The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,54
black or navy suits with crisp white shirts with French cuffs and bright silk ties with matching pocket squares. Blue foil snowflakes hung from fishing line around them.
As I opened the door, an electronic bell rang. Dylan was standing near the back at a cash register helping a customer. He looked up at me with a surprised expression. “Noel.”
I waved. “Hi.”
The older gentleman he was helping turned around to see who he was talking to.
“I’ll be right with you,” Dylan said, sounding unusually professional.
A younger, dark-featured man in a suit and open collar walked up to me from the adjacent showroom. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Dylan.”
He turned to Dylan. “Boss, can I finish up for you?”
“Bennett and I are just about done.” Dylan said to his client, “This beautiful woman is my friend, Noel. She was my very first girlfriend back in seventh grade.”
“Pleased to meet you, Noel,” he said. Then, to Dylan, “Tell me, how did an ugly guy like you land such a beauty?”
“Money,” Dylan said dryly. “She’s a gold digger.”
“I’m standing right here,” I said.
Dylan handed the man back a credit card, then the vinyl suit bag hanging from a post extending from the counter. “There you go, Bennett. Have fun on your cruise. Don’t fall overboard, and come back with the same woman you go with.”
The man laughed. “I’ll do my best.” He slung the bag over his shoulder, then said to me as he walked past, “Take the scoundrel for everything he’s worth.” He walked out of the store.
Dylan walked out from around the counter and we kissed. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area, so I came to see where you work.”
“Why were you in the area?”
I grinned. “To see where you work.”
He put his hands in his pockets. “So, this is it, Chez Dylan. What do you think?”
I looked around the store. The space was tastefully designed with a modern, yet elegant motif. The walls were lined with high-gloss burl walnut cabinetry, and the floor was an onyx-like tile that reflected the overhead rows of track lighting.
“It’s very chic,” I said.
“Don’t sound too surprised.”
“You can’t blame me,” I said. “In school your entire wardrobe consisted of Pink Floyd T-shirts and army fatigues.”
“That was the old me. I had this inner clotheshorse fighting to get out.”
“Looks like it succeeded. I have good news. My check from the insurance company came. I’m officially a millionaire.”
“Wow. How does that feel?”
“I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.”
“I guess that makes me the gold digger.”
“Well, gold digger, I was hoping you had time for lunch.”
“I’ll make time.” He turned to the other man. “Adesh, I’m going out for an hour. You okay?”
“I’m good, boss.”
“And totally disregard what she just said about being a millionaire.”
He looked at me. “You’re a millionaire?”
“I told you to disregard that,” Dylan said. He turned back to me. “Where would you like to go for lunch? Zurich?”
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” I said. “What restaurants do you have around here?”
“There’s an Irish pub just across the lot.”
“Is it good?”
“Do you like bangers and mash? Guinness pie?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then you won’t like it. How about ramen or sushi?”
“I like them both.”
“There’s a Japanese restaurant up the road. I’ll drive.”
Dylan took me to a small restaurant called Kobe. We sat ourselves at a table for two.
“This place is famous for its ramen,” Dylan said. “But the sushi is good too.”
“I don’t know if I trust inland sushi.”
“Now you’re just sounding jaded,” he said. “The owner here is from Japan. He studied under Eiji Ichimura, one of the greatest sushi chefs in the world.”
“Never heard of him,” I said.
“Have you ever heard of the restaurant Ichimura in New York?”
“On the Upper East Side? Everyone has.”
“That’s his sushi bar.”
“My apologies to the chef.”
We both ordered ramen. After our waitress left, Dylan said, “So aside from your millions, how’s your bookstore doing?”
“I have a million, not millions. And it seems to be doing well. I didn’t realize how busy it was. I guess I kind of fantasized that my father sat around all day drinking coffee and cursing Amazon.”
“Your bookstore doesn’t have coffee.”
“In my fantasy it did.”
A few minutes later our waitress brought out our meals. I had ordered the Tonkotsu with pork belly ramen, topped with mushrooms and a soft-boiled egg. Dylan had ordered the Kimchi ramen. For a moment we ate in silence. Then Dylan said, “A million dollars. You know, if you invest smart, you’ll never have to