He tucks his phone back in the pocket of his jeans. “The Realtor’s finishing up a meeting a block away, she said she’ll be here in five.”
“Jack, we shouldn’t be wasting this poor woman’s time when I have no intention of leasing this space.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat, under the guise of needing the warmth but really needing a little bit of space.
“What’s the harm in looking, sweet pea?” He shrugs, slipping his own hands into the pockets of his jacket. “If you don’t like it, no damage done.”
“I’m not worried about not liking it,” I mutter. I’ve given the space enough of my thoughts over the past day to know I’ll probably like it. Scratch that. I’m definitely going to like it.
“So then what’s the problem?” He pushes his glasses up, as if he can’t fathom what the problem might be.
And he can’t.
Sometimes I forget, but moments like this are a stark reminder of one of the biggest differences between us. Jack doesn’t have to worry about money. From what I can tell, he’s never had to worry about money. He’s so low-key about it, it can be easy to brush aside the knowledge that the man outright owns a brownstone. In New York. And a two-million-dollar home in Connecticut. Whether he abuses the privilege or not, the simple fact is if Jack wants something, he has the means to acquire it.
I collect my thoughts before stepping into him, tilting my chin upso I can look in his eyes. “Jack. I can’t afford this. And the harm with looking is it can make me want things I know I can’t have. Which can cause me to make bad decisions. And I don’t like making bad decisions. It’s why I haven’t gone shopping since I got fired. I know my limits. When I see something, I go for it, even if it ends up costing me in the end.”
Jack considers my words thoughtfully. “If it’s purely about money, there are things you can do, Sade. You could look for investors.”
“I don’t even have a real business plan.” I tuck my hands under his arms, trying not to fixate on how both he and Gemma suggested investors like they’re an actual possibility.
“You have a business degree, right?”
I nod.
“So write a business plan. Think about how far Bridge and Blooms has come in the past few months. How much you’ve been able to grow your business even just working out of the kitchen. I’m sure there are tons of investors who’d be interested.” He leans down and plants a soft kiss on my upturned lips. “And if there aren’t—which there will be—then you happen to have one right here.”
I take a step back. “No.” I shake my head, as if the very clear declaration isn’t enough. “Nope. No way. I don’t want your money, Jack. I don’t want you giving me this space.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “First off, I wouldn’t be giving it to you. It’d be an investment. Second, I believe in your business and would be happy to support you. And third, I...” He trails off, running a hand through his curls, making them stand straight up in a really stupid-cute way.
“Third?” Stepping back into his bubble, I grab the front of his coat.
“I want you to be happy.”
“I don’t need you to buy me a business in order to make me happy, Jack of Diamonds.”
“I feel like that one is a little on the nose for this particular moment.” He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into his chest. “Let’s just look at the space and go from there, yeah? You might not even like it.”
“Jack Thomas?” A chipper voice, accompanied by the click-clack of high heels on concrete, interrupts us. A woman in her midthirties, dressed in fantastic skinny jeans, an emerald-green silk blouse, and a black blazer under her wool coat sticks out her hand for Jack to shake. “Kristen Sullivan. Pleasure to meet you.” She holds out her hand to me next.
“Sadie Green.”
Her shake is firm and quick. She gestures to the front door of the storefront. “Shall we?”
Jack and I follow her into the building, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. When we cross the threshold, it slowly trickles out of me. Kristen flicks on the overhead lights and gestures widely to the open space.
Jack stays by Kristen as she starts rattling off facts about the property. Size, square footage, blah blah blah.
I wander around the room, trying and failing not to let my imagination run away with me. The coolers could go in the back corner, out of the way enough to not draw attention. The front windows could be filled with seasonal blooms, and the area in front of the exposed brick wall would make a great display backdrop. There’s room for a large counter in the middle where I could work. I like the idea of customers’being able to see arrangements being put together while they shop. The vision pops into my head a little too clearly, already formed and morphing to fit the space.
Jack continues to ask likely pertinent and important questions as I make my way to the back hallway. There’s a small bathroom and a tiny office, and a door leading outside. I unlock it and push it open, barely registering the blast of cold air as I reenter the December evening.
“What the fuck,” I mutter to myself, coming to a halt in the middle of an outdoor space.
I was expecting an alley filled with trash. Instead, I’m standing in the center of a large (by Brooklyn standards) plot of dirt. It’s fenced in and completely bare and basically begging me to plant it full of gorgeous flowers. With a space this big, I’d be able to source my own blooms. Or a lot of them anyway.
But I shake my head at the thought. I didn’t pay attention when Kristen dropped the price, knowing no matter what number she revealed it’d be too much for me.
“Sade?” Jack peeks his head out the back door before joining me in the expansive outdoor area. “Whoa.”
