Put a Ring On It (12 page)

He'd left. She was all alone in this huge, empty house.

She crept back to the master suite, waited a few more minutes, and then dialed Kira's number.

“Hey,” she whispered when Kira answered. “Can I come over?”

“Of course.” Kira sounded drowsy. “Do you need to talk?”

“No.” Brighton couldn't imagine how to explain the situation she'd found herself in. “No talking necessary. I just need to sleep.”

“Y
ou do
not
look well rested,” Lila declared the next morning when Brighton straggled in at seven thirty wearing Kira's white denim skirt and cobalt blue T-shirt. “You look completely exhausted.”

“Sorry I'm late.” Brighton gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Lila offered, then sat down at the design table. “Slept through my alarm.”

The brunette studied Brighton with rapt interest. “So how was your night?”

“It was . . .” Brighton could feel her cheeks flushing. Even though her marriage was a total farce and less than a week old, she realized that she didn't want to admit failure.

“Words fail you?” Lila looked as though she had about a thousand follow-up questions and was barely suppressing the urge to ask them. “Good for you guys.”

“Oh, we weren't . . . you know . . . all night.”

Lila held up her hand. “No judgment from me. You are newlyweds, after all. And he is Jake Sorensen.”

Brighton tried to smile the way she would if she had actually spent all night with him. “We stayed up past midnight ordering watchbands from Switzerland.”

Lila looked a bit dismayed. “Really?”

Brighton nodded. “I'm trying to get him to invest a little bit. Emotionally.”

“How's that going?”

“Well, he Googled a question about how watch hands work when he thought I wasn't paying attention. I'm optimistic.”

Lila shook her head. “You should see your face when you talk about that watch.”

“What do I look like?”

“Like you're falling in love.”

Brighton ducked her head. “Oh, well, I . . .”

“No wonder Jake whisked you off to Vegas.” Lila raised her coffee cup in tribute. “It's about time he met someone who could keep him entertained
outside
the bedroom.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Whoops. Let me start over.”

“No need to start over; let's move on.” Brighton gazed down at the white leather display cases. “I'm excited to work on the ring. It's been a long time since I actually got my hands dirty.”

“Speaking of your hands . . .” Lila peered across the display case. “You still don't have a ring.”

“File under: ‘Let's move on.'” Brighton held out the sketch she'd worked on the day before. “So what do you think? Are we ready to move on to the CAD?” The CAD, or computer-aided design, would render a virtual, three-dimensional prototype from which they could create a wax mold and eventually the ring itself.

Lila studied the sketch. “This looks great. Really great. The detail work is amazing.”

“Sometimes being an obsessive control freak works in my favor.”

“No kidding.” Lila's gaze turned cagey. “Are you
sure
I can't persuade you to stay for the rest of the summer?”

“Tempting, but no.” Brighton grimaced as she remembered she was supposed to be at her office in half an hour. “In fact, I need to call my boss right now.” She took a deep breath, stepped into the back room, and mentally prepared herself to stay strong against a barrage of begging, wheedling, guilt tripping, and threats. She'd never taken two weeks off. Especially with no notice.

What if her boss yelled at her? Worse, what if he cried like Colin had?

But putting it off would just make it worse. She dialed. She tensed. She closed her eyes and rehearsed a brisk, businesslike speech in her head.

Two minutes later, she hung up the phone and sagged against the wall as a dizzy spell hit. She stumbled back into the shop with her palm pressed to her forehead and a sick feeling in her stomach.

“What's wrong?” Lila grabbed a bottle of water and offered it to her. “Are you okay?”

Brighton collapsed into the nearest chair and fought a rising wave of nausea. “I called my office. I told them I'd be taking two weeks off. I was very calm and professional about it, but very firm because I've never taken time off before.”

“Wait. You worked there how long?”

“Three years.”

Lila whistled. “And you never took any vacation time?”

“Not even a sick day.” Brighton paused, thinking about all the awards she'd won and bonuses she'd received. “I had no idea how my boss would react when I told him.”

Lila crouched down next to her. “Was he really upset?”

“You know, I thought he would be.”
Inhale, exhale.
“I expected a fair amount of pushback. A huge guilt trip at the very least.”

Lila's eyes were huge. “So? What happened?”

“Nothing.” Brighton made a faint, hoarse sound in the back of her throat. “He was fine with it. He said business was slowing down for the summer and I could even take an extra week or two if I needed it.”

“Well, that's great!” Lila exclaimed. “Isn't it?”

“Yes, but . . .” Brighton struggled to put this into words. “He let me go so easily.” She stopped talking because she realized how ridiculous she sounded. Of course the huge corporation she worked for could survive without her for ten business days. She should be grateful she wouldn't be inundated with work while she was eating twelve-dollar strawberries with the hottest man on the Eastern Seaboard.

And yet.

If Colin could let her go so easily, and her boss could let her go so easily, what did that say about her?

She let her hand fall away from her face. “Now my screw-up summer is
actually
screwed up.”

Lila got up and did a little jig of glee. “Screwed up? What are you talking about? This is great! Now you can work for me. This is fate, I tell you. Meant to be!”

Brighton stared numbly at the carpet.

“Can I at least persuade you to cover for me this Saturday and Sunday?” Lila asked. “My mom is going to be in New York City and I'm hoping to meet her there. We're going to hit up a bunch of vintage clothing boutiques in Manhattan and Brooklyn.”

Brighton shook off her stupor and tried to rally. “That sounds fun. Where is she visiting from?”

“Depends on the week.” Lila grinned. “She's a buyer for a vintage clothing dealer, so she's kind of a jet-setter. She hasn't been
stateside for months, and I'd love to go spend some time with her. So, what do you say? Can you hold down the fort?”

“I'd be happy to hold down the fort if you think I can handle it.”

“You can handle it,” Lila assured her.

“I've never done the retail side of this job.”

“Selling's the easy part. Just remember: Jewelry is emotional. People who come in here already know what they want; all you have to do is listen and give them permission to do whatever they've already decided.”

Brighton looked around for a pen and paper. “Should I be writing this down?”

“No, you'll be fine. Some of them will be very upset—they need the money, but they hate to part with a diamond ring they've worn for twenty years. I always try to give them a fair price.”

Brighton started taking notes on her smartphone. “Of course.”

“The customers looking to buy are different. For some of them, especially the summer residents, jewelry is competitive.”

Brighton glanced up. “Competitive how?”

“You'll see. Just remember: When in doubt, always suggest a larger carat weight.” Lila brightened as a gray pickup truck pulled up to the curb in front of the shop. “Hey, it's your husband.”

Brighton focused on her phone. “Mmmm.”

Lila suddenly remembered a pressing task she had to attend to. “I'll give you two a minute alone.”

As Lila ducked into the back room, Jake strode through the
front door. Without preamble, he offered his hand to Brighton. “I'm sorry.”

Brighton looked at his hand but made no move to take it. “What happened to you last night? Where'd you go?”

His jaw tightened. “I got a phone call.”

“That much I know. Who was calling?”

“A longtime associate.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that code for something?”

“No. I didn't want to take the call, but I had to. It was rude and I'm sorry.” When she still didn't stand up, he grabbed a chair and sat next to her. “Where'd you go?”

“My friend Kira's house.” Brighton set aside her phone and gave him her full attention. “I don't like to be in your house all alone. It's so big and quiet, it's like a massive mausoleum.”

“I'll be sure to put that on the listing when I sell it.” He smiled wryly. “Again, I'm sorry. I will make it up to you. Let me take you out on Friday night. Black-tie thing. We'll have fun.”

She softened but refused to give in so easily. “I'll consider it.”

“Great.” He reached over and took her hand. “So I'll see you at home tonight?”

The sensation of his skin against hers made her crave more contact. “I already made plans with Kira.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Possibly.” She pulled her hand away. “Unless I have to take a phone call from a longtime associate.”

He gave a brusque nod. “So you want me to win you over before Friday? Challenge accepted.”

Brighton knew she was in trouble when she saw the glint of determination in his eyes. “It's not a challenge.”

“Too late. Are you coming back to my house or do I have to go full Lloyd Dobler with a boom box outside your friend's house tonight?”

“Do
not
go full Lloyd Dobler.” But she couldn't suppress a tiny grin.

“Then tell me when I'll see you again.”

“After I finish the ring I'm working on,” she relented. “Wednesday night at the Whinery. I'll bring Kira. She wants to meet you.”

“Looking forward to it.” He pulled her close and kissed her, soft and seductive. He kissed her like he meant it and she kissed back, too suffused with desire and longing to stay angry about how he'd treated her.

Just like every other woman he'd been with.

She stiffened and pulled away. “You should go.” Before he could react, she hurried to join Lila in the back room.

“What was that about?” Lila peered out to the showroom.

“Nothing.” Brighton absentmindedly rubbed her lower lip. “Hey, where can I get a gown for a black-tie ball? I need something by Friday night.”

“Date night with your husband?” Lila asked. “Well, if this were
Pretty Woman
, he'd give you his credit card, you'd buy a whole new wardrobe on Rodeo Drive, and then you'd greet him wearing nothing but a tie when he came home from work.”

“This isn't
Pretty Woman
. I'm not a nineteen-year-old streetwalker wearing thigh-high leather boots.”

Lila made a face. “That's a damn shame.”

“Yes, well. Any ideas on where I should look for formal wear around here?”

“Give me five minutes on the phone and all your problems will be solved.”

“Who are you calling?” Brighton asked.

“Your fashion fairy godmother.”

O
n Wednesday morning, right after Lila's very grateful customer picked up his stealth replacement wedding ring (“This is great—thank you . . . and don't tell anyone, okay?”), a deliveryman arrived at the Naked Finger requesting Lila's signature in exchange for a big white carton.

“Ooh.” Lila scrawled her name on the clipboard and seized the package. “Must be your dress for Friday.”

Brighton looked up from the marquise-diamond cross pendant she was designing. “Already?”

“This is my mother working her magic,” Lila assured her. “This is what she does. It's her love, it's her life, it's her job. That's why she wanted me to text her those photographs of you.” She grabbed a pair of scissors and carefully sliced the packing tape. “I guarantee you that the gown in this box will flatter your body type and skin tone.”

“She can get all that from a few cell phone snapshots?” Brighton marveled.

“Heck, yeah. Oh, and you better accessorize exactly the way she tells you, or I'll never hear the end of it.” Lila dug through multiple layers of tissue paper to reveal a dainty black floor-length gown with a wide square neckline and black Chantilly lace cap sleeves. The label said
Estevez
, a designer Brighton had never heard of.

“It's from the 1950s,” Lila explained. “Check out the back. Sexy.” She pointed to the lace panel that would show most of Brighton's back.

The dress was beautiful but appeared so delicate, Brighton was afraid to touch it. “How am I supposed to wear a bra with this?”

Lila was still admiring the stitching. “You're not.”

“Uh . . .”

“Have no fear.” Lila glanced up with a reassuring smile. “My mom knows all the tricks that models use to look perky in backless dresses.”

Brighton rubbed her forehead. “This is going to involve duct tape, Krazy Glue, and tears, isn't it?”

“Let's figure out what to do with your hair.” Lila plucked a folded sheet of paper out of the box. “Oh, never mind. My mom included detailed instructions. With diagrams.”

Brighton scanned the step-by-step “hair staging” manual with a mounting sense of panic. “This looks complicated.”

“It'll be fine,” Lila assured her.

“You know what's not complicated? A basic, bra-friendly little black dress from Ann Taylor. I could still go to the outlet mall—”

“No outlet malls for you.” Lila cut her off with a shake of her head. “You need to step up your game.”

“I have no game,” Brighton pointed out. “Ask anyone.”

“Sweet pea, you're Mrs. Sorensen now. You'd better start acting like it.”

•   •   •

Wednesday night at the Whinery started out pretty much like every other night at the Whinery—lots of loud music, free-flowing cocktails, and women looking to shake things up.

“Now, remember,” Brighton instructed Kira as they approached the entrance. “Your job is to talk to Jake and then give me your honest, unbiased opinion.”

“Got it.” Kira fluffed her bouncy blond hair and adjusted the straps of her black sundress.

“Profile him,” Brighton urged.

“I think you're mistaking me for an FBI agent on a network crime drama.”

“Don't play coy,” Brighton said. “I know you do personality assessments.”

“Yes—in my office. With standardized assessment instruments that have been statistically normed and validated. And also with informed consent.”

“Can't you just ask a few leading questions?” Brighton begged. “I'm counting on you to snap me back to reality here.”

“I'll do my very best.”

Brighton leveled her gaze at her friend. “And if you see the merest hint of pathology or a personality disorder—”

“Hi.” Jake was waiting for them at the front door of the bar, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. He turned to Kira with a smile. “You must be Kira.”

Kira shook his hand and turned to Brighton. “I approve.”

“What?” Brighton hissed. “You haven't even asked one question!”

“Don't need to.” Kira gave Jake a thorough once-over. “Have fun, you lucky girl.”

“Hey! You're supposed to be objective! Interrogate him! Profile him!”

“You didn't tell me it was karaoke night. I'm going to ask if they have Jewel's ‘Foolish Games.' That's my go-to karaoke jam.” She dismissed Jake with a friendly wave. “Delightful to meet you.”

“You, too,” he replied.

Kira practically skipped into the bar, humming the Jewel tune as she went.

“And there goes my sensible therapist friend, Kira.” Brighton moved closer to Jake and let all her hesitation and worry evaporate in a cloud of dopamine. “Why do you smell like dust?”

“I was working on-site all day.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “I showered, but the grit clings to your hair.”

She glanced at the jeans. “You were working on-site? Like, hard labor?”

“Yeah.”

“But why?”

“It's fun. Sometimes a man needs to work with his hands.”

She considered how she felt when she became absorbed in the process of creating designs and pouring wax molds for new jewelry pieces. “But aren't you the CEO or whatever?”

“That's what's great about being CEO. I get to stack cement block if I want to.”

“Living the dream.”

“Every day.” He took in her black pencil skirt and lace-trimmed blue top. “You look great.” He ushered her inside, where groups of tourists, local residents, and bar-hopping college kids were laughing and talking at deafening decibels.

“We can go somewhere quieter,” Jake yelled into her ear. “Like a shuttle launch or a prison riot.”

“No, let's stay.” She pointed out a table in the corner. “Lila's coming later and she's going to introduce me to some of her friends.”

As they approached the bar, a gorgeous, buxom blonde who
looked about twenty-five years old wrapped her hands around Jake's forearm.

“You're Jake Sorensen,” she announced. Brighton could smell a hint of wine on the woman's breath. “I was wondering when you'd show up.” She used her shoulders like a fulcrum to wedge Brighton out of the way.

Jake gently but firmly pried the blonde's hand off his arm and stepped back to steady Brighton.

Undaunted, the blonde resuctioned herself to him. “I've been waiting all night for you to show up.”

Brighton couldn't help herself. “Do you two know each other?”

“No.” It was like the blonde could hear Brighton but couldn't see her. She focused completely on Jake. “But I know who you are.
Everybody
knows who you are.”

Jake turned to Brighton. “Last chance for that shuttle launch.”

The blonde finally deigned to acknowledge Brighton with a nod. “Listen, I see that you've already staked your claim or whatever, but I just need to borrow him for a few hours. It's an emergency.”

The woman's words were flippant, but her eyes were melancholy. Brighton felt a twinge of sympathy. People who had just had their hearts broken didn't always act reasonably—especially around Jake Sorensen. She'd learned that firsthand. “Bad breakup?” she asked.

“Gut-wrenching.” The blonde gripped Brighton's arm with the same intensity she'd gripped Jake's. “I feel like my heart's been ripped out of my chest, flung on the ground, and run over by a bus. Twice.”

Brighton jerked her chin toward the bartender, who was mixing up a fresh batch of pink cocktails. “You know what helps with that? A little champagne, a little vermouth, and a lot of singing Nancy Sinatra at the top of your lungs.”

“Yeah, no.” The blonde released Brighton and sank her manicured fingernails into Jake again. “I'm way past vermouth and Nancy Sinatra. I need this guy.”

Brighton instinctively stepped away from his side. This was the natural order of the world. Who the hell was she to compete with a twenty-five-year-old who probably had several
Maxim
shoots on her résumé?

Jake shook off the blonde and reclaimed Brighton's hand. He told the other woman, “This is my wife, Brighton.”

The woman's glossy pink lips parted in horror. “You're
married
?”

Jake nodded. “It's a recent development.”

And all that anguish turned into frustration. “But . . . but I drove all the way from New Hampshire to find you!” She glanced at Brighton, her eyes wild and desperate. “Heart. Bus. Twice.”

Brighton went up on tiptoe and whispered to Jake, “It's okay, you know. If you want to go with her.”

His brows snapped together. “What?”

“Well, I mean, it was bound to happen.”

His shoulders tensed under her fingertips.
“What?”

“Just because I got pissed at my fiancé and ran off to Vegas doesn't mean I expect you to—”

Jake rested one hand on the nape of her neck and hustled her past the blonde, past the bar, through the stock room, and out the back door of the building.

“What was that about?” Brighton asked as they arrived in the dimly lit alley lined by brick walls and Dumpsters.

He just stared at her, his arms folded, and she finally glimpsed the ruthless, cunning CEO who had built an empire from the ground up. He was using silence as a power play. She knew the appropriate counterstrategy was to stare right back and wait him out.

“You are my wife,” he finally said. The planes and angles of his face looked sharper in the shadows.

The grimmer his expression looked, the more nonchalant she felt. Inexplicable but undeniable—kind of like everything else between them. “Yes, I'm your wife—for now—but I'm not your
warden
. If you want to go make out with some heartbreak tourist in need—”

“I don't.” He was clearly struggling to keep his temper in check. “While we are married, I am not going to make out with anyone other than my spouse. And, so we're clear, neither are you.”

Her eyes widened. “I had no idea you were so old-fashioned.”

“Now you do.”

They faced off for a moment in the dark, damp alley.

This time, she broke the silence. “I don't understand you at all.”

“I don't understand you, either.” He took a step toward her. “Why would you want me to go off with another woman?”

“It's not that I
want
you to.” She struggled to explain. “I just don't want to tell you that you can't.”

He slid his hands around her waist and down to her hips. “I'm with you.”

“For now,” she murmured.

He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. “Right now, I am yours and you are mine.”

And his tongue was in her mouth and she was tugging up his shirt and a few minutes of making out, neither one of them was in any condition to go back inside and pretend to be having a civilized evening.

“Back to my place?” he murmured as he kissed his way from her earlobe to her collarbone.

She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent and reveling in the feel of his body against hers. “You're very persuasive.”

“Say yes,” he urged.

She felt so close to him, so swept up in the urgency of the moment, that for a moment she forced herself to detach. This euphoria wasn't going to last. Someone was going to get hurt soon and—
spoiler alert
—it was going to be her.

Because she was getting attached. She was breaking her own rules. And soon, she'd have to pay a steep price for that. Soon . . . but not yet.

“Yes,” she whispered in a rush of recklessness. “Yes, yes, yes.”