“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 launc
hed 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.
She braced her bare feet against an outcropping of rock and helped him out of the water. His thick, dark hair dripped and his black oxford shoes squished as he stepped back on dry land.
“Are you okay?” she asked, tightening the sash of her robe.
The child regarded her with huge, solemn brown eyes. “Who are you?”
“I’m, um, I’m Brighton Smith.” She tucked her hands into the robe’s pockets. “Who are you?”
“Dylan,” he replied.
“Dylan!” A shrill voice yelled from the far side of the driveway, and a petite, wiry woman with curly brown hair raced toward them. “What happened?”
“Mom, I was only—”
“He’s okay,” Brighton assured the frazzled mother. “Took a little spill into the pond, but no harm done.”
“You were skateboarding, weren’t you?” The mother didn’t even wait for a reply. “Look at your shirt. You’re going to be late for camp!”
“Hi.” Brighton held out her right hand. “I’m Brighton Smith. I’m Jake’s, uh . . .”
“Christine Klimes.” The woman had a firm handshake. “I’m the head housekeeper.”
“So you do exist!” Brighton blurted out before her mental filter kicked in. “I was wondering. I never see anybody actually in the house.”
“We try to give Mr. Sorensen his privacy.” Christine shot her a speculative look. “And his guests, as well.”
Brighton stared at the koi pond.
“You’ve been here longer than any of his other guests,” Dylan chimed in.
“Shh!” his mother hissed. “Stop talking and go change into a fresh uniform before—”
“Good morning.” Jake ambled out of the tiny guest cottage adjacent to the garage, his hands full of file folders. He took in the boy’s bedraggled state. “You okay, Dylan?”
Now the boy looked suffused with shame. “Yeah.”
His mother gave him a none-too-subtle nudge. “Apologize to Jake right now. He just bought you these new shirts.”
“Sorry,” Dylan mumbled.
Brighton glanced from Dylan to Christine to Jake. She sidled closer to Jake and whispered, “Is he your . . .”
Jake was too busy wringing out the hem of Dylan’s shirt to pay attention. “My what?”
“Your—” She lowered her voice even more. “Son?”
All three of them burst out laughing.
“No,” Christine said. “He just feels sorry for me because I’m a single mom.”
“He’s sending me to camp,” Dylan informed Brighton. “Bought my backpack and my uniform and everything.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you,” Jake said to Christine.
“Yeah, you do.” Christine turned to Brighton. “He does. It’s because he had a single mom, so he tries to help me out with my boy.”
“He’s paying for my school next year, too,” Dylan divulged.
Jake and Christine both shushed him at once.
“Christine is tough as nails,” Jake told Brighton. “She doesn’t need anyone to feel sorry for her.”
Christine smiled. “Is that why you got Dylan that puppy when his dad left?” She glanced back at Brighton. “And speaking of dogs—”
“I’ll give you a bonus if you stop talking right now,” Jake offered.
Christine put one hand on her hip. “How much?”
“Name your price,” Jake said.
“Expect my written offer by the end of the day.” Christine waved to Brighton as she resumed chastising her son. “Nice meeting you.”
Brighton rounded on Jake. “Innnteresting. The plot thickens.”
He picked up the abandoned skateboard and peered into the pond to check on the fish. “Nothing to see here.”
“Oh, I beg to differ.” She rolled up the sleeves of the oversize robe. “You’re more than just a pretty face who’s good in bed.”
His head snapped up. “Don’t tell anyone.”
She gave him a wink and just a hint of smolder. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
chapter 16
“You know what would go great with that dress?” Jake asked as he squired Brighton into the huge, high-ceilinged hotel ballroom filled with tuxedoed waiters and crystal chandeliers. “Pearls.”
“It’s a gown, not a dress,” Brighton corrected. Lila had schooled her well. “And since someone destroyed my pearls in the heat of passion, I had to find a substitute.” She pointed out the art-deco-style diamond and emerald earrings she’d fashioned from the gemstones in Lila’s store safe. “I made these especially for tonight.” She patted her head to ensure her hair was still in place. After reading and rereading Lila’s mother’s coiffure instructions, Brighton had given up and gone to the Rebound Salon on Main Street, where the stylists had created a soft, elegant updo.
He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Let’s get you something to drink. Champagne?”
She wrinkled her nose. “The last time I drank champagne with you, we ended up in the marital E-ZPass lane.”
“We took a long-shot bet and we’ll never regret it.” He nodded to one of the servers carrying a silver tray of full champagne flutes. “Cheers.”
“Remind me again.” Brighton accepted the glass the server offered. “What’s the occasion and who invited us?”
“It’s a local charity benefit, and one of my companies is cosponsoring, so I figured I should make an appearance.”
“One of your companies,” she repeated. “How many companies do you have?”
He shrugged. “Who keeps track of these things?”
Before she had time to press for details, they were deluged with handshakes and hugs. Well, Jake was, anyway. Handshakes from the men, and hugs—close, full-body, lingering hugs—from the women.
“This is my wife, Brighton,” Jake kept announcing. His female admirers reacted as if he’d spattered them with acid.
Brighton was grateful for her black Chantilly lace dress and diamond and emerald earrings, her armor against the cutting glares from the many, many (many) women who had designs on Jake. The moment he got sucked into a cadre of male coworkers who wanted to discuss a logistics issue, the wives and girlfriends clustered around Brighton.
“How’d you do it?” a willowy redhead demanded. “What’s your secret?”
Brighton sipped her bubbly. “Pricey booze and no impulse control. Two great tastes that taste great together.”
The redhead laughed. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
As news of the nuptials spread across the ballroom, more and more women flocked over to get a glimpse of the newly minted Mrs. Sorensen.
“You must be extraordinary,” a reedy-voiced brunette announced, though she looked dubious. “Jake usually won’t even bring a date to these things.”
“But he always leaves with one,” someone else trilled.
“Where’s your ring?” Another woman, surprisingly strong for one so petite, practically wrestled the champagne glass away from Brighton in her attempt to inspect her left hand. “I have to see the diamond Jake Sorensen proposed with.”
“No ring,” Brighton replied. Everyone stared at her. She knew they were waiting for juicy details, but she refused to divulge anything. Yes, her marriage was a sham. Yes, he
r wedding had been hilarious. Yes, all of this would be great cocktail party conversation. But these experiences were hers. Hers and Jake’s. Speaking of whom . . .
“Are you behaving yourself over here?” Jake appeared at her side with a charming smile that immediately dispersed all the cattiness.
“Not really.” Brighton turned to him with a saucy smile. “I’m starting a bunch of rumors about how you proposed with the worm at the bottle of a tequila bottle.”
“It’s not a rumor if it’s the truth.” Jake lifted her hand to his lips, holding her gaze as he kissed her knuckles.
“How gentlemanly of you,” she breathed, keenly aware of the audience.
“We are in a ballroom,” he pointed out. “And I am in a tux.”
She lowered her voice so that only he could hear. “Not for long.”
For a moment, it was just the two of them, totally alone. The music and the chatter receded; all she could perceive was his touch and his gaze and the connection between them. Her insides felt as fizzy as the champagne she’d just sipped. He did this to her every time. Every time. All he had to do was look her way.
“When can we leave?” she whispered to him.
“Jake!” a jovial male voice boomed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come meet the new investors.”
“Five minutes.” Jake squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Time me.”
She nodded, turned around, and nearly ran into a tiny, platinum-haired wisp of a woman. “Oops, sorry.” A drop of champagne splashed over the rim of her glass.
The woman waved away the apology, her mouth puckering into a little moue as she admired Brighton’s gown. “I absolutely adore what you’re wearing. Is it vintage?”
For the first time since she’d walked into the ballroom, Brighton relaxed. “From the fifties, I think.”
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