Put a Ring On It (16 page)

“You're not a sucker; you're a good businessperson.” Jake took the knife away and pulled her into his arms. “This is no different than the guy who needed the replacement ring on short notice.”

“Ah, yes. Another example of screwed-up male strategy.”

“That's your customer base,” he informed her. “Accept it. Work with it. Maximize it.”

Brighton rested her head against his shoulder. “Lila opened this shop as a safe haven for wronged women, not one-stop shopping for wayward husbands.”

“You can't give every potential client a screening questionnaire and then sit in judgment. That's bad business. Not to mention illegal.” He pulled his T-shirt over his head. “Come on, I'll go with you. Give me five minutes to shower and shave. We'll complete our mission at the country club and then go buy you a skateboard.”

She kind of stopped listening when he took off his shirt. But his mouth was still moving and she managed to tune back in just as he finished up with, “It'll be fun.”

“I don't know. The guy didn't say I could bring any witnesses along.”

“He didn't say you couldn't. Go wrap the guilt gift,” he ordered. “Leave everything else to me. I'll show you a good time.”

“You always do.” And there it was again: a little rush of limerence that felt a lot like love.

“Y
ou were definitely right about the guilt gift,” Brighton said as she and Jake hurried out of the country club restaurant. “That woman is
pissed
. Slightly less so since you gave her the Jake Sorensen routine, but still pissed.”

“You sound sad.” He placed his hand on her back.

“I am. It feels disgusting to be bailing out cheaters.”

“Don't worry, you didn't bail that guy out,” Jake said. “You saw the look on his wife's face. He's not talking his way out of anything.” He held the door for her as they headed out to the parking lot filled with late-model European cars and one gray Ford pickup. “And I'm sure that you sell plenty of things to couples who are hopelessly in love.”

“That's true.” She recounted the story of the man who had bought the two pairs of earrings.

Jake listened, looking as though he were fighting back a smirk.

“What?” Brighton demanded. “What now?”

“Nothing.”

“Just say whatever it is you have to say.”

“I don't want to ruin your romantic illusions.”

“I don't have romantic illusions.” Brighton bristled at the mere suggestion. “I'm practical to a fault, remember?”

“You say that, but I'm not seeing a lot of evidence.”

She “accidentally” elbowed him as they walked through the parking lot.

Jake responded by slinging one arm around her shoulder and stealing a kiss. He held the passenger-side door for her and said, “I'd bet half my business holdings that one pair is for his wife and the other for his girlfriend.”

She gasped. “You're crazy. And/or high. And/or just mean.”

“As long as I'm being mean, I bet he's giving the more expensive pair to the girlfriend.”

“What is wrong with you?” Brighton reached across the front seat and swatted his shoulder as he got into the driver's seat. “Why is it so hard to believe that a husband could want to give two pairs of earrings to his wife? Just because
you
can't imagine loving a woman enough to make that kind of grand gesture—”

“You're making my point for me.” He started the truck. “If the guy loved his wife enough to be faithful and show up every day, he wouldn't need to make these grand gestures.”

Brighton considered this. “Hmm.”

“Verdict:
I'm
a better husband than that guy, and I'm not even a real husband.” He nodded at her. “Believe it.”

She half laughed, half sighed. “If only I could.”

•   •   •

Brighton woke up the next morning at nine a.m. She hadn't slept this late in years, but skateboarding had proved to be a very challenging cardio workout. Her leg muscles ached, her knees were
bruised, and her lips were swollen from all the post-wipeout kissing. As she looked around the huge bedroom suite with floor-to-ceiling views of the Atlantic and empty Gatorade bottles strewn across the rug, she realized that she could be content living like this forever. Doing her dream job. Sleeping in. Skateboarding at midnight with the lost Hemsworth brother.

Speaking of which, where was he? Every night she drifted off to sleep curled up next to Jake, and every morning she woke up alone. She was never sure when he left or where he went, but she didn't want to ask him. That would be too needy, too relationship-y.

So she didn't ask. But she did wonder.

She hurried to shower and dress, then went downstairs to find that the huge house was empty—and the hardwood floor was marred with black streaks from the skateboard wheels. As she crouched down to inspect the damage, she heard Jake's voice from the porch.

Then she heard a deep, booming bark.

She opened the side door to find Jake, his dark hark still tousled from last night, placing a stainless steel dish on the weathered wooden boards of the deck. A gigantic brown dog with short floppy ears wolfed down the kibble—well, “dog” was an understatement, really. This beast appeared to be part mastiff, part pony.

When Brighton stepped onto the porch, Jake straightened up with a stricken expression, as if he'd been caught doing something truly nefarious.

“Who's this?” Brighton approached the dog, who stared up at Jake with soulful golden eyes, clearly hoping for seconds. “I didn't know you had a dog.”

“I don't.” Jake sounded a touch defensive. “He's a stray.”

Brighton noticed a clean black nylon collar around the dog's neck. “Uh-huh.”

“He made friends with the construction crew when we started
building the houses here. They left, he hung around, I let him.” Jake couldn't look her in the eye. “That's it.”

“So he lives here. Which makes him your dog.”

“He's
a
dog, but he's not
my
dog.” Jake attempted to distract her with the Sorensen Smolder, but she would not be distracted.

She glimpsed a huge sack of dog chow in the storage bench next to the door. “And yet you have dog food and designated dishes.”

“You can't prove that's for him.”

“And you let him sit on your foot.”

Jake glanced down at the drooling brown behemoth who beseeched him with the eyes of a starving orphan. “How could I stop him?”

Brighton grinned. “Admit it: He's totally your dog.”

“He is not my dog; he's a squatter with four legs and fur. That happens to live in my guesthouse.”

“Classic denial.” Brighton sighed. “Tragic but common in these situations. Look at the two of you together; you have something really special.”

The Sorensen Smolder started to sputter out. “I don't even live here most of the time. I'm in New York, D.C., Mexico, Saudi Arabia. My lifestyle is not conducive to pet ownership.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I swear to you, we barely know each other.” He tried to nudge the colossal canine off his feet. The dog didn't budge. A speck of drool fell from his muzzle onto Jake's bare foot. “There's no license, no paperwork in place. We just hang out here sometimes. It's casual.”

“So you never take him anywhere with you?” Brighton went into prosecutor mode.
Thanks, bar exam study guides.
“You leave him for months at a time and hope Christina and Dylan remember to feed him?”

“I don't have to answer these questions. I have the right to an attorney.”

Brighton laughed. “I think it's sweet. Remember that documentary you were watching? It's like you have your own radioactive wolf. Look at his head! It's like an anvil.” Disarmed by the floppy ears and mournful eyes, Brighton reached over to pet the dog. “Hey, buddy. Where have you been hiding all this time?”

“It's possible I took him to work with me,” Jake muttered. “Once or twice.”

“Who's a good puppy? You're a good puppy.” Brighton baby-talked to the giant beast, heedless of the drool and the shedding.

Jake watched them for a minute. “Remember when you asked me to tell you something I'd never told any other woman?”

“Mm-hmm. I also remember you deflecting that question and seducing me into silence.”

“You're the only woman who's met Rorschach.”

Brighton frowned. “Rorschach?”

Jake pointed out a black patch of fur on the dog's haunches. “Looks like an inkblot.”

“You
named
him? Oh, come on. You one hundred percent have a dog,” she concluded. To the dog, she crooned, “You're too sweet and cuddly for a name like that. I'll call you Rory for short.”

The dog thumped his tail against the porch, then got up, moved from Jake to Brighton, and sat back down on her feet.

“He likes you,” Jake said.

“Of course he does. Because I don't call him a squatter and make him live in the guesthouse.” Brighton scratched Rory behind
the ears. “But don't get too attached, buddy. I'll only be here for a little while.”

Rory started panting, his tongue lolling out of the side of his cavernous maw.

Brighton glanced up at Jake. “Should we talk about that, by the way? My inevitable departure date.”

“Nope.” He strode across the porch and opened the door. “Let's go have breakfast.”

“We need to start getting things in place for when I leave.” She hated the sound of her own voice—so chilly and impersonal. “Paperwork, divorce decree, all that stuff.”

He lifted his chin, indicating she should proceed through the door. “Sounds fun.”

“Divorce isn't supposed to be fun. But we still have to deal with it.” She walked inside, then stopped. “Wait.” She glanced back toward the porch. “What about Rory?”

“Rorschach,” he corrected. “He won't come in. He only likes the guesthouse.” Jake called to the dog, who responded by walking in the other direction. Seconds later, Brighton heard splashing as Rory took a drink from the koi pond.

Something clicked into place in her brain. “Is that where you've been going at the crack of dawn every morning? The guesthouse?”

“Look at this place.” He gestured to the soaring ceilings, the ocean vista, the handcrafted textiles and furnishings. “Why would I hang out in the guesthouse when I have all of this?”

“Because you consider this a glorified skate park.” Brighton gave him a little kiss on his cheek. “And because you love your dog. Don't worry—your secret's safe with me.”

“For the last time, he's not my dog.” Jake rested his forehead against hers. “Don't file for divorce just yet. Stay a few more weeks.”

She inhaled, buzzed on the blended scent of laundry detergent, sea salt, and pheromones. After another kiss, she had no interest in
filing for divorce or doing anything else that didn't involve taking off his pants.

“Stay,” he urged.

“I can't.”

He backed her up against the wall. When she reached for him, he caught her wrists and pinned her arms above her head. He kissed her again, tender and unhurried. “Stay.”

“For a little while,” she relented, closing her eyes.

He brushed his lips across her eyelids, his voice like a caress. “Forever.”

“S
o, how was the weekend?” Lila returned to the Naked Finger on Monday morning wearing a wine-colored leather blazer adorned with silver studs.

“Very productive.” Brighton sat down with her sketch pad and an old pair of chunky turquoise earrings that badly needed updating. “I love that jacket.”

“Thanks. My mom picked it out for me in Paris.”

“Cool mom.”

“Yeah, she's much cooler than me. She's pretty much cooler than everyone in Black Dog Bay, which is why she ran off to Paris.” Lila smiled. “Speaking of which, how did everything go with the gown she sent you? Were you the belle of the ball?”

“Mm-hmm.” Brighton nodded and kept her head down.

“I'm waiting for details,” Lila prompted.

“Let's just say that there's never a dull moment when you're married to Jake Sorensen.” Brighton handed her preliminary sketch
to Lila. “What do you think of this type of setting for the turquoise? In yellow gold?”

“You're so good at this.” Lila looked at the drawing. “Admit it: This is your calling.”

Brighton thought of her mother. “I don't have a ‘calling.' Which is why I don't have bill collectors calling.”

“Ice-cold,” Lila accused.

“But financially solvent,” Brighton finished. “The only reason I can hang out here wasting the rest of the month is the fact that I can afford to pay my mortgage even if I take a few weeks off from my soulless corporate job.”

“Oh, so now you're staying through the end of the month?”

“Um. It's possible.”

“I had a feeling Jake would persuade you. He's hard to say no to.” Lila ended this statement on upward inflection, inviting Brighton to provide details.

“Yes, he is. And he . . .” Brighton smiled as she thought about Rorschach. “He has sides to him that I didn't expect.”

While Lila waited for Brighton to divulge more details, she thumbed through the handwritten receipts. “Wow, you sold the rose gold Rolex?” She kept reading, her eyes widening. “And the diamond rivière necklace?
And
that pair of diamond studs?”

“Don't forget the sapphire studs. They basically sold themselves. All I did was nod and take the money. You know what I've learned after one week in the jewelry business?”

Lila was still poring over the receipts. “What?”

“People are weird. Relationships are weird. And that guy who quote-unquote ‘lost' his wedding band and wanted a replacement made on the sly?”

“Yeah?”

“Tip of the iceberg.” Brighton flipped to a new page of her sketch pad and started doodling. “People do horrible things to their
partners all the time, apparently. People are cheaters and liars and gold diggers.”

“
Some
people,” Lila corrected. “Not all.”

As if on cue, a starry-eyed couple walked in, no older than twenty-two and all over each other.

“Hi.” Lila smiled. “May I help you?”

“We're looking for an engagement ring,” the young man proclaimed. “The best diamond you have.”

“The best diamond under five hundred dollars,” the young woman stipulated. “We're kind of on a budget.”

“Eight hundred,” the man countered. “You can upgrade later. As soon as I start making real money.”

“Baby, this is the ring you proposed with. I'm never going to change it.”

Brighton and Lila absolutely melted, exchanging a flurry of glances as they led the lovebirds over to the ring display.

“They're like the cutest kitten video on all of YouTube,” Lila whispered to Brighton. To the clients, she said, “What kind of design were you thinking about? We have lots of different settings and stones.”

“I'd be happy to custom design something for you,” Brighton offered, even though there was no way an eight-hundred-dollar budget would cover those services. She kept forgetting that she got paid to do this—for now, anyway.

“I don't need anything fancy.” The young woman, clad in a threadbare concert T-shirt and jeans, gazed down at the sparkling diamonds. “A simple gold band is fine.”

“No way.” Her scruffy-haired suitor shook his head and addressed Lila directly. “She needs a diamond.”

Lila and Brighton offered up several options, and the young woman selected a thin white gold band featuring a tiny embedded diamond—more of a chip than a stone.

“Perfect fit.” She held up her hand. The diamond glinted under the bright overhead lights. “Like it was made for me.”

“It's beautiful on you,” Brighton said, and she meant it. The young woman's style was minimalist and casual, and the ring complemented her slim hand.

The woman turned to her fiancé, her eyes sparkling like the diamond on her hand. “I love you so much, baby.”

“I love you more.” He kissed her on the lips.

“No, I love you more.”

This escalated into a full PDA situation, during which Lila and Brighton discreetly excused themselves to the other side of the showroom.

“Aw, that's sweet.” Lila looked away as the guy picked up his bride-to-be and sat her on the glass counter. “We have Windex in the back, right?”

“Full bottle,” Brighton confirmed. When the couple came up for air, she cleared her throat and suggested, “Would you like me to engrave something on the inside of the ring?”

“Like what?”

“Whatever you want. You're the only ones who'll know it's there.”

The guy looked at the girl. “‘At first sight.'”

Lila, Brighton, and the bride-to-be all
aww
ed in unison, which sparked another intense make-out session, during which Lila and Brighton discussed lunch plans and the latest fashion trends coming out of Paris and New York. As the topic turned to TV series worthy of binge watching, the happy couple finally disentangled
themselves, straightened their shirts, and handed over a wad of crumpled fifty-dollar bills.

“We'll come back later for the engraving,” the young woman said. “I want to wear this right now.” Another passionate kiss. “I'm going to wear it when I sleep, when I shower, at the gym . . .”

“You can bring it in anytime for a cleaning,” Lila offered. “We have a special machine.”

“It's real now.” The woman splayed out her fingers, admiring her bejeweled hand. “It's really real.”

“We're official,” her intended agreed. They strolled back out to the sidewalk, their hands in each other's back pockets.

“There you go.” Lila closed the door with a flourish. “The living, breathing cure for cynicism.”

Brighton peered out the window, watching the couple walk toward the beach. “The two of them against the world.” She sighed. “I hope she's still wearing that ring at their fiftieth anniversary.”

Maybe it wasn't so crazy to believe in love at first sight. Maybe passion really could prevail over practicality. Maybe she should leave work early, track down her husband, and take a few laps around the hallways on the skateboard.

And that's just what she did.

When she pulled her safety-conscious white Subaru into the driveway, she noticed a sleek silver roadster parked in her usual spot. At first she assumed it was Jake's—he probably had a different car in each bay of the garage next to the house. Then she noticed someone standing on the porch and realized they had company.

For a moment, she feared Colin had returned for another round of begging, pleading, and hem hugging. But no—this visitor was petite. A gorgeous, fine-boned blonde turned as Brighton bounded up the porch steps.

“Hi.” Brighton stopped at the top step and waited for the
woman to introduce herself. There was something familiar about her, but Brighton couldn't quite place her.

“Hello, Brighton.” The woman looked her over for a moment, registered the conservative clothes and sensible footwear, then glanced away.

I've just been dismissed,
Brighton realized. A month ago, she would have let that go. She would have stepped back and made her peace with the fact that some people—especially people who'd been genetically blessed to an almost freakish degree—weren't going to deem her glamorous or beautiful enough to talk to.

But a lot had changed in the last few weeks.

“What can I do for you?” She rested her hand on the railing, making no move to invite the stranger inside.

The blonde's smile was a bit apologetic. “I'm Genevieve.”

Brighton sucked in her breath. “Genevieve?”

“Yes.”

“Colin's Genevieve?”

The woman blinked, obviously confused. “Who's Colin?”

Brighton pushed her hair back, more confused than ever. “Um . . .”

“I'm Jake's Genevieve. Would you kindly let him know I'm here?”