Page 224 of Double or Nothing

Alice looks at her phone.

“You make it sound easy.”

“It is easy. See you on Sunday, Mother. Bye.”

Bryce’s expression tightens. A stronger warning. Damn, he’s so protective.

Alice types a brief response, sends it and puts the phone out of reach. Bryce moves closer until their shoulders touch. So loved up, it should give me the ick, but it doesn’t.

They have their own language in moments like this. Shared history. Shared fear. I dunno.

A thousand things communicated through one glance. Almost telepathic.

I’m right beside them but still on the sidelines. Still Jack the joker, on the outskirts of the tragedy.

Except I’m right in the fucking middle of trying to fix it.

I reopen my laptop.

The Gilded Table is far less taxing on my brain than emotional analysis.

I can read auctions, and collectors, and bidders. It’s easy peasy. I can see pound signs, and material worth and how fucking simple it is to get a measure of what decisions lead to what outcomes. It’s safe turf.

People like Alice and Bryce are far more complicated in their outlook.

I want to shake them both. Talk some goddamn sense into them.

But even more pressingly than that, the niggle is building in my fucking guts.

I want Sunday to fuck off and die, just as much as they do.

“Time for a break,” I say.

BT sighs. So does Alice.

“Seriously, guys. Food, fucking, sleep. Give our brains a rest and come back to it with fresh eyes in the morning.”

Thankfully they agree. We fuck on the sofa before the Chinese is delivered, eating it on our naked laps because the island’s occupied. Showers and bed and too little sleep because Alice sets an early alarm and, of course, the catalogue and Gilded Table combo sweeps us along like wildfire through Thursday morning.

Alice shortens her statement. Finally. And I complete The Gilded Table’s bidder registration and send proof of funds to Camilla’s office.

Alice laughs when I complain about the indignity of showing her my bank statements.

“She needs to know you can pay before you get given a paddle.”

“I own a casino in Mayfair. I should hardly need to show her my monthly streaming subscriptions.”

“You could still be broke.”

“Broke?! With a property like that to my name? Whatever. As if I’d be bidding on pieces of broken bike welded together rather than paying a pressing tax bill.”

“Why not? Plenty of people do just that.”

“Good point.” I can’t resist a smirk. “I’d have to put it down as an expense for my records. Category, ludicrous.”

She smiles back when I give her a wink.

The three of us hang around the island yet again on Thursday evening, its shiny surface showing its face again now we’ve finally managed to file some of the auction notes away.