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While I wish I could just sit on this couch reminiscing about Rob, I must get on with repairing Mrs. Jackson’s doll.
Something is amiss in this room now that Rob isn’t here. Life is certainly good at throwing curveballs. I’m not sure if my feeling of loneliness is a good curveball or a bad one.
“Alright, Brigitte. It’s just you and me now.”
Brigitte’s head is made of cloth with a composition face. As I look at it under the magnifying glass, I’m glad the tear is even, making it easier for me to reattach it to her body while hiding the seam under the fold around her neck.
Finished, I sit back on the couch to wait for Mrs. Jackson to pick up Brigitte, spreading the blanket over my lap. I take Clay’s business card out of my wallet.Hartley Marine and Submersibles. On the back of the card is Rob’s number, where Clay had written it. I have no reason to call him yet.
I put my hand on my chest, touching the chain. Unable to do any meaningful work, I decide to grab my iPad and find out who Rob Hartley is.
My first search returns some hockey dude and other random Robert and Bob Hartleys around the world.
Then I search for ‘Rob Hartley California.’
Friggin’ Robson Hartley and his brother Clayton are apparently two most eligible bachelors in California! And I was right—Rob is the eldest of the Hartley brothers. Photos of them with women in bikinis onboard luxury yachts top the search results. With abs like those, perfect teeth, fast cars, fast boats and most likely fat bank accounts, I’m not surprised.
It doesn’t stop there. Rob was awarded Cosmopolitan Bachelor of the Year four years ago. The article indicates that the man was twenty-eight then.
With boardroom/bedroom-ready hair, stunning blue eyes that will persuade you to say ‘yes’ voluntarily, and an artfully tattooed right arm, our Bachelor of the Year is: Robson Hartley.
I can’t quite fathom that he’s the same man who sacrificed his friend’s car for me and went all-out cute with a teddy bear in his possession. Looking at these photos, he has all the ingredients of a bad boy. Maybe Bjork changed him, just for the night.
“Robson Hartley…” I murmur. The sensation of his hands squeezing mine comes back eagerly.
And well, well, who’s this? The search results on the next page make me shrink.Karolina Belaya. He’s kissing the stunning woman hard. I read a few more articles and discover that they were engaged but broke up six months ago.
It turns out that Karolina isn’t the only Miss-Universe-like lady he’s been spotted with, either. There are plenty of them, although he seems to be merely posing. If those are the women he’s surrounded with, I estimate that my chance of being more than a bear mender to Rob is almost zero.
Why am I complaining? He’s simply a customer!Was. Well, I allowed myself to make him a cushion to help me recover from what that con man did to me, but that status should’ve expired before dawn.
Ironically, the more I try to curb my zeal for the man, the more it wants to break free. I touch Rob’s necklace once again—I don’t want to lose it. I haven’t heard from the Santa Maria police about my own necklace, but I should really return Rob’s chain soon. Maybe the next time I have the chance to go to LA.
Continuing my digital quest to get more info on Rob, I head to Instagram. He seems to use his account mainly for his work. With almost a million followers, business must be good. Most of his posts are about Hartley Marine’s fleet—which are out-of-this-world yachts with oversized Jacuzzis, helipads, gold-trimmed interiors and Italian-marble bathrooms. I’ve been to many yacht parties before, the most impressive belonging to a prince from the United Arab Emirates. Hartley Marine’s boats are on par with that.
I keep scrolling.
He goes fishing with Elon Musk? And he knows James Cameron, too?
I really can’t equate the Rob Hartley who drank Mama’s coffee last night withthisRob Hartley.
His other posts show him cooking for his guests, and him at sea parties with waiters bringing beautiful food.
Boats and five-star food…
Trays of canapés, champagne and fresh oysters.
Those were Aidan’s business.
A couple in one of the photos, taken on a yacht in the Greek Islands, could’ve been me and my ex at one of the many bashes we used to attend.
I press my tummy. God, I feel like throwing up.
You’re mine, Amalia.
No matter how much I enjoy my life as Amber-Rose, a part of me still belongs to Aidan, because my mind isn’t completely free from him.
Mine!
