“I’m surprised you don’t have any staff,” I tell him as we raid his refrigerator.

“See? There you go, letting Google make your mind up about me.”

“That’s not true.” I dig through the bag of shooters he bought me that is on his kitchen island and he says, “Yes, it is. Think about the man that you now know, would I have staff?”

“I guess not,” I say, opening a tiny bottle of watermelon vodka.

“You thought that because of the way the Internet portrayed me. That was our problem from the beginning – you wouldn’t even give me a chance.”

I take a swig and wish he would get drunk with me. But kinda like how responsible he is at the same time. “No, you were a cocky asshole.”

“I was not, I was caught off guard when you came flying out of your house with that mane of long blonde hair, perky nipples getting me hard, and then your mouth. I wanted to fuck it before you even opened it.”

“I’m not sure that’s even sweet, but thank you.”

“It’s a compliment; you’re gorgeous.”

“And so are you and arrogant and fucking frustrating.”

“Am I now?” he asks kissing the side of my arm.

“Yes, you are.”

“I like to get a rise out of you, what can I say?”

“Nothing, that’s the problem…you say too much,” I tease him and hop off the stool, grabbing more olives from the fridge.

But before I can open the jar, he’s dragging me away and down a set of spiral stairs. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“I totally forgot to bring you down here earlier.”

Once we reach the bottom, directly in front of us is a huge vault door that is propped open, and as we walk inside the room, it is filled from floor to ceiling with old classic safe deposit boxes.

“Holy shit! Are they all empty?”

“The ones without the locks in the doors are.” My eyes scan the wall of boxes. There are so many that are still locked, probably more than half.

“What’s in them?” I ask him.

“You got me.”

“Can you open them?”

“I can open it by drilling out the lock.”

“Why haven’t you?” I shriek, so excited to see something like this.

“I have some. But I don’t do it often. Thinking of them being empty is like that feeling you get on Christmas morning after you open all your presents…then what? At least this way, there is always one waiting for me.”

“When you open one, you’ve gotta let me be here.”

“Let’s do it now,” he says, and I slam the rest of the shooter, so excited for what we are about to do.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely!” he exclaims and kisses me before jogging off.

“Where are you going?” I yell after him.

“To get my drill. Pick the one you want to open.”

I turn back towards the wall, completely flabbergasted at this piece of American history. These boxes belonged to people; they contain their most prized possessions.

Trying to decide on one is so hard. He comes back in with a drill, safety glasses, and a pry bar. “Did you decide?” he asks me, as I look down at all of the tools in his hands.

“How do you choose?”

“I just pick one.”

“Are you even allowed to open them?”

“Yes, they are mine. I acquired them with the house. It had been abandoned for so long and these things are like a hundred years old, no one is coming back to claim anything.”

“What about their families?”

“Ever, I have all the legal documents, why are you so worried?”

“I don’t know, I feel bad.”

“Don’t! Think if it was your stuff in there, would you want it trapped forever or able to live on and tell a story for someone else?”

He knows exactly what to say and I point to the box that caught my eye from the beginning. It’s dead center. “You sure this is the one?”

“If it’s empty, will you let me open another?”

“I have yet to open one and it be empty…but sure.”

He puts the goggles on and sets a pair on my face. Then he places the drill over the keyhole and presses down, sparks flying from the metal against metal. And I can’t help but look at his flexed muscles as he pushes against the drill. Every detail in his forearm is tense, straining and showing his tattoos that much more. His eyes are squinted and finally he stops. “Hand me the pry bar, my assistant?”

“Please?” I tell him.

“Now!” he orders and snatches it out of my hand.

“Have you always lacked manners?” I ask him as sweat beads his forehead and he fights to open the box.

“No, but I grew up in a house with strict ass rules. I couldn’t do a thing without being scrutinized. I had to say ‘yes, ma’am’ or ‘no, sir,’ to my parents. They weren’t Mom and Dad, like the rest of my friends. So when I left the cage I lived in, I left my manners there too.”

His explanation makes sense, but…a simple “please” and “thank you” might make his life a lot easier.

“Here.” He passes the pry bar back to me and starts to drill again, and it’s not long until the lock gives. My heart flutters, I honestly was starting to think he wouldn’t be able to get it open. He sticks the tip of the drill into the hole pulling the door open. And asks me, “Do you want to take it out?”

I shake my head, too afraid as we both look in at the long, orange, tin insert. He pulls it out, the flap of the lid still covering its contents. “Let’s open it out here,” he says, and we walk out of the room taking a seat on a tiny antique sofa. He sets the box in front of us and says, “Whatever is inside is yours.”

“What if its something rare and worth a million dollars?”

“Then it’s yours,” he tells me with a straight face and then waits for me to open the box.

Slowly, I lift the lid and see a bunch of paperwork. Unfolding the papers, they smell musty and look like old letters. I pass them to King and he glances over them then sets them down. Reaching further in, there is a stack of old bonds. Pulling them out, they date back to 1912. King and I look at them together. “This stuff is old,” I tell him.

“It is. I found some coins once from 1792.”

“Where are they?” I ask him.

“I gave them to Galinda. Anything else in there?” he asks me.

Reaching my arm all the way back, I pull out a small envelope. Excited to see what’s inside, I untwist the cord that is connected to the back closure and open it. As I look at it’s contents, I am shocked when a huge garnet pendant stares back at me. It is the same as my mom’s birthstone, so I can’t help but feel she is with me right now. Removing the necklace from the box, I study it closely. Around the outside of the stone are a ton of small diamonds. King is watching me as I observe it, and I can’t help the tears that glaze over my eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I tell him as he wraps me securely in his arms, holding me so close to his chest. “It’s perfect.”

“You like it?” he asks as I hold on to the stone as if it was part of my past.

“Yeah, it’s my mom’s birthstone.”

He lets me go and I hand it to him. Carefully he examines the gold and I’m so surprised at how great the condition is. Then, catching me by surprise, he slips it over my head. It falls down my chest, landing between my breasts and he says, “I like it on you.”

I look down, trying to see it myself. The dark red glimmers in the low light of this surreal area. I don’t wear jewelry often, being a chef and all – it can get in the way. But the comfort of this piece around my neck feels so right that I never want to take it off. King leans down and kisses the stone, then my lips. The gesture is so sweet, but that is who he is. Under all those layers lives a very generous and sweet man.