Put a Ring On It (13 page)

“Y
ou still don't have a ring,” Jake pointed out as he pressed Brighton's hand between both of his.

She stretched her hand toward the bedroom ceiling and splayed out her fingers in the moonlight filtering through the white wooden shutters. He reached up and traced her ring finger with his index finger.

“Why didn't you pick something out at Lila's?” he asked.

“Because,” she said.

He let his fingers trail down her wrist and arm. “I'm waiting for the end of that sentence.”

“Well, first of all, given our circumstances, it feels disingenuous to go around wearing a wedding ring.” Brighton lowered her hand. “And if I
were
going to wear a wedding ring, I wouldn't just grab the first one I saw. Jewelry should have meaning. It should have a story or a secret that only the owner knows about.” She flipped over to rest her head on his bare chest. “Like your watch.”

“Don't start with the watch again.” He groaned.

“I can't help it! Imagine all the places it must have been with its previous owner.” She closed her eyes, envisioning Paris, Geneva, Manhattan, country weekends in the Berkshires and Martha's Vineyard, or maybe Napa and Carmel . . .

He threaded his fingers through her hair. “Refresh my memory: Why do you work in insurance, again?”

“Because I'm a slave to common sense.” She turned her face to press her lips against his warm skin. “I wasn't always, though. When I was a kid, I was absolutely convinced I was going to move to New York or LA. I was going to build my grandparents' jewelry business into a luxury brand. I was going to be the second coming of Harry Winston. I had it all planned out.”

He stacked his hands under his head, listening. “What happened?”

“My grandparents died and the business went bust.” She could feel the steady beat of his heart. “As much as I love making jewelry, I love eating and having a place to live more. The fact is, following dreams has an opportunity cost.”

“Not following them has an opportunity cost, too,” he countered.

“I notice
you
didn't dedicate your life to following your bliss.”

“How do you know?” He tried and failed to sound wounded. “Maybe I grew up dreaming of selling sand and pouring concrete. I love concrete. I'm
emotionally invested
in concrete.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It's true.”

She lifted her head so she could see his eyes. “And you're telling me that you devoted your entire adult life to making boatloads of money, but now you don't care if I try to take a big chunk of it in a divorce?”

He shrugged. “I'll just make more.”

“You don't even have a reason to want all this money?” she pressed. “You just do it for the hell of it?”

He nodded.

She nestled back onto his chest and tried to process all this. “Either you're a liar or you're the shallowest person ever.”

He laughed. “You should feel sorry for me. I don't have a higher calling.”

“Boo hoo. Dry your tears with crisp hundred-dollar bills.” She nipped him lightly on the shoulder. “And I call BS that you don't have some secret passion. You have something.”

He started rubbing her lower back. “Nope. Nothing.”

Brighton closed her eyes and tried to conjure the likely possibilities. “Racing motorcycles? Sailing around the globe? Collecting antique fountain pens?”

His hands stilled. “What about me screams ‘antique fountain pens'?”

“I don't know. Isn't that something indolent rich guys collect?”

“Maybe the guy with the mustache from the Monopoly game.”

“Well, whatever.” She nipped him again. “What's your poison, Sorensen? Confess. I know you have one.”

“I don't. I really am this shallow.” He shifted under the sheets, propped his back against the padded headboard, and settled her onto his lap. “How did you learn to do metalwork if you never took classes?”

Brighton knew he was deflecting and changing the subject again, but she couldn't resist the opportunity to reminisce. “My grandfather let me hang out and watch him when I was little. I started playing around with whatever scrap metal I could find.” She smiled, remembering her earliest attempts at craftsmanship. “Old spoons and stuff. I once made some very avant-garde earrings out
of a tangled-up Slinky. I'm pretty sure they gave my sister tetanus, but they looked good.”

“One sister?” he asked.

“Yes. It was me, my sister, Cat, and my mother. Anyway, I started experimenting with different shapes and materials. My mom used to say I was like a magpie, stealing all the shiny stuff. I would look at the celebrity tabloids at the grocery store and fantasize that one day, some movie star would have her picture taken wearing an engagement ring that I designed.” She was a little embarrassed to admit this out loud. “I used to pray that Cat would grow up to be famous so that my dream would come true.”

“Did she?”

“No. She dropped out of college, spent a few years waiting tables and singing in a bar band, and now she's back in school. She's going to be an accountant. I'm proud of her.”

“An accountant and an actuary.” His voice warmed her from the inside out. “Your family reunions must be out-of-control ragers.”

“What's wrong with being an accountant and an actuary?” Brighton demanded. “It's easy to make fun of steady, stable jobs when you're independently wealthy and never have to worry about saving for college or your kids' orthodontia.”

“You don't have kids,” he pointed out.

“But I will,” she assured him. “Someday.”

“You don't have a timetable already set? I'm shocked.”

She actually had worked out a child-bearing schedule with Colin—they would start trying to conceive six months after their wedding, hopefully timing the baby's birth so as not to coincide with either tax season or cold and flu season—but she didn't feel the need to share that information right now.

“
Anyway
, while I was waiting for my sister to move to Hollywood and become a celebrity, I kept making bracelets and rings
and earrings. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I spent hours tinkering with wire and gemstones and a blowtorch.”

“Your mom was okay with that?”

“Yeah.” Brighton smiled ruefully. “She's always been what you might call a free spirit.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“She named her daughters Brighton and Catriona—that right there tells you everything you need to know. She's never been a big believer in ten-year plans, or any plans, really.” Brighton's tone was still light, but her mood had gone somber. Colin had often remarked upon the same thing. (
Nobody expects you to bail her out anymore, Brighton. She's a grown woman. You're not her safety net.
) But if she didn't step in to help, who would? Her mother needed a safety net, and Brighton didn't mind providing it. Even if that meant always erring on the side of caution.

“Hey.” Jake lifted her chin so he could see her face. “Still with me?”

“Yeah.” She shook off her pensive mood. “Anyway, that's my sordid confession: My name is Brighton Smith and I was raised by a hippie who let me play with fire in elementary school. Your turn.”

He looked down at her. She looked back expectantly. “I just gave you a little piece of my personal history. The way this works is, now you give me a little piece of yours.”

“I already offered you the diamond of your choice.”

“I don't want a diamond.” She rubbed her palms together. “I want
information
. I want you to tell me something about yourself.”

He shifted slightly, resettling her against his chest. “Like what?”

“Like . . .” She paused. “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

He looked at her as though she'd lost her mind. “I don't know.”

“Yes, you do. Come on! What was your eight-year-old dream job?”

He tipped his head back and confessed to the ceiling, “When I was eight, I wanted to be a park ranger.”

She pulled away from him so she could study his expression. “Like the guy up in a tower watching for forest fires?”

“No, like the guy who spends all day by himself in the wilderness, rescuing hikers and making sure all the campfires are extinguished.”

“I'm trying to picture you in one of those hats.” She ruffled his hair. “I'm pretty sure you could pull it off.”

He looked more self-conscious than she had ever seen him. “I had three younger brothers. I just wanted some peace and quiet.”

“So why aren't you working at Yellowstone right now?” she demanded.

“Park rangers can't afford beachfront property and corporate jets.”

She put both her hands on his shoulders. “You said you didn't care about all that.”

“I didn't.” His expression changed from wistful to guarded. “But the people I care about did.”

“Ah.” She thought about her sister's tuition bill. “Are your brothers grown up now?”

“They all finished college,” he said with evident pride. “One went on to business school. Two of them work for my overseas division.”

“Then you've done your familial duty. It's not too late,” she persisted. “You could probably buy your own park at this point. Call Arizona and see if they'll cut you a deal on the Grand Canyon.”

He pulled her back into his arms. “A few years ago, I did buy some land in Montana.”

“Like a ranch?”

“Like five hundred acres of wilderness.”

Her imagination went into overdrive with images of glaciers and bison. “What's it like?”

“There's a mountain and a stream and I'm guessing a whole lot of trees.”

“What do you mean, you're guessing?” She shivered against the cool evening air.

He tugged the sheet over her legs. “I haven't actually been out there. One of my advisers said it'd be a good investment, so I bought it.”

“What? Why haven't you gone yet? It's your childhood dream come true!”

He kissed the top of her head. “I missed my window for frontier living.”

“Oh, come on. You're not even forty yet. You're not even halfway through.” She leveled her index finger at him. “You have a long way to go before you peak.”

He gazed at her for a long moment, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

“The great thing about having all this money is that you have options,” she continued. “You could go out there and live your own private version of
Little House on the Prairie
. With fishing and hiking and whittling or whatever.”

“I never read
Little House on the Prairie
.”

“Oh, you should.” She regaled him with tales of maple syrup candy and scarlet fever and Jack the brindle bulldog. “Put that at the top of your frontier reading list.”

Across the room, his phone buzzed. He didn't make any move to get out of bed, but his mood changed ever so slightly.

“Do you need to get that?” she asked.

He bent his head and murmured against her temple, “No.”

She breathed in, savoring the scent of his skin. He wasn't wearing cologne, but he still managed to smell like the nectar of the gods.
Eau de limerence.

They stayed like that, quiet and content, both looking out at the clear starry night, until Brighton drifted off to sleep. As her eyes closed and she relaxed against him, she knew that something had changed between them. She felt warm and safe and utterly content. For the first time, she allowed herself to dream about what it might be like to be married—really married—to her husband.

•   •   •

The next morning, she awakened to find his side of the bed empty. Again.

Brighton snuggled into the white duvet and pillows for a few minutes, trying to hold on to the feelings from last night. All the warmth and emotional connection dissipated in the bright morning light. She rested her palm on the cool expanse of sheet where Jake had slept last night.

She wasn't surprised he'd left, but she
was
surprised at how disappointed she felt.

After a few more minutes, she sat up, slid into a thick white terry cloth robe, and launched into her morning routine. She opened the balcony doors to check the outside temperature and heard a rhythmic clatter on the courtyard cobblestones followed by a splash and a high-pitched wail.

She raced down the back staircase and out the door. A small,
stocky boy had fallen into the koi pond; his skateboard lay upended by the pond's edge, the neon yellow wheels still spinning.

As soon as the boy saw her, his eyes went wide and he stopped yelling.

“Here.” Brighton leaned over the water and offered her hand. He hesitated for a moment before grabbing on to her.