlight spilling through the window meets the pastry display case and whites it out with its glare. I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. Leaning in just a little closer and shifting to one side, I can see some of what is in the pastry display case. Streaks of sunlight still obscure much of it, though.
“Shall we?” Charles asks, holding the door open for me.
I step inside and am instantly welcomed by the smell of vanilla sugar. There are no other customers here and no sign of the owner, so I take my time looking over the pastries. There’s a cake that appears to be coated in white chocolate curls. Another is cream-covered and topped with cherries. The third is two-tiered and made of pure chocolate. They all look equally delicious, and I hope that one day, I’ll be able to try one.
I glance up at Charles, about to ask if he has a favorite, but his eyes are locked on the rows upon rows of tiny, colorful pastel circles that sit daintily in their case. What are these things called again? Maroons? Raccoons?
“Macarons? They’re my favorite.” Charles chuckles, and I realize I must have asked my question aloud.
“They are?” I look up at the Beast in surprise. How can he possibly want the dainty pastel macarons that look more like decoration, when there are so many other options? Flaky croissants, delicate layered pastries, and elegant cakes sit waiting for me to make a selection.
“You don’t like them?” Charles raises one eyebrow with a regal air befitting a prince. He’s standing with his back straight, chest out, and hands folded, looking like he stepped straight out of a fairy tale.
I push my own shoulders back and try to carry myself elegantly, like a true princess. This gorgeous cafe, and my equally gorgeous escort, inspire me.
“That’s a lovely tune,” Charles says, and my cheeks flush. I’m not even sure if I was humming or full out singing, but I decide not to ask.
“I’ve never tried one,” I tell Charles, shifting the conversation back to the maroons... Raccoons... Macarons!
“You haven’t?” Charles asks, aghast. “Then you’re just going to have to try them.”
He steps forward and gives the golden bell sitting at the edge of the counter a quick tap with his long index finger.
“Bonjour, Charles!” A blond-haired and cream-skinned man steps in from the back, a dishrag tossed casually over one shoulder.
“Bonjour, Nigel,” Charles replies, and of all the things I could be thinking after their exchange, the one that sticks to the forefront of my mind is two words: Oh no! Not another place where they speak French.
Charles and Nigel dive into an animated conversation, but unlike at Chez Caviar, I don’t feel out of place. The vibe here at Nigel’s is relaxed, and I let myself get lost in the sounds of their conversation. I’m sure they’re talking about normal, mundane things or making small talk, but the beauty of the language makes the conversation more special.