A Princess for Christmas - Jenny Holiday Page 0,22

buildings with a clock face on each side. It still is. Even watch nerds don’t see that every day.”

What a treat—and more evidence of Leo’s thoughtfulness. “I imagine those clocks are digital now, but given the era of construction, I suspect they would originally have been powered by an electric motor that would have been mounted near the clockworks. There was a New York–based clock company, in fact, that was . . .” Leo was smirking at her as she was ramping up her self-winding clock lecture. She tried not to smile as she pretended to be offended. “I for one think enthusiasm over topics one cares about is an attractive trait.”

“I agree.”

“You might call it nerdiness, but people with passion are much more interesting than those without it.” She was still teasing him, but she actually believed that.

“Still not arguing.” He held up his hands and grinned. “And you’re the one who called me a nerd, remember?” He bumped his shoulder against hers, and she ignored the little noise of disapproval Mr. Benz made from behind them. “I think maybe it takes one to know one.”

She gave up her mock outrage and smiled at him. When was the last time she’d teased someone and been teased in return? Certainly not since before Maman died. It was rather wonderful.

And so it was on a cloud of satisfaction that she strode into her last appointment of the day—at Marx on Madison.

And experienced the karmic correction to all that good cheer.

She could tell right away it wasn’t going to go well. She introduced herself to a clerk who disappeared into the back. When the woman returned, she announced that Bernard Marx, the owner, would be a few minutes. That itself was a red flag. Although Marie had said earlier that she preferred to be seen in this context as a businesswoman and not a princess, people usually deferred to the princess part. She was typically ushered immediately into a private office and, well, fawned over, to be honest.

Here, she was left to drift around looking at watches under glass—for quite a bit longer than “a few minutes.” She found the Morneau section. It was . . . small. She’d thought this store stocked four models, but she saw only two. Hmm.

“Your Royal Highness.” Mr. Marx finally emerged from the back, his face unreadable.

She extended her hand for him to shake. “Please call me Marie.” She had no idea how her father handled this bit of protocol, and Mr. Benz would be having a heart attack if he could see her, but the Americans, despite their obsession with fame, had thrown off the monarchy, and she wanted this man to see her as a colleague.

“I’m afraid something has come up, so I only have a few minutes to speak with you.”

“That’s quite all right. I’m here primarily to see if you have any questions, to discover if everything about the Morneau product line is proving satisfactory.”

“I have seventy percent of my stock available online. I’d like it to be one hundred.”

She blinked. He was going to get right into it, was he? Many of the luxury brands didn’t allow third-party retailers to sell their products online, Morneau included. It was impossible to guarantee the authenticity of the product unless they were sold through licensed dealers. There were probably ways around that—like selling direct-to-consumer themselves, but her father wouldn’t budge on the matter.

“Rolex will never allow it,” she deflected.

Marx shrugged. “I never thought Rolex would make a smart watch, either. We’re trying to make some room for luxury smart watches, so we’re trimming our traditional inventory.”

She sighed. She couldn’t give him the things he wanted. Only the sad king could make those kinds of promises, and he never would.

Marie tried to smooth things over, to be diplomatic, but soon the uncomfortable appointment was cut short when Marx announced they would only be ordering two models, not the usual four, next year.

She had been foolish to think she could shrug off the Philip Gregory debacle. Gregory had been a major blow, but this was part of the same trend—a real trend, not a blip. And one her father, with his blind insistence on tradition, refused to acknowledge.

Which would make it her fault. She hadn’t tried hard enough. She hadn’t made them see reason.

She emerged from the store blinking back tears. It was a beautiful day, cold and sunny. She forced herself to take a deep breath of the chilled air and tilted her head back.