By the time the Uber drops me back at the store, the red marks around my wrists where Callum’s hands gripped me have faded.
My shock, however, has not.
The first thing I do is go inside and lock the door. Then I hustle to the back, collapse onto my desk chair, and call Dani.
“Tell me everything,” she demands. “And don’t leave anything out this time!”
“First let me get into this chicken salad. I didn’t have breakfast, and I’m about to pass out from hunger.”
“Chicken salad?”
“Callum boxed up the lunch I ordered but didn’t get to eat because I ran away. Oh good, there’s a plastic fork.”
As I pull the box and utensils out of the to-go bag, Dani mulls my words over in silence.
Then she says, “Let me get this straight. A gorgeous, single billionaire strolls into your failing business, proposes marriage and a one-time payment of ten million bucks to save said business, takes you to lunch, shows you the giant engagement ring that could be yours, calls for a police escort to pick you up after you ditched him at the restaurant…and also brings you the meal you left behind when you ran away.”
I speak around a mouthful of salad. “Why do you sound most impressed about the last part?”
“Because if nothing else convinced you to marry him, that alone should have.”
“It’s a chicken salad, not a declaration of undying love.”
“It might as well be! He fed you, Em. Even after you rejected him. And we both know where food sits in your hierarchy of needs. If you say ‘I’m hungry,’ there’s about twenty minutes before you turn into something that should be chained in a basement when the moon is full.”
“Have I told you lately that I hate you?”
“Shut up. You love me. Now tell me why you said no.”
I stop chewing to give the phone in my hand a look of disbelief. “Are you saying you think I should’ve said yes?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Pfft. We could be here until next week if I listed all the reasons why not.”
“Really? You have something more important to do?”
“Than marry a total stranger? Yes!”
She scoffs. “Like what?”
“Like everything! Listen to yourself, Dani. You sound just as nuts as he did. Besides, he wasn’t serious. It was some kind of sick prank.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh my God. You’ve gone over to the dark side. Why would some random billionaire want to marry me?”
“Stop beating yourself up for a minute and consider the possibility that maybe you’re more marriageable than you think.”
I shake my head and chew another bite of my salad, giving her time to realize what she just said.
Finally, she sighs. “Okay, fine. It was a prank.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m only saying that so we don’t get into a fight, by the way. I think there’s a good possibility he was serious.”
“I’m hanging up on you now.”
Before I can, she says, “Remember how obsessed Ben was with you?”
“Before he abandoned me without an explanation and was never heard from again?”
“Well…yeah. He did do that. But before that, he was so pussy whipped, all his friends made fun of him.”
I mutter, “This conversation is giving me a migraine.”
Ignoring me, she goes on. “And Chris and Brandon were gaga about you too.”
“Before they dumped me, you mean. Are you seeing the pattern here?”
“So you’ve had a couple of bad breakups in the past few years. That doesn’t mean you’re not amazing.”
“Pretty sure that’s exactly what it means, bud.”
Sounding indignant, she says, “Well, I’d marry you. If I was a lesbian, I mean.”
“How incredibly comforting. Thank you.”
“Don’t be snotty. I’m giving you a compliment.”
The shop phone rings as I’m rolling my eyes. “Gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Come over for dinner Friday night.”
“What are you making?”
“Lasagna. See you at six.”
She disconnects without waiting for a yes, because she knows I’ll never say no to pasta. I set the cell on the desktop and pick up the shop phone. “Lit Happens, how may I help you?”
“This is David Montgomery from the California Department of Tax and Fee Administration. May I speak to the owner, please?”
Oh shit. The CDTFA. The only thing worse would be hearing from the IRS. My heart plummets to my stomach.
I say tentatively, “This is the owner.”
“Ms. Eastwood?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, excellent. I’m calling to discuss your sales tax account.”
I already know on a gut level that this is going to be extraordinarily bad. “What about it?”
“We’ve done an internal audit and discovered some anomalies in your returns.”
Gulping, I repeat, “Anomalies?”
“Yes. Your earnings have been underreported for quite a few years. Ten, to be exact.”
My heart beats so fast, I’m breathless. My voice comes out high and tight. “No, that’s impossible. We keep records of every sale, even the cash ones. And we always file on time. My bookkeeper is an excellent—”
He cuts me off with, “There’s a principal balance due on the account of one million, nine hundred sixty-four thousand dollars and seventy-two cents.”
I gasp in horror and break out in a cold sweat.
Mr. Montgomery adds calmly, “Plus penalties.”
“Penalties?”
“We can waive the penalties if you pay the principal amount within thirty days.”
My grip on reality unravels, and I laugh hysterically. “Oh, how wonderful! How absolutely generous of you! I’m so relieved!”
He decides I’m being a pain in the ass and changes his professional tone to one of cold disapproval.
“Ms. Eastwood, this is no laughing matter. Tax fraud is a crime punishable by severe fines.” His voice turns threatening. “Or prison time.”
Leaping from my chair in panic, I start to pace. “Listen, there must be some mistake. We’ve paid every dime of the sales tax we ever collected. You need to go through the returns again.”
“I assure you there is no mistake.”
“There must be!”
“There isn’t. Will you be paying by check or wire transfer?”
“I don’t have two million dollars!”
He clucks. “How unfortunate. In that case, we’ll proceed with collection efforts. Do you own your home?”
“Why?”
“We’ll get a lien on the property.”
“I rent an apartment! I don’t own anything except my car!”
“Then we’ll put a lien on that. And get a judgment against you personally so that any future earnings will be garnished until the total amount due is paid.”
The way he’s coldly discussing the ruination of my entire financial future makes me want to tear my hair out. Shaking and sweating, I stand beside the desk with one clammy hand clutching the receiver and the other clasped over my forehead.
“I haven’t seen a bill or any kind of notice about this. How can you be starting collection efforts already?”
“We’ve mailed several invoices to your business address. You didn’t respond.”
“That’s because I never got them!”
Sounding like he thinks I’m a big fat liar, he sniffs. “Nevertheless, the account remains overdue.”
“How the hell am I supposed to come up with two million dollars?”
He says snippily, “I can’t give financial advice, Ms. Eastwood. I’m not an accountant.”
This guy. I swear to God, this guy is about to fuck around and find out.
“Listen to me, David. Someone has made a mistake. A huge mistake. You need to take another look and fix it.”
He turns into a robot and recites a memorized script that sounds like it came straight from the company website. “If a taxpayer disagrees with a decision regarding their liability for taxes or fees, they can dispute that decision by filing an appeal within the time limits set forth by law.”
Finally, hope! “So I can file an appeal?”
After a pause where I hear him shuffling paperwork, he comes back on the line with a smile in his voice. “Actually, no. The time limit has passed.”
Over my aggravated groan, he says, “I’ll give you my number so that you can get back to me with any questions.”
I barely have the presence of mind to write it down, but I manage it, scrawling the 800 number on the pad beside the phone before throwing the pen down in disgust.
“Goodbye, Miss Eastwood. And good luck to you.”
Sounding gleeful, he disconnects.
The prick.
It’s as I’m standing there with cold sweat trickling down my temples that I see a small white card at the bottom of the brown to-go bag I took from Callum. I reach inside and pick it up.
It’s his business card. His name, company name, and contact information are embossed on it in elegant black script.
I turn the card over to find he’s written a note on the back in printing so precise, it looks engineered.
Thank you for the pleasure of your company. Please call me if you reconsider.
Staring at the card, I whisper, “Don’t even think about it, Emery.”
I toss it into the trash can and try not to cry.
The next morning, I’m online at the shop ordering a giant Going Out of Business Sale sign to hang in the window when someone comes through the door. When I get to the front, I find a shifty-eyed young man in a blue hoodie standing near the register, looking nervous.
“Hi there. How can I help you?”
“Are you Emery Eastwood?”
Something about his energy puts me on edge. I give him a good once-over so he knows I can pick him out of a police lineup if I need to. “Yes. Why?”
He pulls a folded brown envelope out of the pocket of his hoodie and tosses it onto the counter. “You’ve been served.”
“Served? What do you mean?”
He turns around and quickly walks out the door.
I stare at the envelope with a sinking feeling in my stomach, then cross to it, rip it open, and withdraw a thick sheaf of papers.
With my heart in my throat, I scan the top page. Then I gasp.
It’s a summons.
A civil lawsuit has been brought against me by someone I’ve never heard of who claims he was injured when he tripped and fell on a damaged floor tile.
Heat floods my face and chest. My hands begin to shake. I shout, “Fuck!”
Leaning my hip against the counter, I stand there trembling. How could this be happening? I’ve always made sure the store was safe for customers. And I know there’s no broken floor tile. I know every inch of this shop like the back of my hand.
I take a deep breath and force myself to focus. I need to find an attorney and figure out what my next steps are.
Except attorneys cost money.
Which is one thing I definitely don’t have.
Maybe I should sell pictures of my feet on the internet. I’ve heard there’s a market for that. Looking down at my shoes, I mull it over for a moment before I catch myself and groan.
The shop phone rings. Disoriented and upset, I lean over the counter and pick up the receiver. “Lit Happens, how may I help you?”
“Emery, honey, is that you?”
I recognize my elderly neighbor’s voice, except for one thing: the panic in it.
“Maude? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, honey, it’s awful. Just awful! Where am I supposed to go? I don’t have anybody to take me in. What will I do?”
“Maude, calm down. You’re talking so fast, I can barely understand you. What’s happened?”
She drags in a hitching breath. “Our apartment building…it’s been condemned. The police said we only have thirty minutes to pack our belongings before we have to get out!”
Someone invisible just hauled back and punched me in the throat. I make a faint sound of disbelief as all the blood drains out of my face.
“Oh! Here’s one of the nice officers now. You talk to him, honey, see if you can get him to tell you anything.”
Maude starts badgering someone in the background to take her phone. The person must decline, because she comes back on, groaning.
“Maude, please, can you tell me what happened? Why would the building be condemned? There’s nothing wrong with it!”
“Oh, I don’t know, honey. Something about repeated code violations.” She sobs quietly. “I’ve lived in that apartment for fifty years. Where will I go now? What should I do?”
A police siren somewhere in the background wails in warning before abruptly cutting off. A man shouts curses at the top of his lungs. It sounds like another neighbor, Jim, a father of three young boys who’s been unemployed for a year. His wife works the night shift at the hospital.
The only other tenant in the building, Anthony, is a sweet older man who lost his husband last year to Covid and one of his own legs to diabetes. He survives on social security and Meals on Wheels.
Now all of us are going to be out on the street.
“Don’t move. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I hang up and grab my handbag from under the counter. Then I run to my car, barely remembering to lock the front door because I’m in such a rush.
When I get to the apartment, my neighbors are milling around on the street outside, comforting Maude, who’s crying. Two police cars are parked at the curb. Four armed officers stand in front of the building, glowering in the crowd’s general direction.
A barrier of bright yellow crime scene tape crisscrosses the front entrance.
I march straight up to the officers and demand, “What’s going on here?”
“Building’s been condemned, miss. Move along, please.”
“I live in that building!”
“What’s your name?”
“Emery Eastwood. I’m in apartment 101, and I demand to know what’s happening.”
Two of the officers share a look, like they already know I’m trouble. The taller one says, “You have thirty minutes to pack up and get out.”
“That’s ridiculous! You can’t just throw people out of their homes! I’m not leaving! You need a court order for something like this! You have to give proper notice!”
The shorter officer snaps, “Miss?”
I turn to look at him and his silly pointy moustache. “Yes?”
“Are you aware that failure to obey a police officer’s order is a crime?”
I narrow my eyes at him, convinced he’s stretching the truth. “What section of the criminal code is that under?”
He looks like he’s two seconds away from wrapping his hands around my throat and giving it a long, hard squeeze.
Through gritted teeth, he says, “It’s under the section where I tell you that you have thirty minutes to remove your personal belongings from your dwelling and leave the premises before I put you in cuffs, take you to the station, and charge you with obstruction.”
Appalled, I stare at him.
This can’t be real. I’m dreaming. Or I’ve fallen down and hit my head and am lying unconscious on the side of a road somewhere.
What the hell has happened to my life?
At that moment, my cell rings. I take the opportunity to turn away from the hard stares the group of cops are giving me to walk a few feet away and pull it from my purse.
“Hello?”
“Miss Eastwood, it’s Callum McCord. I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I think I may have upset you, and that wasn’t my intent.”
He sounds detached and professional, with none of the rip-you-to-pieces carnivore energy he had before.
Giving the policemen a nervous glance over my shoulder, I move a few steps farther away. “You don’t owe me an apology, but thank you. I should actually be apologizing to you for threatening to break your face.”
“Are you all right? You sound anxious.”
“Actually, this isn’t a good time to talk. The police are throwing me out of my apartment.”
Even though he’s nowhere in sight, I feel his attention sharpen. His voice lower, he demands, “Tell me exactly what’s happening.”
I suppose it could be because I’m emotional, or because he sounds so concerned and I need a shoulder to lean on, but I blurt out the entire story, telling him every awful detail.
When I’m finished, he orders, “Give your phone to whichever officer is in charge.”
“Why would I do that? These guys already want to arrest me!”
“Emery. Do exactly what I told you to do. And do it now.”
His voice is so commanding. So soft yet utterly in control. It slides over all my nerve endings like poured silk, smoothing their jagged edges and giving me a little boost of confidence.
At least somebody around here knows what they’re doing.
I take a breath and turn back toward the policemen. “Which one of you guys is in charge?”
Nobody says anything, but the short officer darts a glance toward the tall one.
Bingo.
I walk up to him and hold out my cell phone. “Callum McCord wants to talk to you.”
Speaking that name has an immediate effect on the group of men. Everyone tenses. The air goes electric. One of the cops takes a single step back, looking as if he’s about to turn and break into a run.
The tall officer reluctantly takes the phone from my hand. He lifts it to his ear and clears his throat. “Officer Anderson speaking.”
Then he listens to whatever Callum is telling him with an expression like he’s attending his own funeral.
After several long moments, he hands the phone back to me. He says stiffly, “Sorry for the inconvenience, miss. You can go ahead and go inside.” He turns to his men. “Take down the tape. We’re done here.”
Dumbfounded, I watch as two of the officers go to the front doors of the building and tear down the tape. Then all four of them head to their patrol cars.
Into my phone, I say, “Boy, it must be really great to be a billionaire.”
“Are they leaving?”
“Yes, and I’m deeply impressed. Do you actually own the police force?”
Callum chuckles. It’s a sound so rich and sexy, it sends a tingle down my spine.
He says, “I’ll get in touch with the city inspector to get this all straightened out. The city is notorious for overreacting to small infractions and levying fines so egregious, the building owners can’t pay. The fight usually winds up in court, but in the meantime, they pull some power play like this to put pressure on the owner. I can’t tell you how many times it’s happened to us.”
“Us?”
“My family. We own many rental properties there.”
“I knew the building shouldn’t be condemned!”
He chuckles again. “You were right. Buildings have to practically be falling down before that happens.”
Heaving a sigh of relief, I watch the squad cars pull away from the curb and drive down the street. Over on the sidewalk, my gathered neighbors stare at me in open astonishment. I might as well be levitating for how shocked they look.
“I don’t know what to say, Callum, except thank you. If you hadn’t called, my neighbors and I would all be sleeping on the floor of my shop tonight.”
“You’re welcome. Anytime. And now I’ll let you get back to your day. It was nice speaking with you.”
“You, too. Thanks again.”
He says goodbye and disconnects, leaving me standing in the street even more disoriented than I was before I pulled up.
He said nothing about his proposal.
He acted like a perfect gentleman.
He saved me and my neighbors from disaster with barely ten seconds of effort.
Most confusing of all is that I never gave him my cell phone number.
