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The request itself shocked Gold so much, he had been inclined to listen. A photoshoot in his pawn shop? Among the cluttered trinkets pawned by people desperate for cash or a favor? And no one batted an eye at his outrageous price?
Gold was, first and foremost, a businessman. How could he refuse such an influx of cash? If some artist wanted to blow his trust fund on one photoshoot, that was his own problem.
So Gold had done some tidying, some dusting, removed things that he’d rather not advertise and arranged his more beautiful merchandise to be in view, and hadn’t thought for any extra time about why they might have said they didn’t need his back room as a staging area.
The reason, he discovered on the day, was because they had brought their own trailer.
It parked out front, and then a truck full of lights and screens and people, and Gold thought, for the first time, that this is what it felt like to not fully understand the gaps in a contract.
Belle sat in the trailer, freezing her ass off. It wasn’t snowing, but having a boudoir-style shoot in a shop that was very much not a boudoir and which filled with freezing air every time the door opened was not an ideal activity for forty-five degree weather. At least it wasn’t on a farm.
“Can’t I at least have a blanket in here?” she asked the PA. She wore a coat over her lingerie set, but other than a pair of sheer knee-highs, her legs were bare.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Boss man wants your nipples stiff.”
Belle scowled. She had been posing for this magazine for a year, and she had mostly come to grips with the photographers and the stylists and the art directors treating her body like a prop, but she wasn’t quite on board with every person who worked for the magazine doing it.
“At least bring me a sandwich,” she said. “I know they’re hiding them from me.”
The PA shrugged. “Best I can do is a bowl of grapes.”
Of course. “Fine. Bring me the grapes.”
People walked in and out, moved things in his shop, shined bright lights in his face. Gold had insisted on being there, and though he was glad that he would be around to circumvent any major damage to his property or organizational system, he almost wished he had just left.
Sometimes, chaos was useful. This chaos was giving him a migraine.
A young man in a headset with a clipboard walked by, and Gold stuck out his cane to stop him.
“What?” the man asked. Was Gold not terrifying to these people? He didn’t care for any of this.
“Is someone famous being photographed?”
To his credit, the man gave the question some thought, then shrugged. “I’d call her an up-and-comer. She gets good sales, but doesn’t quite have the name recognition of someone like, say, Jessica Rabbit.”
Gold did not recognize the name Jessica Rabbit, but he refused to say this.
“I see.”
If they weren’t going to be afraid of him by reputation, then he would have to find a way to look intimidating. As such, he sat behind his counter like a gargoyle, stone-faced and unmoving. That should do it.
It had to have been warmer in the shop than in the trailer. One of the windows didn’t close all the way, and the heat leaked slowly no matter how high Belle turned it. So, figuring it was better to ask forgiveness than permission, she huddled into her peacoat, peeked out the door, and then sprinted inside in her heels.
The man behind the counter barely looked at her, as if he was used to having women run into his shop panting and shivering all the time.
“Hi.” She flashed him a smile. “Is this your shop?”
“It is.” He eyed her up and down now, but it was not with the usual roving lewdness she got while on the clock. If anything, he looked suspicious. “Are you the model?”
“Yes.” She strode over to the counter, as far from the cold door as possible, finally thawing out. “And you’d think they’d treat me better. I’m starving. Oh, is this hand-carved?”
Attention arrested by a figurine in the display case, she didn’t notice the change in his expression until she glanced back up, and he was stoic again before she’d finished moving.
“Yes,” he said. “Carved in 1922. Grace Kelly once owned it.”
“I don’t know enough about Grace Kelly to know if you’re pulling my leg or not,” Belle said, now wandering toward other shelves. When she spotted the books, she gasped.
“Everything in this shop comes with a certificate of authenticity,” the man said.
Belle reached to run her finger along a copy of Alice in Wonderland. An original? Maybe not original, but definitely older than she should have been touching.
“Careful,” the man said, appearing suddenly behind her. She jumped, flushing with guilt. “If you move anything, they could spend another hour rearranging it to their liking.”
God, did she understand that. She turned to face him, surprised to find him leaning on a cane. He moved quieter than expected for someone with an extra appendage.
She clasped her hands in front of her so she wouldn’t disturb anything more. “Do you know a lot about these books?”
He raised an eyebrow. “This is my shop. I know everything.”
She smiled, offering her hand. “I’m Belle.”
If Gold were the type of man to be honest with himself, he might have admitted that he was having a nice time talking to Belle while everyone set up. Her genuine curiosity about the history instead of the monetary value was refreshing, as was her knowledge. It didn’t hurt that she was beautiful.
Before long, half an hour had passed, and he’d walked her around the whole store, dodging lights and screens and people.
“Belle!” someone called, interrupting his story about a pocketwatch, and his lip curled in irritation.
“Sorry,” Belle said, smiling at him as a woman jogged up to her. “I think they’re finally ready. This’ll be last minute makeup. Thanks for indulging me.”
“Break a leg.” Break a leg? God. Good thing she was too busy to ridicule him. He stepped back as Belle leaned forward, presenting her plum red lips for a retouch.
The makeup artist left, and Gold moved himself to the doorway of his backroom, where the photographer had assured him he would be out of frame. He was glad for the ability to supervise, all things considered, and now he was glad to have a front-row seat to watching someone check the pins in Belle’s hair.
Gold was increasingly skeptical of the theme of this photoshoot. Whatever cocktail dress or shorts she wore under the peacoat could not have belonged in his shop, dark and arranged like a time capsule to a past life. Her heels were nice, tall, emphasizing the backseam on her stockings that made her legs look miles long even though she was a head shorter than him, and she should have been wearing something to suit it. Maybe a lace gown. Maybe a fringed one like Cyd Charisse.
He sat in the chair, hidden in the shadows, and Belle flashed him a smile as they moved her over to the counter. He almost smiled back, but there were too many people around. Maybe after the shoot, she’d ask him more about his inventory. Maybe he’d do something brave for once in his life and ask her out for a drink.
He scowled. What was he thinking? Of course he wouldn’t ask her for a drink. She was just being nice to him because she was bored waiting around. She was a model—one who was smart and interesting and apparently made good sales. She probably had plans once this was over and she got her big fat check.
The photographer set up. Belle was relocated to the counter, and Gold could just see her unbuttoning her coat. The assistant he’d talked to first stood before her, holding out a bundle of deep, wine-colored silk. Some sort of wrap, perhaps? It did match the shop better than he imagined whatever she could fit under that short coat would.
Belle shrugged the peacoat off her arms, careful not to muss her hair, and Gold found himself watching. Curious, of course, whether his assessment of the thematic relevancy of her outfit was correct. He was almost never wrong.
Then, she handed the coat off to accept the silk bundle, and Gold almost choked on his tongue.
Of course, the shots went fastest when Belle was wearing the robe. Warmer, covered, and less concerned about whether the panties were riding up, it was much easier to pose in it, and after about five minutes, the photographer was satisfied.
As her makeup artist rushed in with hairspray for both her hair and her ass cheeks, she turned to flash Mr. Gold a smile. She’d thought he would leave when they started, but he’d sat unmoving in the shadowy doorway to the back. She was glad. Chatting with him had been the nicest part of her whole week, maybe even the nicest part of her year.
“Belle,” the art director said, skirting the hairspray cloud. “You’re not really giving us much in the tit department today.”
Belle pursed her lips. “You chose this bra. I only have the tits I have.”
He frowned, studying her chest, and she wanted to slap him.
“I’ll make it work.” She folded her arms. “I always do, don’t I?”
He wandered off, and she exchanged an eyeroll with the makeup artist, who was becoming as intimately acquainted as usual with the underside of her lace panties.
Now the hard work began. As everyone cleared away to shine lights on her, Belle rested both hands on the counter and gave the camera her best sex eyes.
Somehow, when Gold saw the lingerie—lace, everything lace, cleavage-to-thigh lace—he’d convinced himself that she was just undressing publicly and would be putting clothes on. He’d told himself that no, he would not just be sitting there admiring the well-placed roses, because of course she would cover up.
Then, she bent over his counter, straddled it, laid across it, bit her lip and pushed her chest up and spread her smooth legs, and it was like a trainwreck he couldn’t look away from, except the damage was in his own short-circuiting brain.
He would never, ever be able to sit behind that counter again without imagining Belle draped over it, one knee raised, thumb under the strap of her garter belt. No matter how much cleaning he did, her ass print would live forever on the glass.
A lifetime of hiding his feelings kept him sitting so still, everyone’s eyes slid right by him. Thank god because he was sure he’d forgotten how to speak English and it would be mortifying to have someone know that.
The photographer relaxed, and everyone converged on Belle with water bottles and who knew what else, and Gold relaxed as well. It was done. Finally.
And then, a beefy man in khakis and a polo walked in. Oh god. Who the fuck was that?
“No,” Belle said when Gaston entered. And she just knew that he had been sitting warm in a car before this, wearing socks with his dress shoes, working heat blowing on him. “No, it doesn’t make any sense to have him here.”
“Come on, Belle, we’re almost done,” the art director said, so Belle turned her full attention to the photographer. He had to understand, right?
“He looks like he just came in from the country club!”
Gaston flashed everyone his toothy smile, and Belle scowled. As long as she’d been working for the magazine, he’d been a ham-fisted ogre. They loved to have her posing with him because she was so small in comparison, but here, in Mr. Gold’s pawn shop amongst the antiques and books and clocks, she actually almost didn’t look out of place. This was her chance, her one shot to be rid of Gaston.
“Belle, come on, we all just want—”
“You know what I’m talking about.” She rushed over to the photographer, gesturing around at the shop. “You see this. Look at all this! And look at Gaston!”
“Hey,” Gaston said. “I look fine.”
“Yeah you do,” the art director said. “And—”
“Don’t you think the issue would sell better if the photos made sense?” Belle asked. “He looks like we should be posing on a golf course! Just let me do more poses alone.”
“Belle, you know we have to have Gaston,” the art director said, pinching the bridge of his nose—a common expression for people when dealing with Belle. “Our readers like to have a clear visual to imagine themselves.”
Belle scowled, searching around for any better idea than this. Then, her eyes fell upon the shadowy doorway of the backroom.
“Okay,” she said, pleased at the director’s wariness. “Mr. Gold fits perfectly into his shop. Use him.”
Under normal circumstances, Gold would have heard everything anyone in this room said, but since he was trying not to pass out, it took him until half the people in the room were staring to realize someone had spoken to him.
“What?” he asked, putting as much of his usual disdain into his voice as he could.
“No.” The director shook his head, and Belle, still wearing only lace and heels, scowled. “He’s not a professional. And he’s not an everyman.”
“No, he’s better than an everyman.”
Belle rushed over to him and he had half a second to think of late rent payments and his divorce before she was just an armspan away from him, gesticulating with her bare arms.
“See?” she said. “He’s wearing a silk tie. That suit is custom. Armani?”
“Attolini,” he said, glad he at least knew something. Everything else was slipping away from him.
“Attolini!” Belle repeated, flailing her arms. “It just makes sense.”
When in doubt, it was best for him to just stand in silence until someone filled it, so that was what he endeavored to do, whilst also not looking at Belle’s gesticulating breast.
Then, of course, he wasn’t really sure how it happened. One minute, he was trying not to make eye contact with Belle’s hidden nipples—the only hidden part of her body—and the next, he was drawing up a contract giving himself final say in how his photos were used and requiring every single creative decision that involved his face to go through him.
Because apparently, he was going to do it. Why? He wasn’t sure. Since he was so particular about creative control, he would only receive payment if they actually used his photos, so there was hardly even a monetary incentive.
Honestly, he would rather receive no payment and have the photos destroyed. It was insanity that had made him agree. At least the second he started speaking like a lawyer, the people in charge had finally given him the respectful wariness he was due.
“All right, Mr. Gold,” the makeup artist said. “Have you ever worn mascara before?”
Oh god.
Belle managed to con someone into giving her five more grapes while she waited for Mr. Gold’s makeup to be done, and then she hopped back up onto the counter to give him a pep talk before she had to take the robe off again.
He sat behind it now, lashes long and lips full. Belle smiled at him.
“Sorry to spring this on you,” she said, chewing her cheek because she had been yelled at too many times in the past for chewing her lip. “Gaston is very handsy.”
“You saw an opportunity, you took it,” Mr. Gold said dryly. “How can I blame you?”
She grinned. “And don’t worry. You won’t have to do much but sit there and look like you have an alluring secret.”
“Perhaps I do.” His mouth twitched. “You don’t know me at all.”
“Maybe I could get to know you,” she said, and just as she was about to ask if he wanted to get a coffee after the shoot, everyone swooped in to start.
Belle shrugged out of the robe, handing it off to the makeup artist, and then swiveled for her first pose.
Mr. Gold was, of course, stiff. They took dozens of photos, the photographer increasingly irritated, and she had to do something or they would make her pose with Gaston and his giant, wandering hands.
Gold never wanted to see a camera again.
Belle hadn’t considered how truly uncomfortable it would be for him when she’d suggested it, and now she felt bad. How could she get him to loosen up?
She swiveled around on the counter so her legs dangled in front of Mr. Gold instead of the camera.
“Hey,” she said while the photographer hurried around to get a better angle. “How long have you had this shop?”
Mr. Gold jumped like she’d hit him, but then cleared his throat. “Ah, ten years or so.” He glanced at the photographer.
“Don’t worry about him.” Belle waved a hand. “Just focus on me, okay?”
“What?”
“What did you do before you had the shop?” she asked, and the photographer flashed her a thumbs up as Mr. Gold’s shoulders relaxed.
“I was a lawyer,” he said. “I still am, I just don’t practice with a firm anymore.”
“Interesting,” Belle said, and she was interested, but as the photographer gestured for her to keep going, she blanked on what else to ask. “And—and the pieces in this display. That I’m sitting on. Which is your favorite?”
Mr. Gold’s upper lip curled into something between a smirk and a sneer, and the steady click-click-click of the camera told Belle she had succeeded.
“Bold of you to remind me that you’re smearing up my counter.”
She laughed, and his lip twitched again. “You’re very meticulous, aren’t you?”
“I keep everything in order,” he said.
The photographer waved his hand at Belle to keep going. Biting her lip, she leaned forward, trying to press her breasts forward while also squeezing them together for the camera, and then grabbed Mr. Gold by the tie. His mouth parted.
“Mr. Gold.” She pulled him toward her. “I’m getting hairspray all over your clean glass.”
He stared at her for a beat, then at his counter, and then at his tie. Then, his lip curled in a smirk.
Against all odds, Gold modeled successfully. Through most of the shoot, he felt like he was having a heart attack, but after deciding to listen to Belle and ignore the photographer, it had gone much better. After, the photographer showed him some of the shots, and he could even admit that he looked a little bit sexy.
It was probably residual sexy from Belle, but nonetheless.
The crew packed up and Belle ran off to put something warm on, and Gold returned to the back room to give the chaos a chance to clear out.
Then, when he emerged back into the shop, everyone was gone. The disarray remained, but the lights and wires and props and people had disappeared, leaving Gold alone.
He stared, but nothing changed. The shop was empty.
Of course he had imagined everything between him and Belle. Of course it wasn’t real. She was a professional, just doing her job. She hadn’t suggested him because she was attracted to him but because she knew he wouldn’t squeeze her ass.
Which was true. He wouldn’t. For a brief flicker of optimistic light, he had thought perhaps someday he’d have the opportunity, but he should have known.
He pressed his palms to the counter, trying to focus on the cool glass against his skin instead of his desire to smash it. His stupidity was embarrassing, but it would be even more embarrassing to hurt himself shattering glass.
He had some plates somewhere. He could break one of those.
Limping and grimacing his way to the back, he almost missed the bell tinkling on the door.
“Shop’s closed.”
The door didn’t open again, so he turned to yell at whoever it was, and then almost fell over.
Belle stood there, biting her lip again, though now she wore jeans and boots and a coat. She was still just as beautiful as she’d been in lingerie.
“Hi,” she said, smiling. She had an envelope in her hand.
“Hey.” He swallowed. “Can I help you?”
She walked over and handed him the envelope. “This is the rest of the money for renting your shop. I figured you were tired of seeing everyone, so I offered to bring it myself.”
Wishing he could read her mind, he accepted the envelope with a nod. “I was.”
She smiled. “And I was going to ask if you wanted to get a coffee, but—”
His heart sank as she looked around, face falling, probably realizing that he fit right in with the antiques in his shop. Of course she’d come back to ridicule him. Probably to keep him from questioning why his photos weren’t in the magazine when they inevitably decided he’d done terribly.
“Sorry, I just saw how many smudges we left.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I’m starving. Do you want to get dinner?”
His mouth opened, and Belle flashed him another plum-red grin.
“We could go to that diner down the block?”
Gathering his wits, he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’d love to have dinner.”