Christmas at Tiffany's (7 page)

Brandon was the final scheduled prospect, and he hoped for a good result, because the three applicants they had screened thus far were promising, sure, but none of them jumped forward as game changers. Until now, until the idea of moving away, and forward, Mitch hadn't realized the level of value and protection he placed on his accomplishments in New York.

Above all that, though, came a sudden and shocking rush of…connection…to Tiffany Zelling. What did it mean to almost literally stumble upon a woman like her, and question so many of his emotions, when he was making ready to leave? What could possibly be the purpose?

Eyes on the prize, Alexander,
he coached himself ruthlessly.
Eyes on the prize.

~*~

“Oh, Melody…look at this one.”

It was Friday night, and Melody had arrived in town yesterday. Hot on a mission to find suitable social occasion attire for the InfoTraxion Christmas party, Tiffany stopped in her tracks, dead center of the dress selections at Macy's. She nearly caused a collision with her sister who brought up the rear. The object of Tiffany's affection was a strapless dress of purple velvet with a sweetheart neckline.

Ever practical, her sister tucked next to her and flipped over the price tag. Wide eyes and a subtle choke-cough told Tiffany everything she needed to know about its cost, even before Melody released a low, smooth whistle.

“That bad, huh?”

“Well…yeah…but, it's on sale.”

“And you're evil.”

The minute Tiffany tried it on—just for fun of course—she pictured herself drifting across the floor of the Rainbow Room, embracing a night of art deco glamour while the Manhattan skyline twinkled like a sprinkling of vivid, white diamonds through uninterrupted floor-to-ceiling windows. She imagined CEO Charming, framed by the view, watching her arrive, and—

“Tif, if you don't buy that dress, you're a complete idiot.”

Tiffany jerked to attention, realizing she had been day dreaming while perched on a small dais in front of a triple panel mirror outside the changing room. The fantasy was lovely, and the dress was so gorgeous. She yearned to indulge…big time…just this once…

Instead, she heaved a sad sigh. “Thanks for the mental evaluation, but it's completely impractical and blows my budget to smithereens.” She turned, posed, turned again. Perfectly styled and supple velvet fabric hugged her torso, flowing out from the waist in ripples that danced against her legs. Buying the dress would be bad enough, and she'd definitely need a jacket. A black velvet bolero number would be just perfect, and she had seen one on the clearance rack not far from the dressing room. Maybe it was her size?

Dreaming of her favorite jewelry store, Tiffany murmured, “I'd love to go all Audrey Hepburn and wear pearls with this. Long layers of shimmery white pearls.”

“Mmm…polish it off with a pair of dangling crystal earrings and you'll look incredible.” Melody shifted bags of purchases she had already made and squeezed Tiffany's arm. “As far as the price tag for the dress goes, Merry Christmas. Consider it an early present.”

Tiffany's eyes widened. “No…Oh, Mel, no. I couldn't possibly. That's way too generous, and—”

“Nothing doing. You can't walk out of here without it. Seriously, I want to do it.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” They shared a long, affectionate look before Melody pressed on. “Now, what about the secret Santa gift you have to get?”

“Ugh.” Tiffany had been agonizing about it for days now, repeatedly shifting between the idea of being mean and snarky and following through on the type of Christian kindness the Yong's had advised. “The best idea I can come up with is a thermal carafe, maybe a cool chrome number, and a gift card to a coffee shop.”

“That's better than he deserves, and I think it's great. It's professional, appropriate, and even thoughtful. I think it's a score.”

Side-by-side with her sister, Tiffany nabbed the bolero jacket—it was meant to be, she figured—then added costume pearls to her stash of acquisitions. A quick trip to the on-site coffee boutique and Eric's gift was checked off her list as well. Happiness spreading, she continued to prowl the aisles of the store, savoring every fairy light, every wispy scent of evergreen, every over-the-top Christmas display of St. Nicholas, of Christmas villages blanketed by artificial snow, of opulent ornaments in all shapes and sizes.

Once they were shopped out, Tiffany led the way to a warm and cozy beverage and sweets shop, Drinks-On-Us, where she collapsed onto a charming metal bistro chair and stretched her aching legs.

“What's the latest on the CEO front?”

That question returned Tiffany to the present in a big hurry. “He's not really a CEO. I mean, not yet, anyway…”

“Mere formality.” Melody sipped and brushed the idea aside with a dramatic wave of her hand. Tiffany grinned at her sister's antics.

“You're probably right. Rumor at work has it he's interviewing his replacement. The head of HR from LA is in town and they've been wrapped up in meetings, which can only mean he's headed back to California in a month or so, probably to a promotion.”

“You sound sad about that.”

“Everyone is. He's a great—”

“You sound sad about that.” The pointed piece of repetition was spoken slow and deliberate.

“I'll miss him, sure. He provided some nice buffering from Eric, and he's got a soft spot for charities, and animals. He told me just this afternoon that he's going to volunteer at the Shelter Helper Event next weekend.”

Melody's brows shot clear to her hairline. “You'll be spending some quality time with him. Nice.”

“Oh, get over yourself.”

“Nope.”

“Don't push me toward something I have no business going near, OK? I don't like feeling riled up around him, I'm not sure how to relate to him, and most of all, I don't know why he gets under my skin.”

Melody shot a hand in the air. “Oh, ask me, ask me! I have a few theories.”

“Would you
please
cut me a little slack?”

“Listen, you need to step away from your quiet, though lovely, little safe zone and open up. Mitch is just a guy. In fact, he seems to be a very
nice
guy.” She polished off her smoothie. “He might even be a sort of
rich
guy. Tell him to bring his wallet and make a personal donation as well.”

Tiffany sneered at her typically over-the-top sibling. “Step off and behave. He's already petitioned and secured a fifteen hundred dollar donation on behalf of InfoTraxion. That's enough.”

“That's impressive.”

“Melody,
he's
impressive.”

~*~

“Jewelry. That's kind of a personal item, isn't it? I mean, for a simple work-related secret Santa gift exchange?”

JR's verdict caused Mitch's shoulders to sink. It was bad enough to be braving the hordes of shoppers and Christmas pandemonium at Bloomingdales in order to put to rest a few Christmas gift selections as well as his secret Santa obligation for work. And that one was just the problem. Tiffany was his designated recipient; until now he was clueless about what to get for her. Now, he had found something he liked, something he instantly connected to her. As such, the selection should have been a quick and easy slam-dunk. Oh, no. Not likely.

Instead, his choice was all wrong.
Fantastic.
Weren't there better ways to spend a Friday night after work?

He bit down on a growl and glared at his accomplice-in-shopping. Although…accomplice might be too kind a word. JR was more like a bribed and coerced victim who only deigned to accompany Mitch into the very depths of department store chaos in order to scratch a few names off his gift-giving list.

So, Mitch felt entitled to grouse just a tad. “You know? I love Christmas, so don't take this the wrong way, but, stop ruining the moment. I hate gift-buying as it is, and I'm not giving her gemstones and gold, for heaven's sake. This is nothing more than a simple and pretty silver ring that does a great job of expressing her personality. What's the problem?”

“Jewelry is personal. Plus, how do you even know it's the right size?”

Mitch bit down all the harder and seethed. “That was a helpful piece of reiteration, and I can simply ask the clerk to give me one in the average size a woman wears. It's bound to fit one of her fingers, right? By the way, if we have to keep searching, I have to ask the question: How many more hours do you want to waste in the city strolling the women's aisles at Bloomies?”

JR shrugged and smirked. “For you, buddy, I've got all the time in the world, plus a sister I still need to buy for.”

“And there's a cigar bar just waiting for us a few short blocks away at the corner of 56
th
and 7
th
.”

“Dude, that kind of diversionary tactic is just cruel, not to mention effective.”

“I know.” Mitch examined the ring once more. It was perfect. It was…
Tiffany
. The circular face, mounted on a thin band, was small and flat, shaped like a compass with arrows that formed directional patterns toward the letters N, S, E and W. Inscribed inside the band, in a spot no one would see but the wearer, was a single word.
Journey
.

That's what clinched it. Nope. There was no way he could let the piece go. The ring belonged to Tiffany. When he pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his slacks, he received an arched-brow look of censure from his friend.

“What's that look about? I'll give it to her as an aside, because I want her to have it, and because there's nothing wrong with being personal. For the office thing I'll get her…oh, I don't know…maybe a boring ol' pair of gray wool gloves or something.”

“The sound you just heard was that of my HR heart singing your praises. Gloves. Now
that
will work.” JR's eyes lit. “Problem solved. Let's get to that cigar bar.”

Mitch groaned and settled the purchase, his thoughts shifting straight back to Tiffany.

Darkness fell hard and fast…and early. Battling wind gusts, hunched within the depths of a long, black wool coat, Mitch dodged brisk-moving bodies and snow piles. He heard JR release a muttered curse as he followed Mitch's lead to the Carnegie Club. Gothic architecture, plush leather furniture, hand-carved wooden bookcases laden with leather-bound hardbacks invited one to simply sit—slow down—and savor an unapologetically masculine air of vintage class.

Mitch was by no means a cigar aficionado, but he harkened this particular indulgence to the childhood memories he held of his grandfather resting comfortably in a leather recliner, feet propped, restful and at peace as they chatted and the earthy fragrance of cigar smoke wafted in curls toward the ceiling.

A circuit of lilting, melodic jazz vibrated through the air like a gentle pulse. The refined, old-world atmosphere appealed to Mitch somehow, despite his modern, LA upbringing.

“This, my friend, is a fine and well-deserved conclusion to a day spent”—JR shuddered dramatically—“shopping.”

“One fine cigar a month is my admitted habit—that and a single malt to go with it.”

An agreeing rumble of laughter followed that statement and soon a serving of charcuterie was delivered by their waitress and placed on the table between their two easy chairs. The selection of cured meats was served with Dijon mustard, crackers and crostini and filled a glimmering black platter. While they dug in, JR shot Mitch a calculating glance.

“So, after spending only a few days in the city it's become obvious to me that the east coast team doesn't want to lose you. You get that, right?”

“They're comfortable with what they know.”

“There's more to it than that and you know it. You fit in here. What's wrong with the idea of permanence?”

“Home, professional development, and that's just for starters. You messing with my career plan?”

“Look in a mirror, chump. You've been lukewarm, at best, about all four options for a replacement—”

“Oh, and you've been turning cartwheels.”

“Any one of those recruits would be a success, and you know it.”

“Do I?” Mitch extended his legs into an easy stretch, crossing them at the ankles as he drew on his cigar. The set up at Carnegie featured every amenity to be found in an exceptionally appointed den. Gilt framed paintings graced dark paneled walls. A fire danced and popped. He enjoyed sparring with JR, and actually, the topic needed exploration, so Mitch didn't hold back any punches either.

“What I'm saying is this, and it's a shocker: It looks like New York City agrees with you. From where I sit, you're not as eager to leave as you profess. You might want to take a look at that before we continue the interview process.”

6

For the first time—ever—Tiffany felt like a movie star, like a 1950's-era heroine strolling on stage in an art deco fairytale. She crossed the threshold of the Rainbow Room, pausing to let the ambiance seep in. Fingering a long, multi-layered rope of pearls draped against her neck, she lost herself in a world of finely dressed people, maybe a hundred in all, celebrating the happiness of the season.

From her vantage point sixty-five stories into the sky, Manhattan spread at her feet like a radiant, three-dimensional postcard. The Empire State Building lay straight ahead, framed by gauzy layers of delicate clouds painted pink, blue and purple by a fast-sinking sun.

“Wow.” The whispered exclamation passed Melody's lips while she stood at Tiffany's side, contentedly savoring the moment.

“Well stated. By the way, the green chiffon suits you.”

“Why, thank you.” Melody smoothed a hand against rings of soft curls that danced free from an up-do. “And thanks for loaning me the bling.”

Melody ran her fingertips against a choker of green and clear crystals that rested at her throat. Diffused light flashed against the stones, bringing them to life, its source a massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling at the center of the room—a most deliberate show-stopper.