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 in 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.