* * *
“Do you want to come in?” Scarlett asks as I pull into a shockingly empty street-parking spot in front of her four-story brownstone. “Everyone else is gone for the day.”
The wordnois on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get it out. I don’t want to wipe that smile off her face.
“Come on. Let me give you a tour. I promise I won’t bore you to death.”
She has no idea that it’s not boredom that scares me. It’s her. She’s got me so off-balance; I don’t know which way is up.
There are fifteen texts I need to answer. Some from Bump, Q, Zoe, Rolo, and a few others. But I don’t want to talk to them. I want to talk to her.
You’re fucked. So fucked.
I nod, and Scarlett’s wide smile shines a thousand watts more brilliantly.
“Good. Come on.”
She opens her door, but my brain is throwing my body into high gear. I’m out of the truck and around the side to lift her down to the ground before she can jump.
I slowly lower her along my body, breathing in her sweet scent and committing it to memory. I don’t know what the hell it is, but I’ll always associate it with her.
“Thank you,” she whispers before threading her fingers through mine and leading me up the sidewalk to the front door.
As she reaches into her purse with her free hand to pull out her keys, I stare down at our joined hands.
When is the last time I held a woman’s hand while we walked?For the life of me, I can’t think of a single instance in the last fifteen years. Not since I was young and idealistic and full of dreams. Before life showed me exactly how ruthless it could be, and how easily it could take everything from you.
It’s such a simple thing to hold a woman’s hand, but when you haven’t done it in about fifteen years, it feels a hell of a lot bigger.
The door opens, and she tugs me inside.
“Welcome to Curated,” she says with pride in her voice as she releases my hand.
Part of me doesn’t want to let go, but I force my fingers to relax.
“Everything in here is for sale, except for a few pieces of the furniture. We’re open to the public on Fridays and by appointment Tuesday through Thursday. I used to handpick every single item we sell, since no two are alike, but the bigger we’ve gotten, the faster inventory moves, so I’ve had to enlist the help of a network of finders all over the country. We turn over our inventory every week. People get one chance to buy it, and after that, it’s gone forever.”
My brain finally clicks into logical, rational mode as I listen to her describe her business model. It’s fucking brilliant. “One of each and only one chance to buy before it’s gone forever means that you feed off impulse buys and scarcity. Shit must fly out of here on Friday.”
Scarlett nods. “Fridays are insane. We have a line out front hours before we open. We only let a certain number of people inside at once, but there’s also no limit to the number of items you can buy. We’ve had people come in and literally take home an entire roomful of product. It blows my mind.”
I take a few steps forward, scanning the bookshelf of classics, peppered with knickknacks that even I can tell are unique and cool and probably expensive as fuck.
“Where do your finders dig all this up?”
“Flea markets, garage sales, antique stores, eBay ... everywhere, really. My only requirement is that it’s something we’ve never sold before, and we will only stock one. Unless it’s a set, then we’ll sell the entire thing.”
I walk toward the kitchen area, where mismatched dishes are arranged on a table that looks like it’s waiting for a family to sit down to a homecooked meal. The chairs don’t match either, and somehow it’s still fucking perfect and makes me wish I’d had even a sliver of this kind of home life as a kid.
“Why this?” I ask, turning to face Scarlett as she moves a salt-and-pepper-shaker set three times to get them to sit at the perfect angle next to a napkin holder.
She bites down on her lip and pauses. “You want the real answer or the one I give the media?”
“Both.”
“I want everyone to have the chance to have the perfectly curated home and life on their social media feeds. I don’t think that should be the exclusive purview of the wealthy, creative, or those who have great taste. I think it should be accessible to all.”
“That’s the canned answer, right?” I ask her.