by Louise Bay
“The thrill of the chase,” he said. “I was never like that but—”
“It’s not that.” I had never been into the chase. “That’s Tristan, not me.”
Beck nodded, and I could tell by the controlled movement he was dying to ask more questions.
“I don’t know what it is,” I said. “She’s American. And . . .” I had dated American women before, so that wasn’t the reason I liked Hollie. It was more that she managed to be both wide-eyed innocent and devilishly suspicious at the exact same time. She was direct enough to refuse to give me her number and to ask for my card, but not so open that she’d tell me why she was refusing to have dinner with me
“Maybe it’s because you like to torture yourself a little,” Beck said, fishing out the lemon from his water and placing it on the table. “Bloody lemon.”
“I like an easy life. That’s why I end things whenever they get heavy. I’m not into self-torture at all.”
“That’s total bollocks,” Beck said. “I can’t let you get away with that, mate.”
“What?” I said, offended. “I like women. I like sex with women, friendship with women, but I’m not into torture. I’m not a masochist, physically or emotionally.”
Silence echoed off him in waves. Beck rarely held back telling me what he thought. None of us did. Meeting when we did—facing the challenges we’d faced together—had created an intimacy between us that meant we were brutally honest with each other, and as open as it was possible for six guys to be.
“You don’t agree?” I asked him.
“What about Bridget?” he asked.
“What about her?”
“You like to torture yourself about her.”
“I blame myself. That’s not the same as torture.” I’d been young when it had all fallen apart, but that was no excuse.
“I’m not sure about that. I think you two breaking up has become almost mythical to you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? It is what it is. We were together. We were happy. We were in love. I screwed it up by ending things over some stupid argument. When I finally got my head out of my arse and tried to get her back, she’d moved on. I’m an idiot. That’s not self-torture. That’s facts.”
“Well they’re not the facts as I see them.”
I liked Beck. Loved him. Not just like a brother, but as my best friend and confidante. Tonight, though, he was pissing me off. I checked the time on my phone. Where the fuck was everyone?
At that exact moment Gabriel swept in. “I swear to God, if I was ever gay, it would be Gabriel I’d have the hots for,” I said, watching him as he strode over to the table.
“Is this your coming-out party?” Beck asked.
“You’re gay?” Gabriel asked, looking at me as if he’d just asked me whether I was enjoying my water.
“Nope but if I was, I think you’d be my type.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes and pulled his pint of Guinness from the small circle of drinks in the middle of the table. “Good to know.”
“He’s trying to distract us because I just told him some home truths.”
“Interesting,” Gabriel said, taking a seat beside Beck. “Go on.”
“No, you didn’t. You just floated some ridiculous theory about me enjoying self-torture.”
Gabriel’s gaze flitted between us like he was at Wimbledon.
“Because of the Bridget thing,” Beck said as if that explained everything.
“Oh, right, yes,” Gabriel said as if he completely understood.
“What do you mean, yes? Beck is being ridiculous, right?”
“Look, mate. I just got here—you two keep your playground fight between yourselves. I’m going to sit and enjoy my Guinness until some sane people arrive.”
“You’ll get splinters sitting on that fence,” I replied. “Beck just said I like to torture myself about Bridget and I said stating facts wasn’t the same as self-torture.”
“I’m not sure it’s self-torture,” he said, giving Beck a look that said don’t be so dramatic, “but it’s weird how you just write yourself off as never being able to find happiness because things didn’t work out with the girlfriend you had at nineteen.”
It took all my effort not to stand up and walk out. Was he serious? These guys knew me inside out, or at least I thought they did. Maybe they didn’t at all. Maybe I knew them. Understood how each of them ticked, what their strengths and weaknesses were, but perhaps that knowledge wasn’t reciprocated. Because I wasn’t torturing myself about Bridget. I was accepting responsibility. I wasn’t bitter or broken by what happened. I just understood that I’d messed up and would never be in love again. “What we had was special and that doesn’t come along twice in a lifetime. I’m completely at peace with that. No torture. No drama.”
Gabriel started to chuckle. “Yeah. No drama at all.” He raised the back of his palm to his forehead. “I’ll never love again. It only happens once in a lifetime.”
Beck began to copy him. “She’s the only woman in the entire world—Jesus, mate, you were basically a kid. Get over yourself.”
Harsh.
I leaned back in my chair as if pinned by a sudden g-force. Honestly, I thought I’d been the opposite of dramatic as far as Bridget and I were concerned. And it wasn’t as if I’d sworn off women or anything. I’d rarely been single in the last decade.
I looked up to find Tristan glancing around our silent table.
“What did I miss?” he asked.
“We’re giving Dexter shit,” Beck said.
“I think we should stop,” Gabriel replied, shooting me a sideways glance. “If you want to torture yourself, that’s your business. We’re here for you whatever.”
“So, what’s your solution to me being dramatic about Bridget? I barely talk about her . . .”
“We’re talking about Bridget again?” Tristan asked before collapsing on his stool. Gabriel pushed him a pint of beer.
“You make it sound like I’m mooning around, constantly talking about her—”
“No, you don’t talk about her,” Gabriel conceded and I gave him a nod in appreciation. “It’s just that the women you hang out with—your relationships are all a reaction to Bridget. Still.”
“That’s a good way of putting it,” Beck said. “They’re a reaction.”
“You assume you’ll never meet anyone to be with long-term—commit to, fall in love with—because of Bridget.”
Well that was true. “I’m not complaining. I’m not heartbroken.” I was an idiot, that I could accept. But it’s not like I was pining over lost love.
“Doesn’t mean you’re over her,” Beck said.
“No,” Gabriel corrected. “Getting over her isn’t the solution. You need to get over your relationship.”
I was pretty sure that was a distinction without a difference. I’d had enough. I’d come out tonight to relax and kick back, not to suffer a character assassination.
My cell buzzed in my hand.
Okay dinner. But only if it’s fondue. And you must not distract me at competition events. We’re strangers if we ever bump into each other outside of cheese. Agreed?
Finally. And even though I didn’t understand her terms, I didn’t care. I needed to be distracted from thinking about whether I was still hung up on Bridget.
“Did I tell you that David was there at the launch of the competition?” I said in a final ditch effort to stop these guys going on about Bridget.
“David who?” Tristan asked. It had been a long time since I’d brought up my brother in conversation, so Tristan’s confusion could be forgiven.
“Your brother?” Gabriel asked.
“Apparently,” I said. Seeing his name on the list of attendees had reignited the anger inside me. “I guess he and Sparkle are still colluding. Fifteen years later, they’re still making money by rereleasing and rehashing my mother’s designs. I guess they have a lot to be grateful to him for.” Maybe he’d taken some kind of shareholding i
n the company when he sold them my parents’ business? Were we competitors now?
“Sparkle? You think he took additional money from them?” Beck asked.
“It wouldn’t surprise me. He has the moral compass of an alley cat. Why else would he be there? I looked him up. He still works at a bank. Not in the industry.”
“Wow, that’s low,” Beck said.
“And fraud,” Gabriel pointed out, ever the lawyer. “Potentially. If he was offered an incentive to sell to Sparkle and didn’t tell you about it.”
“He didn’t tell me about any of it,” I reminded Gabriel. I hadn’t gotten a say in what happened to my parents’ business. David had made all the decisions and had taken the opportunity to betray me in the process.
When I’d entered the competition, I’d every intention of winning. I’d wanted to carry on my parents’ legacy—to link my business with theirs by bejeweling the next generation of Finnish royalty. But now winning wasn’t enough.
I was going to have to destroy the competition.
Eight
Hollie
I’d never cared what I’d worn on a date before. Tonight was different, not just because I was going on a date with the best-looking man I’d ever seen, but because we were in London. People here were sophisticated. They went to the theater and spoke a thousand languages and read books I’d never even heard of. I was going to give myself away as some trailer park chick as soon as I rocked up wearing my favorite skinny jeans and a blue shirt that looked like silk even though it was one hundred percent rayon. Actually, it wasn’t my outfit that would give me away—my shirt really did look like silk, and it seemed that in London there were fewer rules about what you could or couldn’t wear than in Oregon. But I hadn’t gone to college, my favorite book was A Woman of Substance, and the only language I spoke was English, with an American accent.
I rubbed my pendant between my thumb and forefinger, trying to get up the courage to go inside Urban Alpine, the restaurant Dexter had sent me the details of yesterday. He’d offered to pick me up but I told him I’d meet him here. Now I was hovering on the step, wishing I’d said yes to a ride. At least that way, there would be no chickening out at the last minute.
It wasn’t that I was nervous. It was more that I just felt out of my depth. Dating wasn’t my forte, but it was much easier when you didn’t want to strip the guy naked in public and take shots off what I just knew would be deliciously hard abs. It would be much, much easier if he didn’t make me laugh so darn much, even by message. And the way he was so completely sure that I’d eventually say yes to dinner and that it didn’t seem to faze him that I’d kept him waiting as long as I had. It was annoying because he was so freaking attractive, and spending time with an attractive man wasn’t on my list of things to do while I was in London. And I had a long list.
“Here goes nothing,” I said out loud. I gripped the door handle and pulled with such force that it smashed into the wall, and the few tables nearest the door all turned to look at the lunatic who apparently didn’t know her own strength.
I grimaced. “Sorry,” I said. I immediately caught Dexter’s eye. He was grinning at me from a corner table on the far left of the room.
I couldn’t help smiling back, despite the fact he was probably laughing at my ridiculous entrance.
Awkwardly, I grunted at the hostess and pointed at Dexter. She let me make my own way over to our table.
He stood as I approached and leaned in to kiss me on both cheeks. I was getting used to the two-kiss thing, and managed not to accidentally turn it into a kiss on the mouth.
“So,” I said. “Fondue.”
“Finally, fondue,” he replied. “You look beautiful.”
“So do you,” I replied. Weird thing to say to a guy maybe, but I wasn’t about to get arrested by the truth police. He looked freaking phenomenal. Just the way he sat—arms stretched along the top of the booth, taking up as much space as possible, like he was the King of London—had my heart racing.
He chuckled. “Okay.”
I sat at the v-shaped booth, him on one side, me on the other, our knees almost touching.
“So, what’s good?” I asked, picking up the menu.
“I heard the cheese is amazing.”
I laughed. “Well if it’s not, I’m off. I’m all about the cheese.”
“Don’t I know it. I think if I’d suggested any other type of place, I’d have got a hard no. It was difficult enough to get you to say yes to cheese.”
He was looking at me like he knew I thought he was as hot as Hades but was happy to play along with my I’m-not-that-into-you routine. And gosh-darn it, that just made him all the more attractive. No doubt he’d gotten more female attention than he would know what to do with his whole life, yet here he was. With me.
“Yeah, well, I’m not in London for the guys.” Although it would be the place to come.
“Certainly not. You’re clearly here for the cheese.” He beckoned the waitress over, and after checking with me, ordered fondue and wine.
I wasn’t sure if it was just that he was supremely confident or whether he was just the first grown-up man I’d ever gone on a date with, but tonight felt different from any date I’d had before. “I’ve never had a date order for me,” I said, tearing a piece of bread from the board in front of us. I wondered if Autumn would approve or think he was an overbearing jerk.
“Do you mind? I know you don’t like me giving your address to my driver.” He raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t think I do. I mean, you checked with me first. If you hadn’t, I think it would have been weird.”
“Given we’ve only met twice before.”
“Right,” I said. “But I kinda liked it, and I figured maybe you majored in hot cheese at college or something.”
“What a relief.” He smiled as if it wasn’t a relief at all. As if he’d known all along that I’d like it. That it would make me feel looked after. Special. “I like that I get to hear your inside thoughts. On the outside.”
I swallowed down my bread. Was that the British equivalent of “bless your heart?” Was it meant to sound like a compliment but was actually a ginormous put down? “What do you mean?”
“You’re open. Direct. Say what’s on your mind. And I get it in real time as you’re thinking it.”
Hmmm, he was kinda right. The filter I had was in need of repair in places.
“Mostly,” he added. “I can’t wait to uncover the rest.” He raised his glass. “I’ve never worked so hard to get dinner with a woman. Let’s have a great evening and not worry too much about anything but cheese.”
It was as if the bits I was hiding, he had discovered anyway. He knew exactly what to say to put me at ease. And that was amazing and horrifying. Part of me had agreed to this dinner so I could get to know his flaws, find something irritating about him. This wasn’t going to go well if he just got more attractive.
“That’s a pretty necklace you’re wearing,” he said.
My fingers went to my throat. “Thanks. It was the first piece I ever designed.” My oak leaf was plain silver. No stones or fancy settings, but it was priceless to me. “I have an Etsy shop,” I said. There was no point in pretending to be anyone I wasn’t. This guy was as big as anyone could be in the industry. Nothing I said was going to impress him. “No diamonds or Bolivian emeralds.”
“Zambian.”
“Those either. No emeralds of any kind.”
He grinned at me, his eyes fixed on my face as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck that I was his date. “You make your own stuff for the Etsy shop or do you get it made?”
“I make it myself.” He didn’t have to know I had a couple of orders a month.
“I like the leaf. Is it you? Away from home, looking for a place to land?”
I took a breath before I answered and popped a chunk of bread in my mouth, trying to give myself some extra time. But even those additional seconds didn’t give me an answer. “I don’t know,” I s
aid. Maybe I was. I wasn’t connected to the trailer park in any sentimental way, and although home should have felt like anywhere Autumn was, at the moment, I didn’t know where I belonged. I wanted more than I had in Oregon. Being here, in London, gave a sense of freedom I hadn’t expected. Sometimes I felt the pull of home, but I hadn’t been homesick. The feeling was usually accompanied by a rush of worry about what was going on when I wasn’t around to clean up after my parents or look after my sister. “When I think of an oak tree, I think of strength,” I said without thinking.
“Yes,” he said, an intense look on his face. “I like that.”
He didn’t elaborate and seemed much more comfortable in the following silence than I was.
“Do you design things?” I asked, wanting to shift him away from whatever it was he was thinking about.
He shook his head. “I leave that to more talented people.”
“So you’re the business brains?”
“I like to think I’ve got an instinct for what will look good when it’s translated from paper into reality,” he said. “I see myself as an editor—a curator of the design, if you like. And of course, I love stones. When I see an uncut stone, I can see the gem it will be. I can picture it when it’s cut and polished and in its setting.”
He had creative vision. With business brains. Argh. Why couldn’t he have been a bean counter? I guess that’s what made him one of the most successful people in the industry.
“I haven’t worked with stones. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m not sure you’ll find any in the fondue.”
“Whoever told you that you were funny was lying.”
He laughed, perfectly satisfied with his joke.
“That’s why I’m here in London,” I clarified. “More experience. I want to turn a hobby into a career.”
One side of his mouth began to curl upward as if he was enjoying listening to me speak. Maybe it was my accent.
