The comb must have been Victorian, from the date written on a card placed discreetly beside it, but the design was so simple it seemed much more modern. If I’d been to art school or any kind of college, perhaps I’d recognize the jeweler. I’d done my research these last few years, but I barely had time to make and sell the few pieces I could afford to make—let alone find time to study the history of jewelry design. The designs I’d come up with had started as doodles in my break time at the factory. At some point I’d found a soldering kit on eBay, and when I drew something I loved so much I couldn’t just leave it on the page, I saved up for some silver and made my first piece. When I hung that first pendant I’d made—a silver oak leaf—around my neck, something took hold of me. For the first time in my life, I had a goal that was just about me—not making sure my parents made the rent on their trailer or my sister’s tuition was paid. This was a desire for me and me alone. Jewelry was my thing.
I made a few notes and sketched out a couple ideas. I knew Sparkle wouldn’t consider any of my designs for the competition, but I wanted to learn how to create my ideas on the company’s specialty software.
This room was full of inspiration, and I wanted to soak it all in while the opportunity lasted. I’d missed out on a lot by not going to college, but I was determined to get as much of an education as I could out of my time in London, squeeze out every last drop of experience.
I ducked and weaved through the canapes, crystal glasses and cummerbunds to the next case, and then the next and the next. If heaven turned out to be just like this, I wouldn’t be surprised.
As I circled a display containing three bracelets, I overheard a group of people standing to my left, whispering about Dexter Daniels. Daniels entering the competition had been a huge deal. He was a virtual recluse and as famous for not having a London store as he was for being incredibly successful despite his youth. He was one of the favorites to win and, I’d heard, devastatingly handsome.
He’d obviously inherited the family genes—his parents had designed the tiara I’d been ogling. Meanwhile, my family business was dodging landlords and skipping out on rent. To have come from a family who made their mark in history by designing jewels for royalty . . . Dexter must be so . . . Did he even know how lucky he was? To grow up with all this? No wonder he was so successful.
As I sketched in my notepad, someone on the other side of the display case nudged her friend and stage-whispered, “Over there by the bar. The tall one. That’s him. Dexter Daniels.”
I glanced up and followed the woman’s pointed finger as a man on the far side of the room turned in our direction. His furrowed brow and pained expression came as a shock. What on earth could make someone so miserable on a night like this, in a place full of beautiful things? He pinched the bridge of his nose, the exasperation of being uber-successful obviously too much to bear.
He was the most handsome man in the room.
Perhaps the entire city of London.
His thick, wavy, almost black hair was the perfect length—long enough to thread fingers through, but not so long it could be tied in a ponytail or even worse, a man bun. He seemed to be the only man in the room who wasn’t wearing a tie with his suit, the open shirt displaying a bronzed v at the notch in his throat. He stood out but not because he lived in a trailer park or was wearing borrowed shoes a size too small. It wasn’t how tall he was, or how confidence seemed to radiate from him, or how his jaw was shadowed by a couple days’ worth of stubble. He stood out because rather than looking like he was among colleagues, he looked like he was a client of the jewelers in this room. He seemed like the guy who could throw a couple mill’ down on a necklace for his wife and pick up something for his girlfriend at the same time. Someone came up to greet him and the pain drained from his face, replaced by a wide grin. It was a smile that could close a deal, make someone feel like the most special person in the room and no doubt had panties falling to the ground.
Not my panties though. Mine were staying firmly on. I dropped my gaze back to the bracelets and resumed sketching.