set,” Nati announced to the older woman as she went back into the shop.
“And I paid you in advance, didn’t I?” Mrs. Wong asked.
“You did. You’re good to go.”
“I’ll make sure my neighbor is careful when he takes the mirror out of the car and brings it in for me,” Janice Wong promised. “And I just might come back another day for one of those old tin coffeepots—they’re so cute!”
“I’ll be here,” Nati assured her, holding the door open for the tiny woman.
Then she turned her attention back to the man…
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” she apologized. “But now I’m all yours—” She cut herself off the minute the words came out. But she couldn’t help it—she warily enjoyed the sight of this gorgeous guy’s amused grin. She liked how the small lines crinkled at the corners of those excruciatingly blue eyes of his.
“What can I do for you?” she finally asked.
“I’m looking for Natalie Morrison.”
Summons server.
Nati felt dread run up her spine.
“You found her,” she said, going back behind the counter where she felt somehow safer. “It’s Nati, though. No one calls me Natalie.”
The man did not bring an envelope out of his breast pocket. Instead he merely said, “Okay, Nati. I’m Cade Camden.”
Not a summons server—that was good. But a Camden?
That was why he looked familiar. They’d never met but pictures of the Camdens showed up in newspapers and magazine articles periodically because they were one of Denver’s preeminent families. There were a lot of them, so Nati couldn’t have put a name with any of the faces, but she had seen the faces. And she certainly knew the family name.
Her own family’s first negative encounter with the wealthy had been with H. J. Camden. He was the reason the Morrisons moved to Denver in 1950, the reason behind Nati’s great-grandfather losing his farm and needing to pack up his wife and son—Nati’s grandfather—in order to find work beyond the confines of the small Montana town where he was born. It was a story she’d heard numerous times.
But did Cade Camden know it? And what was he doing in her shop? Looking for her specifically?
Nati considered battering him with questions.
She considered throwing him out of her shop in honor of those who had come before her.
But instead, with more reserve than she’d shown so far, she repeated, “What can I do for you, Mr. Camden?”
“Call me Cade.”
Nati didn’t do him the courtesy of saying his name. She merely waited for his answer, not quite sure how to feel about a Camden standing right there in front of her.
“I bought a house not long ago,” he said. “It has a wall in the dining room that has the most hideous wallpaper you’ve ever seen. It’s ripped and peeling and falling off. The wall underneath looks like it could be kind of a mess, too, and I’ve heard that you can do wonders with wall treatments—not stenciling or anything frilly, but something understated, classy.”
“How did you hear about me?” she asked, and this time she was fishing.
“I believe you did something in a nursery for one of my grandmother’s friends. You come highly recommended.”
Nurseries were a large part of her business outside of the shop, so that claim was feasible. But it didn’t explain whether or not he knew about their families’ past.
Knowing who he was and what he said he wanted was a start. But Nati contemplated a few more things as she studied him.
She considered saying she was too busy and didn’t have time for a project like that now. And then recommending someone she knew would botch the job.
She considered taking the job and charging Cade Camden an arm and a leg, effectively cheating him to get even in some small way.
But in the end she didn’t like what that approach would say about her own integrity. Having a clear conscience was more important than making some sort of petty point with this stranger who was generations away from the man who wronged her great-grandfather decades ago. A stranger who might not even know what had gone on.
She could merely refuse to work for him, she told herself, and send him on his way.
But her shop had only been open a few months and she wasn’t in any position to turn away work. She needed any money she could make. And Camden or not, he was offering her a job.
“I’d have to look at the wall,” she said without enthusiasm. “I need to see what kind of shape it’s in before I know what will need to be done and how much it might cost. Plus we’d have to talk about your preferences—different textures and finishes take different amounts of time, so labor charges can add up.”
“Sure,” he said, seeming undaunted by the potential expense. The Camdens were rich enough to buy and sell her a billion times over.
“Is there any chance you could stop by tomorrow?” he asked. “Maybe late in the day, after you close up here and I get home from work?”
“I can come anytime.” Nati nodded toward the double pocket doors to her right, just behind her counter. They were open, exposing the shop next door. “I’m friends with the owner of the Pet Boutique. Whenever one of us needs to be away we open those doors to connect the two stores and take care of both shops at once—I’m doing that right now while Holly goes to the bank.” Too much information.
“And you’re free tomorrow?”
Nati didn’t have to check anything to know that she was. “Just tell me what time’s good for you.”
“Six-thirty? I’m in Cherry Creek, just past the Denver Country Club, off University, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” she said. “But aren’t there people in your neck of the woods—”
“Like I said, you came highly recommended and I want it done right.”
“Okay,” she said, wondering why she was feeling let down that they’d gone from the easy banter about the scarecrow to this all-business approach.
But all business—only business—was how it should have been from the start. And now that she knew who he was it was certainly how it would be from here on.
He gave her his address and directions to his house. Then he said, “Tomorrow night, six-thirty. I appreciate your coming that late, on a Friday night. I’ve been trying to get in here to meet you all week but I’ve had too many fires to put out at work and this was my first chance. It shouldn’t waste too much of your night to just take a look, though.”
If only he knew that she spent most Friday nights—and every other night of the week—painting inventory to sell
