Put a Ring On It (7 page)

“U
rgh.” Brighton woke up a few hours later, completely disoriented. Her mouth—her entire head, really—tasted like vinegar. She heard the rustle of a fast-food wrapper when she shifted her feet. Her wool blazer smelled faintly of cigarettes and her skirt was bunched up around her thighs.

But she was covered in a soft, featherweight cashmere blanket. Her head rested on a fluffy pillow. She was stretched out in all her hungover glory on the leather seats of Jake Sorensen's private jet.

She was . . . married?

She lifted her head and propped herself up on her elbows, blinking as the plane's interior came into focus through the dim lighting. Jake was slouched on the other side of the cabin, gazing down at the screen of a laptop computer.

She licked her lips and cleared her throat, but her voice still sounded like she'd been singing karaoke at the top of her lungs all night. “Hey.”

“You're awake.” He pointed out a bottle of water on the table next to her. “Hydrate.”

“I feel like . . .” She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I'd say I haven't felt this hungover since college, but I've never felt this hungover, ever.” She paused to gulp some of the cool, fresh water. “Did we . . . did we go through with it?”

“We did.” He closed the laptop and gave her his full attention, but the sensual smolder had been replaced with an almost detached friendliness. Something had happened between pulling up to the drive-through chapel and now; they were no longer boozy partners in crime. Now they were two adults who had just met.

Who happened to be married.

“Did we kiss?” she asked.

He furrowed his brow. “I think so. Right after I introduced the officiant to Benjamin Franklin and right before you passed out.”

She covered her lips with her hand. “How was it?”

“Brief. Official. Wine-flavored.”

She tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “How are you still awake?”

He shrugged. “I'm supposed to be looking over some work documents.”

“You're working.” The reality of everything they'd done slammed into her. “It's our wedding night and you're working? That's not very indolent of you.”

“I'm
supposed
to be looking over some documents,” he clarified. “I'm actually watching a documentary on giant radioactive wolves.”

Brighton scrambled into a sitting position. “Like, science fiction?”

“No, they're real. It's about what happened to the wildlife at the abandoned Chernobyl site.”

“Is that . . . related to your job?”

“Not even remotely.”

“Okay.” She blinked a few times. “You like nature documentaries?”

“I do when they're about radioactive wolves.” He lifted the shade so she could see the golden morning sunlight. “We won't be landing for another hour. You can go back to sleep, if you want.”

“What kind of work do you do that you can afford all this?” she rasped. “Private jets and teams of people to do your bidding wherever you go?”

He didn't reply. She could hear the steady drone of the engines and the hiss of air from the overhead vents.

Just when she started to wonder if she'd inadvertently offended him, he asked, “Do you like to talk about your job when you're hanging out at bars or flying to Vegas?”

“No,” Brighton admitted. “But that's because my work is really boring.”

He nodded. “My work is really boring, too.”

“Boring and completely legal . . . right?” She laced her hands together and squeezed.

“Completely,” he assured her.

“It better be. Because, so help me, if I find out later that you're some sort of drug dealer or Mafia kingpin, I'm going to be pissed.”

“If I were into drugs or organized crime, I wouldn't be spending my summers in Black Dog Bay.” The warmth had returned to his voice and his eyes. “Everybody knows everything about everybody else, and they all talk.”

“Good. I just want to make sure you don't have a criminal past. Or a criminal present, for that matter.”

He mirrored her solemn expression. “If it makes you feel better, a wife cannot be forced to testify against her husband. So if I
were
a criminal, marrying me is actually reducing your odds of getting caught up in all the legal proceedings.”

Her eyes widened and her palms started to sweat. “The fact that you know that does not make me feel better.”

“Relax. I'm just torturing you.”

“Well, knock it off and reassure me that cocaine and arms trafficking didn't pay for this plane.”

He finally relented. “Sand paid for this plane.”

“What?”

“Sand, concrete, and gravel.”

“Elaborate, please.”

“I started out supplying concrete for construction contracts.” He looked and sounded completely bored with this topic of conversation. “That's how I made my first million.”

“First million's the hardest, right?” Brighton paused. “Or so I've heard.”

“Then I branched into gravel, and now I supply sand for corporate and military contracting jobs in the Middle East. The end.”

“You send sand to the Middle East. Like, the desert?”

Jake nodded. “The sand over there is too fine for sandblasting concrete. We use a proprietary processing method and ship it over.”

“You built this”—she gestured to the cashmere and the polished walnut panels and the leather upholstery—“out of sand and gravel. That's kind of . . .”

“Redneck. I know.”

Where had that come from? “‘Redneck' is not the word I would use to describe you.”

He watched her expression. “Disappointed I'm not part of a seedy underworld syndicate?”

“No,” she said, a bit too quickly.

“What about you?” he countered. “How do I know
you
don't have a criminal past?”

“Seriously?” She glanced down at her outfit. “Look at me.”

“I'm looking. The suit and the pearls could be a façade.”

“They're not.”

“For all I know, you could be an undercover cop or a Russian spy.”

“No.” She sighed. “I am exactly as buttoned-up and responsible as I look.”

“You just flew off to Vegas to marry a stranger.”

“A stranger who
doesn't
have a criminal past or a loan shark after him.” She snuggled back into her cashmere cocoon. “Ooh, so rebellious.”

He laughed and closed the window shade. “Baby steps.”

Just as she was drifting back to sleep, Brighton sat up straight, gasping. “Kira.”

“Who?” Jake asked.

“My friend Kira. I was at the bar with her last night. She has no idea what happened to me.” Brighton scrambled to straighten her skirt and grab her purse. “I need to call her right now. Can I use my cell in flight?”

“Sure.”

Brighton entered her password to unlock her phone, then gasped as she looked at the image on the screen. “Oh no. Oh no no no.”

“What?” Jake moved to sit next to her. He still smelled freshly laundered, with just a hint of woodsy cologne. It was like the laws of physics and hangovers didn't apply to him.

“I texted Colin last night.” She felt light-headed. “After the drive-through. I don't remember any of this, but the time stamp says one a.m. Why didn't someone take away my phone?”

“Because you're a professional woman who's clearly capable of making her own decisions.”

“What have I done?
What have I done?
” Brighton scrolled through the texts she had sent to her ex.

All twenty-eight of them.

Photos of the limo.

Photos of the private jet.

Photos of Brighton and Jake holding up the freshly signed marriage certificate and a bottle of champagne.

“Oh my God,” Brighton whispered. “I sent these to my fiancé. I mean, my
ex
-fiancé.”

Jake started laughing. “When did we get another bottle of champagne?”

And then, as if the pictures weren't bad enough, Brighton noticed the typo – and autocorrect-riddled captions she'd included with each photo:

Floying commercial is so pleb

Look at the smolder on this guy

Not to mention the hair

It's like he's the lost Hemsworth brother

Marrying a Stranger: I WIN!!!!!!

“I'm dying.” She pulled the blanket over her head. “I'm dead. How will I ever go back to New Jersey?”

“You know what the great thing is about marrying me?” Jake said. “You don't have to.”

Brighton yanked the blanket down. “Of course I do. What about my job?”

“Quit,” he suggested. “It's your screw-up summer, remember?”

“Screwing up my summer is one thing, but I don't want to screw up my whole life.”

He gave her an appraising look. “I'm willing to bet you have some vacation days stored up.”

“Um. Maybe.” Three years' worth. Plus sick days. Plus personal days.

“Then take some time off.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know.” But she did know. She was afraid. Afraid that if she took a break, her boss and her coworkers would realize that she wasn't indispensable. And she'd spend her vacation time doing . . . what? Admitting that she had no interests outside of work and helping her boyfriend study contract law?

“Technically, you're on your honeymoon,” Jake said. And then he kissed her. Slow and soft and thorough; confident but unhurried.

When he finally tapered off, she hung on to his jacket with both hands. She wasn't thinking about work or the future or the potential fallout from her ill-advised texts. She wasn't thinking about anything. She could be content up here in the clouds, with cashmere and champagne and the lost Hemsworth brother, for eternity.

“Okay.” She trailed her fingers along his cheek. “I'll take two weeks off.”

Jake pulled her closer and kissed her again. “Get ready for the best two weeks of your life.”

T
hey landed at a tiny private airfield in the bright morning light, and when they got off the plane, Brighton noticed a black Town Car waiting next to a gray Ford pickup truck.

Brighton nodded at the livery vehicle. “Is that your car?”

Jake pulled out a set of keys. “No. The truck's mine.”

“Of course; I should have known.”

“Why's that?”

“Because the Ford F series pickup truck is the most popular vehicle among millionaires nationwide,” Brighton said. “You fit right in with your demographic.”

He smiled but seemed distracted. “I have to go take care of a work thing for a few hours. While I'm dealing with that, the driver will take you anywhere you like. If you want to go take a nap at my house, I'll give you the key.” He reached into his jacket pocket.

Brighton held up her hands and took a step back. “Slow down, buddy, we just met.”

“Tell it to the marriage registrar.” He pressed a cold metal key into her palm. “I'll text you when I get back to Black Dog Bay, and we can figure out where we go from here.”

They looked at each other for a long moment.

“I'm going to need your phone number,” he said.

“Right back at you.” They exchanged contact information and prepared to go their separate ways.

“Last night was fun.” She pushed her windblown hair back from her face. “Thanks for helping me launch my screw-up summer.”

“My pleasure.” He was talking to her but looking at his phone.

“So . . . see you later?”

“High noon. And if you need anything at all . . .”

“Advil,” Brighton blurted out. “Please. I'm begging you.”

“Consider it done.” He gave her a soft, quick kiss on the cheek that left her thoroughly frustrated. But she resisted the urge to fling her arms around him and demand more. Better to consummate the marriage after she'd showered and recovered from her hangover. All in good time.

Time, which she suddenly had in abundance. She could do whatever she wanted for the rest of the weekend. But how could she possibly top the adventure she'd just had?

She pulled out her own phone, preparing to call her sister and mother with the news. But as she scrolled through her contacts, she realized there was no way to explain what had just happened. Yes, she was technically married, but Jake wasn't really her husband. She barely knew him.

Although, as it turned out, she'd barely known Colin, either, and they'd been dating for two years. Maybe trust and love and good decision making had nothing to do with a happy marriage. Maybe it was all just a crapshoot.

If she called her family, she'd have to try to put last night's
events and emotions into words. She'd have to defend her actions and reassure everyone that she was still the same responsible, thoughtful Brighton she'd always been. That she was having a romantic interlude and not a nervous breakdown.

But how could she expect them to buy that when she didn't really buy it herself?

Instead of dialing her mother, she dialed Kira, who picked up with a mixture of annoyance and relief: “Thank God you called. What happened to you last night? Are you okay?”

“I'm okay.” She took a deep breath. “I'm also married.”

Kira gasped.

“Meet me for breakfast and I'll explain everything,” Brighton said. “Is there someplace in town that has good hash browns?”

•   •   •

“I can't believe this.” Kira regarded Brighton with huge eyes across the laminate table at the Jilted Café. “I take one emergency client call and you end up married to the hot guy you wouldn't let me sit near?”

Brighton nodded. “It just sort of happened.”

“Wow.” Kira stirred a packet of sugar into her coffee and turned her attention to the rumpled, wine-stained business wear. “Tell me you didn't wear that to your wedding.”

“Um . . .” Brighton pushed her napkin and silverware to one side as their server approached with hash browns and omelets.

“Oh, Brighton. You couldn't build a few minutes into your elopement schedule to buy a white dress?”

“No schedule. Like I said, it just sort of happened.” Brighton held up her phone. “Check it out. Here we are waiting in line at the drive-through.”

“A drive-through chapel?” Kira's hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, honey, no.”

“It was amazing. Tacky in the very best possible way.” Brighton grinned as she picked up her huge, warm coffee mug and sipped.

“And this is for real?” Kira pressed. “You signed an actual marriage license? You're that guy's legally wedded wife?”

Brighton nodded.

“But . . . but why? I thought you were engaged.”

“I was.” Brighton summarized the debacle with Colin and the magical, marriage-worthy Genevieve. “So you see, I was provoked.”

“Uh-huh.” Kira dug into her breakfast.

“You should see your expression right now.” Brighton couldn't stop laughing. The sleep deprivation was starting to make her punchy. “If I were your client, what would you tell me?”

“You're not my client.” Kira looked heavenward. “Thank God.”

“Fine, but I'm your friend.” Brighton winced as one of the line cooks dropped what sounded like an entire shelf's worth of glassware on the floor. “Don't hold back. Say what you're thinking.”

Kira stalled by taking another huge bite. “Well.”

“Come on.”

Kira put down her fork and looked her friend squarely in the eye. “
Officially
, I think you've lost your mind. I think you're going to regret this later. I think you took a bad situation and made it worse.”

Brighton nodded. “Keep going.”

“What Colin did to you was pretty traumatic. If I were your therapist—which, let's be crystal clear, I am not—I would tell you to step back and regroup. Don't make any big decisions for at least six to twelve months.”

“So . . . don't run off with the lost Hemsworth brother and a case of champagne?”

Kira picked up her fork and pointed it at Brighton. “Right. Revenge rebounds never end well.”

“That's good advice,” Brighton conceded. “And logically, I know I should follow it.”

“Officially, I advise you to start the annulment process on Monday,” Kira said. “I'm sure if you file right away—”

“What's your unofficial advice?” Brighton asked.

Kira hesitated.

“Come on. Out with it. I don't care how many years have passed—I'm still your take-it-to-the-grave friend, right?”

Kira nodded. “I did used to say that if I ever murdered someone, I'd call you to help me hide the body.”

“Because I'd know it was justifiable homicide,” Brighton said. “So cut the ‘official' crap and let's get down to some unofficial real talk.”

“Okay, let's.” Kira crumpled up the empty sugar packet. “Unofficially, I have no room to talk about this kind of thing. Chris and I got married three months after we first met.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Everybody said we were nuts.” Kira smiled at the memory. “My parents begged me to wait until I'd finished my internship and dissertation. His mother threatened to boycott the wedding.”

“But you got married anyway?”

“At a tiny little chapel in Santa Rosa Beach.” Kira shrugged. “What can I say? When you know, you know.”

Brighton's stomach soured. “That's what Colin said. Verbatim.”

Kira's blue eyes lit up as she reminisced about her newlywed days. “Looking back, our parents were right. We were young and impulsive. I'd never want my daughter to marry someone she'd just met.”

Brighton cupped her chin in her hand. “But you regret nothing.”

“We were really happy together. And we didn't know it at the ceremony, but he had a brain tumor already.”

“Oh, Kira.”

“The time we had together before he got sick, before all the scans and doctors' appointments and hospice . . . I wouldn't trade that for anything. I treasure every single second. I always have that, even though he's gone.”

For the hundredth time since she'd reunited with Kira at the Whinery the night before, Brighton wished that she had worked harder to hold on to this friendship. If she had a do-over of the past ten years, she'd spend less time racking up connections on LinkedIn and more time maintaining relationships with the people who'd known her before she became consumed with professional achievement.

But there were no do-overs. She couldn't change her past; all she could do was try to change the future.

“My point is, real love is never a waste,” Kira concluded. “The best moments of my life have been when I deviated from my ten-year plan.” She shot Brighton a look.

“Don't knock the ten-year plan,” Brighton said. “I snagged a big office with a window and everything thanks to my ten-year plan.”

“And you snagged the lost Hemsworth brother without it.”

“Well, when you put it like that . . .”

“I guess my question for you is, is this a true ‘when you know, you know' situation?” Kira asked. “Did you and Jake fall in love at first sight?”

“Nope. Love has nothing to do with this.”

“Then my official advice stands.”

Brighton leaned in and confided, “But there's something about this guy, Kira. I don't know if it's the post-breakup rage or the sleep
deprivation or what, but I just want more. I want to drape myself over him like a chinchilla coat.”

Kira leaned in, too, and for a moment, it felt like they were back in their university's student union. “Go on.”

“It's like . . .” Brighton closed her eyes, trying to put the sensations into words. “I had no idea that kissing could be like that. I mean, I like making out as much as the next girl, but he takes it to a whole other level. I'm still thinking about it. I don't know if I'll ever think about anything else.” She had to stop and catch her breath. “I've never done heroin, but kissing him is what I imagine it's like. He tastes good, he smells good, he feels good. I'm high, Kira. High on Jake Sorensen.”

Kira's smile turned soothing. “There's a clinical term for this feeling. It's called ‘limerence,' and it means your brain is getting a big surge of dopamine.”

“So I
am
high.”

“Yeah, basically.”

“I like it.” Brighton tipped her head back and basked in the sunlight streaming in through the café's plate-glass window. Her hangover was gone, thanks to Advil, greasy hash browns, and all that dopamine. “I feel tingly all over. I couldn't care less about who Colin is with right now or what he's doing. Limerence is much better than love.”

Kira got serious. “It's a great feeling, but it eventually fades, and then you crash.”

“I'll worry about that later,” Brighton said. “Like in two weeks. Right now, for once in my life, I'm going to live in the moment. I want to take some vacation time and explore this whole evil-twin lifestyle. Carpe diem. YOLO. Whatever the kids are saying these days.”

“Yeah.” Kira sounded dubious. “But eventually, you'll need to deal with everything that happened with Colin. Right now, you're self-medicating with a new man. You have to grieve sooner or later.”

“Later,” Brighton said. “I choose later.”

“Then enjoy every moment of your vacation.” Kira flagged down a passing server. “Hey, do you guys have any of those bear claw things with the almonds?”

“I'm so glad you called me yesterday. I've missed you.” Brighton rubbed her bleary eyes and doubled down on her coffee consumption. “The second thing I'm going to do with my screw-up summer is make up for lost time with you.”

“The second thing?” Kira said. “What's the first thing you're going to do?”

“Jake Sorensen.”

•   •   •

A few hours later, ensconced in the cool, quiet interior of what Kira had dubbed “the Secret Service car,” Brighton reunited with her husband.

Jake was waiting for her at the end of a long cobblestone driveway. Even from afar, his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette radiated confidence and masculinity. When the car pulled up, he opened the passenger-side door and offered Brighton his hand. As she gazed up at the sprawling cedar-shingled estate perched on an oceanside cliff, she started to consider the real-world implications of her flight of fancy. They had signed a legally binding document without so much as a background check. This man could be a serial killer for all she knew—or worse, he could have a terrible credit score. He could be an addict, a misogynist, a cult leader . . .

He put his hand on the small of her back and led her toward the house.

“So this is where you live. It's beautiful.” If he was a cult leader, at least she'd have a nice compound.