Page 30 of Not His Bride

After a minute, I step back to find Gallagher across the boutique. He’s at the far side of the room, hands in the pockets of a fitted gray suit. He’s standing in front of a rack of wine-colored scarves, watching the action.

No, that’s not right…

He’s watching me.

He catches me across the room and gives a short, two-fingered wave.

We haven’t discussed what we are, but I like “friends.” It’s not as dramatic as ex-spouses, and it also doesn’t carry the debt of “something more.”

I check the display again. Another customer has plucked five Velvet Wines off the bottom shelf. When she catches me looking, she smiles. “Gifts for my book club.”

I’m starting to believe this might count as a win when Ziterweigen leans in and says, “You realize, your former partners have not yet succeeded in Portugal.”

“I heard something about that.” Their contract with Ziterweigen ended, but they continued to push through their own solo launch.

His answer comes more carefully than the rest. “It’s rumored your family is struggling, though it’s neither your nor my business anymore. I only mention it so that you know you made the correct move. I am happier for you here than I ever was working with your sister.”

He continues, “Later today, I will announce our collaboration. The candles made me certain. I’m planning a series of throw pillows next. Ones that would pair well with these candles.”

He moves away then, giving the store owner a compliment; she shoots directly into her Instagram Live.

I’m left holding the edge of the shelf, making sure my hand is steady.

Now that I’m alone, Gallagher approaches. Ziterweigen is several feet away, like Gallagher has been making sure all morning that he didn’t interrupt anything important.

“Thirty percent already?” he asks.

The number on the register display has already changed. “Thirty-two now.”

“Of course you’re keeping track.”

“Obviously.”

A customer passes Gallagher, carrying one of my boxes. He shifts aside for her, then seems to notice the empty spaces opening across the display. Near the front windows, Maison Ziterweigen is still deep in conversation with the boutique owner. When Gallagher turns back to me, the teasing from earlier is gone.

“You did it.”

My throat tightens. “I launched candles,” I say, because apparently, I need to make it smaller before it becomes something I can’t handle. “Let’s not start engraving trophies.”

“Fifty stores, online distribution, thirty-two percent sold here before lunch, and Ziterweigen is about to announce a collaboration with you.” Gallagher gestures toward the boutique around us. “But yeah. Just candles.”

I hate how quickly my eyes start burning.

“Oh, don’t do that.”

His smile disappears. “Do what?”

“Be proud of me.”

“I am proud of you.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughs, and I shake my head before looking down at the candle in my hands. I hadn’t even realized I had picked one up.

For years, I’ve wanted somebody to look at something I accomplished and understand that I did it. Gallagher came today, knowing he had no place in any of it, but he still came.

“You didn’t even try to help,” I say.