Put a Ring On It (8 page)

He shrugged. “It's a good investment.”

The house featured dozens of windows; Brighton could see through the first floor to the ocean. The views from the second story must be incredible. “I know this is tacky, but I have to ask: How many square feet?”

For the first time, Jake seemed uncomfortable. “I don't know the exact number.”

“Guesstimate,” Brighton urged.

“Maybe eight thousand.” He gazed up at the spacious structure with what almost looked like chagrin.

Her jaw dropped. “Damn. What do you even do with all that space?”

“Wait for it to appreciate, then sell it.”

This stretch of the bay was lined with brand-new, contemporary-style houses, most of them boasting three stories with wraparound patios and balconies that faced the ocean. Though the homes were luxurious, they lacked historical charm.

“You definitely got the best lot,” she said. “How long ago did you buy this place?”

“I was one of the original construction investors.” He cleared his throat. Definitely uncomfortable.

Well, at least she wasn't the only one feeling nervous. “What was here before the land was developed?”

“Nothing, really. They used to call it Gull's Point. The local teenagers would come up here and have bonfires.”

She glanced around at the mansions flanked by pools and guest cottages. “That seems like kind of a shame, for the town and the environment.”

“If we hadn't developed it, someone else would have.”

As he guided her along the stone-paved walkway, she noticed a
little pond, complete with a fountain. She stopped to get a closer look and saw swirls of orange moving beneath the water's surface.

“Are those goldfish?” she asked.

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah. Koi, actually. That's how this house got its name.”

“Your house has a name?” She crouched down to get a better look at the fish. “I should have figured.”

He pointed out the little bronze plaque next to the door:
DON'T BE KOI
.

“I'm going to pretend I never saw that.” As she straightened up, he took her hand. “Who takes care of these little guys all year?”

“The groundskeeper.” He paused. “Or the housekeeper? Probably the groundskeeper.”

“Even your fish have people? I should have known.”

“What kind of man would I be if I let my goldfish starve?”

She saw her opening and took it. “What kind of man, indeed. You know, I'm curious. You wouldn't mind if I ran a quick little background check on you? As a mere formality?”

“You'd be stupid not to.” He turned toward her. “And you don't strike me as a stupid woman.”

She could have told him about her valedictorian status, her academic scholarships, her accolades and promotions at work. She could have cited her credentials to prove her worth, but she found that she had no interest in proving her worth to Jake. Professional qualifications had no place in her screw-up summer.

“Are you going to run a background check on me?” she asked him. “For all you know, I could have a criminal record as long as your property line.”

He looked intrigued by the prospect. “Do you?”

“No.” But she kind of enjoyed the fact that he hadn't immediately dismissed the possibility. Which surprised her—she'd always liked being respected and held up as an example . . . hadn't she?

This was the real problem with marrying someone she didn't know. It made her question whether she really knew herself.

“You okay?” He looked concerned.

“Yeah.” She forced herself to stop thinking these thoughts. “I was just—” She held up one hand as she heard a muffled sound. “What was that?”

Jake froze. “What was what?”

“I thought I heard something.” She strained to pick up any sound above the gurgle of the pond's filter. “Like a dog barking.”

“I don't have a dog,” he said.

“That's probably a good thing, considering you don't even feed your own fish.”

And then they arrived at the front door. Talk of background checks and criminal records ceased. When he paused to find his house keys, Brighton tucked her hair back behind her ear.

“So, um, so now what?”

He stilled and all she could hear was the crash of the waves and the chirp of the crickets. “You're welcome to stay in the guesthouse until you finish your background check.”

She inched closer, reveling in her own recklessness. “Or . . . ?”

“Or you can come inside with me.”

“Okay.”

“And I'll take you upstairs to my bedroom.”

Her throat went dry. “Okay.”

“And I'll take off that suit and that shirt and those pearls and do hot, sweaty, dirty things to you.”

She gave up trying to talk and just stared at him.

He smiled, slow and wicked, and Brighton Smith, lifelong control freak, finally lost control.

“I
'm going to need the names and addresses of every woman you've ever slept with.” Brighton lolled back against the pillows, her hair tangled, her brow sweaty, and her cheeks flushed. The bright midday sun had faded into sunset and the fading light filtered through the gauzy curtains and bathed the bed in a warm golden glow. “I'm going to send them handwritten thank-you notes.”

Jake sat up next to her and regarded her with mock reproach. “You think I couldn't figure all that out on my own?”

“I think you should be giving seminars.” She felt dazed with a combination of languor and lust.

“My techniques can't be taught.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “I'm gifted and talented.”

“Yes, you are.” She shifted against the crisp white sheets, rubbing her bare ankle against his. Even if this spur-of-the-moment marriage played out exactly as the stats would predict—hell, even if she got out of bed right now, buttoned up her shirt, and resumed
her regularly scheduled life without a single backward glance—she would always look back on today with a fond heart.

After twenty-four hours packed with rage and despair and spiteful selfies, she'd managed to let go and spend a few hours as the woman she wished she could always be: Free-spirited. Bold. Confident and passionate, with just a hint of a dark edge. One day with this total stranger had easily eclipsed two years with the man she'd been prepared to spend the rest of her life with.

Colin who?

That's just the limerence talking.

“You could go on late-night TV to pitch your book and DVD series.” She trailed her fingers across his broad, square shoulders. “
Secrets of the Designated Rebound Man: An Instructional Lecture Series
by Jake Sorensen. We can put together a business plan tomorrow.”

“If you're thinking about a business plan right now, my work here isn't done.” The sheets rustled as he moved back over her.

“Mmmm.” She wound her arms around his neck and lifted her face to brush her lips against his. “Can we take a quick water break? I need to hydrate.”

The mattress dipped as he pulled away. “What's your pleasure? Bottled water? Red Bull? Iced coffee? Iced tea?” He ran his hand through his hair as he rattled off her options. “Lemonade? Orange juice? Wine? Diet Coke? Diet Pepsi? Craft beer? Gatorade?”

She managed to lift her head off the pillow. “Are you running a 7-Eleven out of your kitchen?”

He seemed mystified by her amusement. “I try to be a good host. What'll it be?”

“Gatorade's fine.”

He nodded. “What kind of Gatorade? I have orange, lemon-lime, fruit punch . . .”

“Oh my God.”

“What flavor?” he prompted.

“Orange.”

He headed down to the kitchen with his sculpted cheekbones and chiseled abs and endless charm. She watched him go and wondered if perhaps she had stumbled into an alternate universe. Maybe that wine bar was a portal to another dimension? Men like Jake Sorensen didn't marry women like Brighton. Hell, men like Jake Sorensen didn't even
notice
women like Brighton.

When she rolled over onto her stomach, she noticed his banged-up watch on the night table. She picked it up and turned it over to examine the back of the casing. The metal had been engraved, although the letters were obscured by rough patches of oxidization from years of neglect. She scraped lightly with her thumbnail, trying to discern the words.

Jake appeared in the doorway, a bottle of orange Gatorade in hand. “You're obsessed with that thing.”

“I'm sorry, I know it's none of my business, but it just seems wrong to let it stay in this condition.” She turned the watch over and over in her hands. “You obviously have the resources to restore it.”

He barely glanced at it. “I have the resources to buy a new watch.”

“Yeah, but you can't buy the history and the cachet.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her fingertip across the scratched crystal, trying to imagine the past owners. “You must have liked this at some point or you wouldn't have bought it.”

“For someone who claims to be so practical, you're kind of a romantic,” he remarked.

“Only about inanimate objects. My grandfather was a bench
jeweler—I have a thing for well-designed pieces. We used to repair watches together.”

He leaned against the doorframe, listening intently. He was so good at making her feel special. Even though she knew it was a practiced act, she couldn't help responding. “No wonder you can't keep your hands off it.”

“We didn't do the mechanical recalibration—that's a whole other skill set.” Brighton held up the watch as she talked. “But we used to replace the crystals—that's the glass part here—and polish the cases—that's the metal part here—and resize the bands. It's a lot of detail work, but it's kind of Zen. I once read that the Dalai Lama repairs watches to relax.” She remembered the peace she'd felt working side by side with her grandfather in silence. She would become totally immersed in the project. As an adult, no matter how hard she worked at her corporate jobs, she'd never been able to recapture that sense of fulfillment and intensity. “Where'd you get this, anyway?”

He pushed off the doorframe and unscrewed the cap of the Gatorade. “An estate auction. I was twenty-five and drunk on good scotch.”

She couldn't hide her surprise. “You had enough money to buy a Patek Philippe at twenty-five? Did you have a trust fund?”

His laugh had a dark undertone. “No. I told you, I literally made my money from dirt and rocks.”

“But to have made so much, so young . . .” She waited for him to elaborate, then finally gave up. “Anyway, this watch spoke to you.”

“Not really.” His brown eyes betrayed no hint of emotion. “I bought it to impress people who did have trust funds. I was young enough that I still cared what they thought about me.”

“Trust fund or not, you have good taste. This is an heirloom.”
Brighton showed him the back of the casing. “See the engraving here? Men pass these watches down to their sons and grandsons and great-grandsons. Each owner has his name engraved back here, along with the date he inherited it.” She smiled up at him. “You should do that. It'd be easy to refinish.”

He quirked one eyebrow. “I don't have a son.”

“But you might someday.” She flushed again. “Not with me, obviously, but, you know.”

“I'm new money, Brighton. Heirlooms are for families that came over on the
Mayflower
.” He sat down next to her on the bed and offered it to her. “That thing's going back into the drawer it came from.”

She took a sip and shook her head. “This right here is why we're doomed to failure. We'd never be a match on any online dating site. eHarmony would make us go to our separate corners.”

“We both like orange Gatorade.” He took a sip from her bottle, then passed it back. “eHarmony can suck it.”

“Okay, so we have
one
thing in common. But where do we go from here?”

“Is this a rhetorical question? We're naked, in bed, and rehydrating. To quote the little bronze plate by the front door, ‘Don't Play Koi.'”

Brighton laughed and spilled a droplet of Gatorade on the pillowcase. “Oops. No, I mean, what happens in the cold light of day tomorrow? We can't keep the whole drive-through chapel and mind-blowing-sex thing going indefinitely.”

“Why not? If you want to spend the rest of the summer jetting around the world and drinking champagne, we can make that happen.”

She pondered the prospect for a moment. It sounded like a
dream come true—for someone else. “What about you? Don't you have to work?”

“Don't worry about me. Focus on making your screw-up summer worthy of its name.”

She sat up and kissed him, heedless of his stubble. Somehow, Jake Sorensen even made beard burn feel good.

And maybe that was okay. Maybe, just for a week or two (or three), she could abandon her ten-year plan and let herself follow her heart. Maybe now was the right time.

When you know, you know.

“Fourteen days and no regrets.” She spilled another drop of orange liquid on the pristine white sheets. She didn't apologize or race to the bathroom for a washcloth dipped in cold water. She let the stain set and kept kissing her new husband, who tasted like intrigue and Gatorade. “But just tell me one thing: Why me? Why now?”

He gathered her up in his arms and her whole body melted against him. “Why not?”

•   •   •

By the time the moon crested over the dark horizon, Brighton was completely relaxed, completely blissful, and completely exhausted.

“Do you need anything?” Jake asked. “Water? Trail mix? A protein bar?”

“Sleep.” She snuggled into the pile of fluffy pillows.

“I'm going to shower.” He kissed the top of her head as he rolled out of bed. “Feel free to pass out.”

The steady noise of waves crashing on the shore lulled her to sleep, but just as her eyes fluttered closed, her phone beeped.

She groped for her cell and peered through the darkness at the text from Kira:
Just making sure you're still alive. Sometimes the charming ones turn out to be sociopaths.

Brighton hit “call back.” As soon as Kira answered, Brighton demanded to know, “Why are you still awake?”

“Oh good, you're not dead.” Kira sounded more amused than relieved. “Sometimes I have trouble sleeping. And when that happens, I like to stay up and obsess about worst-case scenarios that will probably never happen.”

“Like Jake Sorensen being a duplicitous sociopath?”

“Exactly like that.”

“Well, he's not. But even if he was?
Worth it
.” Brighton was wide-awake again. “I need a new word, Kira. Lust, limerance, longing . . . it's all of that to the tenth power.”

“Nice.”

“He
is
nice,” Brighton confided. “Yes, he's the physical equivalent of a Dolce and Gabbana cologne ad and he has a mansion on the beach and an apparently bottomless supply of orange Gatorade—”

“What?”

“Never mind. He has what he has and he looks how he looks, but he seems like a genuinely nice guy.” Brighton paused. “Not a duplicitous sociopath. And not one of those guys who
pretends
to be nice so he can manipulate you into putting up with his bad behavior.”

“An important distinction,” Kira agreed.

Brighton nibbled her lower lip as she gazed up at the whitewashed ceiling beams.

“But . . . ,” Kira prompted.

“But I have no idea who he actually is.”

“Did you Google?”

“Of course I Googled!” Brighton was insulted. “I'm not brand-new.”

“Well? What did Google say?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot. It pretty much verified everything I already know—vague references to corporate wheelings and dealings. But I couldn't find anything personal. No social media or embarrassing photos from college.”

“And you still got on the plane and signed the marriage certificate.” Kira clicked her tongue.

“Whatever. What's done is done, and we can always get divorced.”

“That's the spirit.”

Brighton noticed the flickering glow of a bonfire on the other side of the bay. “What do you think Colin is doing right now?”

“Don't go down that rabbit hole,” Kira advised. “At least one of us should get some sleep tonight.”

Brighton rolled over onto her side. “Do you think he's really found his soul mate? Do you think they'll be happily married for fifty years?”

“I think
your
marriage has a better chance of working out than his does. And that's saying something.”

“Aw. You're sweet.”

“I'm so glad you're going to stay in town for a bit,” Kira said. “It's nice to have someone who knew me before.”

Brighton didn't have to ask before what. She pressed the phone closer to her ear. “I'm glad, too.”

“And don't worry.” Kira's tone lightened. “If you end up dead in a puddle of Dolce and Gabbana cologne under mysterious circumstances, I'll know who did it.”