Put a Ring On It (15 page)

“N
o,” was the first thing Brighton said as she strode up the porch steps to confront her former fiancé.

Colin lifted his head and looked at her face, though he wouldn't meet her gaze. “Brighton, I have to talk to you.”

“No.”
She clenched both hands at her sides.

He held up his palms to ward her off but kept talking. “I made a mistake. A huge mistake.” He paused for a moment, his gaze darting over to the pickup truck in the driveway. “I don't know what I was thinking, but I'm hoping that you and I can—”

“No.”
She pointed imperiously off the porch. “Go.”

“Just listen,” he begged. “Please.”

He seemed so sad and sincere that she relented, keeping one hand on her hip and motioning with the other that he should continue.

“The whole thing with Genevieve was a mistake.”

She half sputtered, half laughed. “You don't say.”

“We're getting an annulment,” he said. “It'll be like the whole thing never happened.” He cleared his throat and moved closer. “I could never love her the way I love you.”

She stormed to the far side of the porch, yelling over her shoulder. “But it
did
happen, Colin. And you don't love me. If you did, you wouldn't pick a fight and then marry someone you just met. Who does that?”

He hurried after her. “
You
married someone you just met.”

“Only because you did it first!”

“Okay, so we both did.” He sounded relieved. “We're even.”

“We are not even, Colin. Not even close.” She kept walking toward the soothing lull of the tide on the other side of the wraparound deck. “But it doesn't matter. We're both married to other people and that's the end of our story.”

“It doesn't have to end.”

“Yes, it does.” She reached the porch railing overlooking the beach. “I never want to see you again.”

He trailed up behind her. She crossed her arms and fumed.

“I still love you, Brighton. I always will.” He dropped to his knees and grabbed the lace-trimmed hem of her gown.

“Oof.” She had to steady herself with both hands on the porch railing.

“I panicked.” He let go of her hem and seized her calves. “It was such a relief to find someone who didn't expect anything from me.”

She tried to shake him off. “Don't touch me.”

“Wait. Please listen,” he begged. “I know there's no excuse for what I did, but . . .” He tightened his grip on her legs. “I've spent years trying to be the guy you think I am. The guy who can make decisions, get it all done. But I'm not. You don't know who I really am.”

Brighton could see the headlights of Jake's truck through the
walls of windows. “Yeah, there's a lot of that going around lately.” Her fiery rage tempered down to melancholy regret. “It's over, Colin. You made the decision for both of us.” She managed to free herself and charged back to the other side of the house.

He caught her wrist as she rounded the corner. “You owe me ten minutes.”

“I don't owe you anything.” She had to laugh at his nerve. “How did you even find me?”

“I drove to town this afternoon and asked around. Everyone I talked to knew exactly who you were and who you were with.”

Brighton had to smile. “Of course they did. But how did you get through the gate?”

“Some high schooler told me the code for twenty bucks.” Colin seized her arm. “Those pictures you texted me, of the plane and the limo and that guy . . .”

“That guy has a name,” she informed him. “It's Jake Sorensen. He's a self-made watch enthusiast who enjoys cooking, nature documentaries, and orange Gatorade.”

“You'll never know how much it hurt to see those photos.” Colin's voice cracked with emotion. “You looked so . . . You looked like a different person.”

“I'm the same person I've always been,” she said. “You're the one who's been pretending, apparently.”

“No, you're different. I can see it. I can feel it.” His hand slipped up her arm to her elbow. “I like it.”

She completed her lap around the porch, dragging him along behind her. “It is taking every ounce of self-control I have right now not to punch you in the face. But I won't, because then I could be arrested and prosecuted for assault and battery.” She paused, considering. “Although perhaps I could invoke the ‘fighting words doctrine,' under which assault is excused because the perpetrator said something to which a reasonable person would be unable to restrain
themselves from responding violently. Want to know how I know all that? From helping you study for the
fucking bar exam
.”

He took his hands off her and went back to looking chagrined. “I'm truly sorry, Brighton. Please believe me. Please give me another chance.”

“I do believe you. But I'm not giving you another chance.” When she turned toward him, he turned away. “What did you expect me to do? Really? When you called me up and told me you married somebody else, what did you expect my response to be?”

“I don't know.” He glanced around, taking in the mansion, the ocean, the international man of mystery who had gotten out of the pickup truck and was now watching the proceedings from the driveway. “Not this.”

Brighton looked at Jake, hoping he wouldn't intervene. She wanted to have this conversation on her own terms. She'd imagined this scenario countless times over the past seven days—down to the kneeling and begging on Colin's part—but now that it was actually happening, she couldn't muster even the smallest modicum of vengeful glee. No swell of triumph. No urge to say, “I told you so.”

Just an overwhelming sense of loss and futility. She and Colin had tried so hard. They had shared everything, but they had nothing left. He was a stranger to her now.

“You're the love of my life.” Colin reached out for her. “I thought I was the love of yours.”

Brighton pulled back from him as a horrifying realization struck. “Not anymore.”

•   •   •

“I'm
in love
with him.” Brighton threw her bag down on the leather love seat in Kira's office. “Or, at least, my hormones think I am. It's all unicorns and flowers and sparkly pink hearts in here.” She put her hand on her chest. “I can't believe this. How could I be so
stupid
?”

She had texted her old friend early that morning, hoping she might hear back by lunchtime. Instead, Kira had responded immediately, suggesting that they meet at her therapy practice before her morning sessions.

“Have a seat.” Kira gestured to the chairs and sofa arranged in a semicircle. Despite the early hour on a Saturday, she looked polished and professional in a blue blouse, a gray and blue patterned skirt, and a pair of blue-framed glasses. “Have some coffee.”

“I can't.” Brighton compromised on the whole “have a seat” thing by half sitting on the armrest of the couch. “I have to be at the Naked Finger by nine.”

“Girl, you're a wreck. You need coffee.” Kira handed her insulated travel mug to Brighton. “Here, have mine. I insist. I'll brew more.”

Brighton accepted the mug and sipped. Kira glanced at the digital clock on the side table. “Let's cut to the chase. How did it feel? Seeing Colin?”

“I was eerily calm,” Brighton recalled. “It was like I was a soap opera character. I felt absolutely nothing for him.”

“Uh-huh.” Kira looked skeptical.

“What?” Brighton demanded.

“How long were you two together?”

“A while.”

“Define ‘a while.'”

“Like two years.” Brighton flipped the spout of the thermos up
and down. “Why? Are you saying it's
not
normal to feel indifferent about a guy I dated, slept with, and planned to marry?”

“Normal is a dryer setting.” Kira grinned. “There's a little therapist saying for you.”

“Ugh, get out of here with that. And get out of here with Colin, too. I honestly couldn't care less.” She passed the thermos to Kira, who took a sip and passed it back. “I'm here to talk to you about Jake.”

Kira settled back in her chair and waited.

Brighton hopped off the sofa and started pacing. “Okay. So. For a fraction of a second last night, I really and truly believed I was in love with him. Which is impossible for many reasons, not the least of which is I don't know anything about him except he's rich, good-looking, and great in bed.”

“The trifecta.” Kira smiled.

“And you were no help with your two-second snap judgment. What happened to leading questions and objective assessment?”

Kira shrugged. “What can I say? The man has charisma.”

Brighton clutched the thermos with both hands. “This is crazy. I'm not in love. What I am is a hopped-up junkie, and he is my drug of choice.”

“The first step is admitting you have a problem,” Kira deadpanned.

“What's going to happen when my two weeks are up? I'm going to have to deal with massive withdrawal.”

“And your feelings about Colin,” Kira added.

“I just told you, I don't have any feelings about Colin.” Brighton flicked her hand in dismissal. “Because I medicated them away with dopamine, courtesy of Jake.”

“You said it; I didn't.”

“Except, here's the thing. I understand the reality here, with
the dopamine and the limerence and all that, on an intellectual level. But . . .”

Kira waited for her to go on.

“But it doesn't
feel
like dopamine. It feels like actual emotion. Like I actually care about him.” Brighton smote her own forehead. “And he doesn't care about me at all. The man gives zero damns. How could I let this happen?”

“Hey. Be gentle with yourself,” Kira said. “I met him for two seconds, and I got a little dopamine surge myself.”

“I'm such an idiot. We all know how this is going to end. I'm not the magical catalyst that's going to transform him from man-whore to good-husband material.” She collapsed back onto the sofa. “Real life doesn't work like that.”

“Maybe not, but there must be something special about you,” Kira said. “He's never married anyone else.”

“People keep saying that.” Brighton put down the coffee and twisted her hands together. “But I think I was just in the right place at the right time. I don't think it's about me at all. It's about him.”

“Getting married is a pretty drastic move. Why now?”

“I'm still trying to piece that together.” Brighton glanced around the office. “Do you have any chocolate in here?”

“You know I always keep a secret stash.” Kira pulled a Kit Kat out of her desk drawer. “Here. Slow down. Breathe. Let's not go down the rabbit hole of gloom and despair just yet.”

“Too late.” Brighton shoved a piece of crispy chocolate-coated wafer into her mouth as she thought about the reactions she'd gotten last night at the gala. “God's gift to women has a hidden agenda. Guaranteed.”

B
righton thought she knew what to expect on her first day working solo at the Naked Finger: weepy ex-girlfriends, jaded ex-wives, shell-shocked
Maxim
models who had traveled all the way from New Hampshire to get some fresh perspective and a piece of Jake Sorensen.

But the first customers to stroll into the store were a man and a woman, holding hands and openly groping each other. Despite the PDA, no one would mistake them for soul mates. The woman was a taut, tanned, fading beauty in her forties, and the guy was . . . well, he had to be at least seventy-five.
At least.
She was wearing a short black skirt, a ruffly white halter top, and lipstick so pink it probably glowed in the dark. He was wearing khaki pants, a khaki jacket, and a gray fisherman's hat that was visibly soiled. She called him Puppy. He referred to her as Dumplin'. Brighton greeted them both and tried to remember Lila's rules for compiling an aesthetic “profile.” She noticed that Dumplin' was rocking high-heeled
mules with interlocked gold Gucci
G
's on the ankle strap, which coordinated with a matching logo'd handbag.

“Are you looking for something special?” she asked, heading straight for the display case containing the high-end designer bling. “We have some lovely Tiffany and Cartier pieces.”

“I want a Rolex,” Dumplin' announced with absolute authority. She reached over and took her companion's hand. “Look, Puppy, they have one in rose gold.”

Her companion shook his head, wheezing so hard the brim of his floppy gray hat fluttered. “No.”

“No?!”
Dumplin's voice got so shrill that Brighton couldn't suppress a wince. “What do you mean, ‘no'?”

Puppy cleared his throat in a loud, phlegmy display of displeasure. “I just bought you that ruby ring last week.”

“That was
two
weeks ago. And I don't have anything nice to wear on my wrists.” Dumplin' held up her bare arms, a martyr in a miniskirt. She batted her eyelashes; she pulled down her halter top. She simpered and smooched her companion while Brighton busied herself with paperwork and pretended to be blind and deaf.

Then, just when it seemed she was out of ammo, Dumplin' slapped Puppy on the shoulder and pointed toward the door. “Give me your credit card and go take a nap.”

Without a word of protest he handed over his wallet and shuffled toward the door, pausing only to cough up another bit of phlegm on the way.

“Thanks, babe. Meet you back at the hotel!” Dumplin' turned to Brighton with an air of brisk efficiency. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the rose gold Rolex. What's the diameter of the face?”

“Thirty-seven millimeters.” Brighton unlocked the case and took out the watch. “This is a lovely piece, probably from the midnineties. The dial and the casing are both original and in excellent shape.”

“It's nice, but it needs more sparkle.” Dumplin' draped the watch over her wrist and studied the effect. “Can you put little diamonds all around the face?”

“Of course,” Brighton said. “It'll take a few days, but we can do that.” She inventoried the contents of the safe and sketched a few different design options. After the client selected her favorite, they discussed the precise quality and placement of the diamonds.

“Great. We'll be in town until Friday.” Dumplin' pressed the credit card into her hand. “I'll give you my number. Just call me when it's ready.”

“Okay.” Brighton hesitated before processing the credit card. “Should we maybe call your, uh . . .”

“Friend,” Dumplin' supplied.

“Maybe we should call your friend and make sure he's cool with your spending twenty-three thousand dollars.”

“He's fine with it.” Dumplin' scribbled her phone number on a gum wrapper, checked her cleavage and her teeth in the mirror next to the cash register, and strutted back out to the sidewalk.

Just as Dumplin' walked out, a clean-cut, middle-aged man walked in. With his sandy-colored hair, glasses, neatly pressed shirt, and very visible wedding ring, he looked like the type of guy who would help make dinner and attend every parent-teacher conference.

“I'm looking for a gift.” He smiled, which only added to the J.Crew Dad effect. “For my wife.”

“You've come to the right place.” Brighton returned the smile. “Tell me about your wife. What does she do for work? What type of jewelry does she normally wear?”

“I already know what I want.” The guy pulled out his smartphone and consulted his notes. “Diamond stud earrings, no less than half a carat each, I color or better.”

“Well, that does narrow it down.” Brighton led him to the
earring display, which featured several pairs of well-matched studs. She displayed each pair, extolling their beauty. She didn't mention that almost all of the diamonds had been the center stones of engagement rings in a previous life. Some people got superstitious about the whole bad-karma thing. Which Brighton had never understood—even the most extravagant ring was nothing more than rock, metal, and clever advertising. The raw materials meant nothing without sentiment. Monetary value could never trump the emotional value of a gift selected with care and consideration.

And that's why I don't have a wedding ring.

“So, what do you think?” She glanced up when she finished her spiel, trying to determine whether he wanted to make the final selection himself or would prefer to delegate to her.

“Those are nice.” He pointed out a pair of sparkling studs. Then he nodded at another set featuring brilliant blue sapphires. “But those are nice, too.”

Brighton pulled out the second pair. “These are amazing. Three carats total weight. And look at the cut.” She encouraged him to hold them up to the overhead light. “Phenomenal.”

He paused for a moment, then shrugged. “What the hell—I'll take them both. Wrap them up.”

“Lucky lady.” Brighton accepted his credit card and boxed up the earrings in velvet cases with bows.

As she tucked the receipt in the bag and sent him on his way, she experienced a pang of jealousy for a woman she'd never even met. She wanted what her customer's wife would have when she opened the jewelry box: the feeling that she was cherished. The knowledge that the man she loved had been thinking of her and planning ahead.

She snapped to attention as the phone rang and answered with brisk professionalism: “Naked Finger. This is Brighton.”

“Do you make deliveries?” asked a suave male voice. “I need the nicest diamond necklace you have.”

•   •   •

“It was testosterone day at the jewelry store,” Brighton told Jake as they shared a glass of red wine in Don't Be Koi's huge, airy kitchen. “Steady parade of guys from open to close.”

“Did you move a lot of product?”

“Yeah, including a twenty-three-thousand-dollar Rolex that I'm customizing with pavé diamonds.”

“Nice. I hope Lila's paying you commission.”

“Oh, I don't care about the commission.” Brighton froze, her wooden spoon midway to the pot simmering on the stove. “Did I just say those words? What's happening to me?”

“It's part of the screw-up summer,” Jake said. “Go with it.”

“I don't even know who I am anymore.” She put down the spoon, reeling. “Eight days in a mansion with housekeepers, groundskeepers, and an endless supply of twelve-dollar strawberries, and I'm ruined.”

“The term is ‘spoiled.'”

“Even worse.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “That makes me sound like a kept woman.”

He laughed. “No one would ever accuse you of being a kept woman.”

She went from horrified to defensive in a split second. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you're not trophy wife material.” Before she could respond, he added, “That's a compliment.”

“And yet somehow, I'm not feeling very complimented. I mean, I get that our society wants me to spend all my time and money trying to look perfect, but you know what? I have shit to do.
Sometimes finishing a report comes before touching up my pedicure. I apologize for nothing.”

“For the record, you're beautiful.” He picked up the spoon she'd put down and resumed cooking. “And I like a woman who can get shit done.”

“Is that why you married me?” She held her breath, watching his expression.

“In part.”

She folded her arms. “I'm waiting for the other part.”

A clatter in the front hallway shattered the tense silence. Brighton and Jake rushed to the doorway to see Dylan speeding along the custom hardwood floor on a filthy skateboard. When he reached the end of the corridor, he used an upended antique side table as a makeshift ramp.

Brighton glanced up at Jake, who looked more upset than she'd ever seen him. She touched his arm and opened her mouth to tell him to go easy on the young boy.

“Put on a helmet!” Jake yelled, returning to the stove. “Concussions are serious business.”

The clattering stopped and Brighton heard the pounding of sneakers against wood as Dylan raced for the garage. Two minutes later, the skateboarding resumed.

“If I've told that kid once, I've told him a thousand times,” Jake muttered as he sprinkled sea salt into the sauce.

“But what about the coffee table?” Brighton flinched as she heard breaking glass.

Jake shrugged. “What about it?”

She tilted her head. “I'm guessing it was expensive.”

“Everything in this house is expensive. But that hall is perfect for skateboarding. I can always refinish the floors.”

Brighton gave him a long assessing look. “You've done it, haven't you? You've gone skateboarding in the hall.”

“If I did, I wore a helmet.” He winked at her. “You want to borrow my board later?”

“I kind of do,” she confessed.

“It's a date,” he said. “We'll do it after dinner when it gets dark, with mood lighting and the audio system turned all the way up.”

She shook her head. “Can't. I'm booked after dinner. Which reminds me, where's the Gull's Point country club?”

“Out by the preserve on the other side of town,” Jake said. “I'll have to look up the exact address.”

“Really? I thought you'd be all over the country club scene.”

“I hate golfing.” He grimaced. “What do you have to do over there?”

“I told one of the guys who called today that I'd meet him at the country club restaurant to surprise his wife with a necklace.” She glanced at the clock. “I should probably start getting ready. What should I even wear for something like that?”

Jake gave her a look. “A flak jacket.”

“What? Why? It's a romantic dinner. A special occasion.”

He leaned back against the counter. “You said he called? Meaning he didn't pick the necklace out himself?”

“Well, no.” Brighton tried to recall the conversation. “Maybe he knows he has bad taste in jewelry and opted to leave the selection process to a professional. Maybe he's a man who knows his limits.”

“So he dialed a phone and threw some money at the problem?”

She frowned. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds so . . .”

“That necklace is a guilt gift,” Jake proclaimed. “He's trying to placate his wife with dinner and jewelry.”

“You know,” Brighton mused, “that thought did cross my mind. But I was hoping that I was just a bitter cynic.”

Jake turned off the stove burner with a definitive click. “Let me ask you one question: Did the guy negotiate?”

Brighton nibbled her lip. “Well . . .”

“He didn't, did he? He asked for a necklace, you named your price, and he rolled over.”

“Yeah,” she had to admit. “How did you know?”

“I told you, I know how this works. One of these days, you'll start to believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you.” Brighton grabbed the spare paring knife and started hacking away at a carrot with great vigor. “How many diamond guilt gifts have you given away in your time?”

“Zero.” He looked offended at the question. “I don't get myself into those situations. If the guy is at the point where he needs a fancy dinner and an emergency call to a jeweler, he seriously screwed up his strategy somewhere along the way.”

Brighton abandoned all pretense of cooking. “What exactly are you saying? Are you saying he shouldn't have cheated on his wife or he shouldn't have gotten caught? Or are you saying he never should have gotten into a real relationship at all?”

“Why are you mad at me?” Jake looked genuinely puzzled. “I didn't do anything. I'm not involved in any way.”

That's why I'm mad.
“I'm not mad at you,” Brighton lied. “I'm mad at that guy for being a tool; I'm mad at myself for selling him the guilt gift like a sucker. I'm just mad.”