Liars Like Us

41

There’s an antique writing desk with an ornate gilt-framed mirror hung on the wall above it. The nightstands are distressed wood topped with brass reading lamps. Soft, billowy curtains filter the sunlight, providing a dreamy atmosphere, and the floors are rustic wide-plank hardwood covered by a vintage area rug in muted colors. A stunning crystal chandelier hangs from above, adding a touch of opulence to the overall design.

The focal point of the room is the beautiful antique armoire.

With carved details and a polished wood finish, it showcases a tantalizing collection of books through beveled glass doors.

Drawn to it, I slide off the bed and cross the room.

Up close, the armoire is so pretty, I’m almost afraid to touch it, but the gold-embossed spines of the books beg to be investigated. The doors are unlocked, so I open them and peer inside. When I read a few of the titles, euphoria expands in my chest.

Pride and Prejudice. Ulysses. The Great Gatsby. Madame Bovary. Wuthering Heights. Anna Karenina. The Grapes of Wrath.

Dozens more classics line the interior shelves. On impulse, I pluck the copy of Pride and Prejudice off a shelf and open it, then hold it to my nose and flip through the yellowed pages, inhaling that delicious old-book smell that’s so unlike anything else.

Smiling, I flip back to the inside cover to see how old Callum’s copy is.

The smile falls off my face when I see the copyright date of 1813 and the words First Edition printed beside it.

“Holy s**t,” I breathe, terrified.

I’m holding a literary treasure in my hands.

Very carefully, I close the cover and gently slide the book back to its home between Gulliver’s Travels and The Sun Also Rises. Then I stand there quaking as my gaze travels over all the other titles in the armoire.

From a casual inspection of their spines, they all look as old as Pride and Prejudice does.

I suppose it makes sense. People with ungodly amounts of wealth like to collect rare things. Coveted, priceless things that others will envy them for.

But this kind of collection should be on display in a public space. A library or drawing room for instance, somewhere the lord of the manor could impress his guests as they smoked cigars and drank sherry after supper. A second-story master bedroom is hardly the place for these gems.

Frowning, I look over the books. Maybe that was a one-off. Maybe the rest of these are garage-sale finds or dummy copies for display with no printing inside.

I slowly slide David Copperfield from a shelf and gingerly open the cover.

1850. First edition. I’m gonna faint.

With shaking hands, I return the book to its nested spot between two other tomes from massive literary geniuses, then stand wide-eyed with my hands on my head, reviewing every glorious shelf.

When I spot the copy of Outlander, I clap my hands over my mouth to stifle a rapturous scream.

When I’ve recovered, I take it out and turn it over. The dust jacket is glossy perfection. The hardcover beneath is unblemished too. I know it’s not nearly as valuable as some of the other novels in Callum’s collection, but the existence of this book here immediately makes me forgive him for about ninety percent of his shortcomings.

Then I open the cover and lose my breath.

In black pen on the title page someone has written the words, “To Emery.”

Beneath that is a signature.

The author’s signature.

One very famous woman by the name of Diana Gabaldon.

“Wait,” I say. Then I say it again louder, because what the actual f**k?

I stand there with my heart pumping and sweat breaking out on my brow as I try to figure out how on earth Callum would have gotten my favorite book personalized by the author in the short span of time since I met him.

It has to be fake. That’s the only logical explanation.

Except my gut tells me it’s real. As real as the heavy diamond sparkling on my ring finger.

Cradling the book to my chest, I turn and look around the room with a growing sense of unreality.

Who is this man, really?

Eyeing the door on the other side of the room that I suspect leads to the closet, I decide to snoop around and find out.

Steeling myself, I cross the room and open the door. I was right: it’s Callum’s closet. Almost the size of the bedroom, it’s filled with luxurious clothes, shoes, and accessories. In the middle of the closet is a large dresser topped with a rectangular leather-and-glass watch display case. Ignoring the rows of expensive timepieces within, I set the signed copy of Outlander on the top of the dresser, slide open one of the drawers, and peek inside.

Black briefs, folded neatly.

Another drawer reveals his socks.

Yet another holds silk pocket squares in every color.

Inside the bottom drawer, several hardshell black plastic cases of various sizes are fitted together like puzzle pieces. Each has a handle and two sliding latches. None of them are marked.

Curious, I kneel on the floor and remove one of the cases from the drawer. Balancing it on my knees, I flip open the latches and look inside.

The interior of the case is filled with small bundles of braided rope. The purple, green, and black rope bundles have a soft, synthetic sheen. A few of the light brown ones appear to be some kind of natural fiber. The gold looks most luxurious and is thicker and velvet to the touch.

I look at all the other cases in the drawer and wonder if they’re all filled with rope too.

And if they are, why? How much home improvement does a billionaire do? If I had to take a wild guess, it would be zero.

So what does he need it for?

At lunch, he mentioned sailing. Maybe it’s for his boat?

I try another case, but it’s locked. So are all the others.

Stumped, I put the case back in its place and slide the drawer closed. Then I stand, curiosity thrumming through me like electricity.

I should look around for a set of keys.