What If I Never (Necklace Trilogy 1)

Relieved by this realization, I move on.

Dash’s mother was Alice Black. She’s deceased, the cause of death was an aneurysm. God, how horrible and unexpected. I pull up her photo and find that she was beautiful and only forty-nine when she died. She was also the founder of the Alice Home Shopping Network, the ultimate home shopping network. Five years ago, I think, scanning the date. Which was almost exactly when Dash’s first book hit the shelves. Just the idea of how the two events must have played against each other for him undoes me. I tab back to the Wikipedia page. Dash had a younger brother, who is also deceased. He died a sophomore in college in a car accident. Unreal. Dash Black has known tragedy and pain, which sadly, is probably what makes him such a good writer. He funnels his emotions into his words, which is a lesson I need to learn in concept, at least. I’m not a writer, but I will funnel my emotions into this auction.

And as a bonus, maybe I’ll find Allison. This job, and helping other people, is exactly what the doctor ordered.

I reach in my purse and pull out the necklace that I had to carry in a velvet bag to fit in my purse. The box it came in is on the table and I open it, settling the necklace back on top of the velvet. The truly unique, and stunning, star-shaped diamonds wink and twinkle like real stars in a night sky. It’s gorgeous, and I wonder if, in its beauty, the sender believed he and Allison would find happiness?

I could have told him the answer. I’ve learned from first-hand experience.

No, diamonds and gifts do not bring happiness, nor do they substitute for love. And they absolutely do not erase the sins of betrayal.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I work myself into a nervous wreck over the weekend.

A part of me decides that Tyler Hawk was just in the moment Friday night. I could arrive to Hawk Legal’s offices on Monday morning and have no job at all. That thought lends itself to an even bigger bucket of nerves on the morning of my first day of work. I mean, the man didn’t even tell me what time to report, but I improvise. According to the website, the day starts at eight in the morning.

I arrive at seven forty-five, stepping off the elevator with so many jitters I’m fairly certain they’ve formed a puddle at my feet. Katie, the receptionist, is already behind her desk, looking youthful and pretty in a light blue dress, her brown hair flowing softly around her shoulders. She pops to her feet at the sight of me, and instead of that air of privilege she’s offered me in the past, she smiles a greeting. Apparently, Tyler Hawk wasn’t just talking. I’m expected.

“I see you’ve been lured to the dark side,” she teases, holding up a finger as she snags the phone receiver, and presses it to her ear. Punching a button before she speaks to whoever she’s called. “Vivienne, you are summoned. Come cover for me, sweetie.”

With that, she sets the receiver back in place, rounds the desk to join me, and gives me a once-over before announcing, “You look fabulous. I love what you’re wearing today,” she adds of my simple, but I hope elegant black dress. “Armani, right?”

“It is,” I agree. “And thank you.”

“Of course. I’m a label whore and Armani is so very Hawk Legal chic, which is a perfect choice. Everyone here is oh so stylish and it’s by demand. Our clientele can roll out of bed, come in here wearing cut-out jeans and a shirt with a stain on it, but we have to look like we’re going to church, or we’re beneath them. Okay, we’re beneath some of them no matter what, but you can’t let that get to you. Bottom line,” she says as she does a mock fluff of her hair and offers up her best snobby voice, “you look fabulous, darlin’.”

I decide right then she’s not a snob, but more guarded, by necessity of the job. My nerves break into a laugh. I like her. She’s adorable and sweet. “Thank you, darlin’,” I reply with my own best snobby voice, not about to tell her my dress is a secondhand find from a little Manhattan shop a friend at Riptide told me about. It would have cost me seven hundred dollars in a box store. I got it for ninety-three-fifty plus tax.

Right then, a pretty Asian woman appears on the opposite side of the desk and waves at me. “I’m Vivienne, but call me Vivi. Only my mother calls me Vivienne.” She points at Katie. “And her, to irritate me.”

Katie grins and nods. “It works.”

Vivi rolls her eyes at Katie and speaks to me. “I work in accounting right around the corner and cover for Katie here and there. In return, she gives me hell.”