Written in Stone (Heart of Stone: Book 3)

Chapter 11: Ed

Chapter 11: Ed

I spotted Becca the second I walked into her tired shell of a building. A flash of fiery red hair in front of a dull concrete wall. The place still needed a lot of work; would half a mil even cover it? Where had her current funds gone? I couldn't see any evidence of progress.

London prices, Mark had told me when we'd pulled up outside. In other words, don't be a privileged prick about it.

If this was my own money, at least I'd have some control—or right to control—over proceedings. I was nothing but a marketing ploy, though. A pretty face to generate interest from people who actually could spend their own money. Becca's arm candy.

I ambled towards her, sidestepping a pile of rubble en route. She waited until I was practically breathing the same air as her before acknowledging my presence.

"Teddy." She didn't glance up from her paint swatches, which was funny because painting this place should have been much lower on her list of priorities. Ensuring it was structurally sound looked far more pressing.

"I'd go with the blue." I leaned a shoulder against the wall, then promptly thought better of it and straightened up. "Blue is calming."

She slapped the blue swatch against the partition and studied it. I edged away and peered up at the ceiling. Was this a load-bearing wall?

"Not convinced," she said eventually. "I'm looking at it now and I'm not feeling particularly calm."

"Probably because you've been standing in a hovel all morning."

I dodged the long ponytail that swung through the air as she whipped her head around to finally look at me. Although maybe I'd deserved to get smacked in the face for that comment. Still, she'd done far worse to Soph, so who was the real bad guy here?

"I bet you've never got your hands dirty a day in your life." She tossed the swatches onto a nearby table and planted her palms on her hips. "And you don't have the first clue about renovating a tired space, because you only dare to put your rich, pretty feet into five-star venues. So don't come here and insult my project just because you think your generous donation gives you the right to have a say."

Anger lit up her hazel eyes as she pinned me with a venomous glare. This wasn't the best segue into telling her that Legal had vetoed my 'generous donation'.

Damn it. Should have listened to Mark.

Clearing my throat, I folded my arms and cast my eyes around the room once more.

"Is there somewhere we can talk in private?" I asked.

Apparently that was also the wrong thing to say because she turned her back on me again to return to the swatches.

"Somewhere private in this hovel? Let me just knock down a few walls and create a nice conference room."

On the plus side, despite her obvious resentment, she must have still assumed I was a man of my word because she wasn't acting like someone worried I might withdraw my pledge.

Sadly, that was what I'd come here to do. Now I really needed to make sure I wasn't a dick about it.

"Please, Becca." I lowered my voice and stepped closer to her.

Her spine stiffened. Guilt froze my muscles. No, no, no. This was going so badly. Should have listened to Mark. Should have accepted Helen's offer of a scripted and accompanied meeting.

I put distance between us once more and dragged a hand through my hair. What to do? How to fix this? Theoretically, I didn't need to fix it. My passion for this project wouldn't be dimmed by a sour relationship with its founder. Still not ideal, though.