Put a Ring On It

by Beth Kendrick

“Look at that lacework.” The woman eyed the Chantilly stretched across the shoulders and bodice. “Divine. And those earrings.” She tilted her head, admiring the diamonds and emeralds. “Stunning.”

  “Thank you.” Brighton’s smile was genuine this time.

  “Harry Winston?” the woman guessed.

  “Pardon?”

  “The earrings. Are they Harry Winston?”

  Brighton’s smile brightened into a beam. “Actually, I made them myself.”

  “You did? Goodness, you do beautiful work.”

  “Thank you. You have great taste.” She hadn’t realized how this would sound until she’d already said it. But it was the truth; the other woman wore a stunning statement necklace crafted from peach coral, deep green jade, and black jade. Her hair was pulled back and her black gown was simple—the whole ensemble showcased the unusual piece.

  “I know.” The woman gave her a conspiratorial grin, then reached out to touch Brighton’s earrings. “May I?”

  “Of course.” Brighton held still while her new acquaintance studied the craftsmanship.

  “You’re an artist,” she declared, stepping back.

  Brighton shook her head. “No, I’m an actuary.”

  “A what?”

  “I work in insurance. The jewelry is more of a hobby.”

  The other woman gasped. “But you’re wasting your gift.” Before Brighton could respond, she went on. “Do you have your own line? A storefront? A Web site?”

  “No, I’m just sort of freelancing for a few weeks at a boutique by the beach.”

  The woman clicked her tongue and demanded, “Where is your shop? I’d love to commission a piece from you.”

  “It’s in a little town called—”

  “Just one moment.” The woman whirled and waved to a white-haired gentleman across the room. “Let me get my bag and take down your contact information.”

  Brighton watched her future client (she supposed “patron” would be more appropriate in this social context) point her out to the white-haired companion. The man whispered something to her, and then pointed across the room.

  Brighton glanced behind her to see what they were looking at. Jake was striding toward her. She looked back at the blonde, who was now looking at Jake.

  “Hey.” Brighton tilted her head toward the blonde as subtly as she could. “See that woman in the black dress and the coral-and-green necklace? Do you know her?”

  Jake gave a curt nod. “We’re done here.” He whisked her out of the ballroom so quickly, she was still holding her champagne glass when they reached the hotel lobby. Brighton noticed a brass elevator so similar to the one in her office building and remembered that, only a week ago, she’d been desperate to escape the humdrum of corporate life.

  Her wish had certainly been granted.

  Jake led her to the valet stand and handed the uniformed worker a claim ticket and a folded twenty-dollar bill.

  “What was that all about?” Brighton asked.

  His eyes had gone dark and his whole body was tense. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, it was definitely something. Is she an ex-girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He never broke eye contact. “Yes.”

  “Business associate?” she tried.

  “No.”

  When the valet delivered the truck, Jake opened the door for her, then settled into the driver’s seat without a word.

  “I’m going to need some answers here,” she told him. “Why was everyone looking so intense? You, her, that old guy with the expensive haircut?”

  “It’s nothing,” he repeated. “Nothing important, anyway.”

  Her jaw dropped as a horrible thought occurred. “Oh God. Is this something I’m not going to be able to testify about because we’re legally married?”

  “No.” He took a slow, measured breath. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She knew she should drop it—the last time she’d had a fight in a car, she’d ended up dumped and disgraced. “When someone looks at me the way that woman looked at me, I have a right to know why.”

  He glanced over at her, his expression unreadable. “How did she look at you?”

  “Like I’d wronged her. Like I called her a name and threw a drink in her face.” She tapped one finger on the window. “Are you sure she’s not your ex-girlfriend?”

  Jake’s laugh was rough and bitter. “That’s not what this is about.”

  “Then what the hell is it about?” she demanded. “Because you have the same look on your face that you had on the night we met.” She swallowed, not sure she wanted to hear the answer to her next question. “Is this related to what you said about spending ten years drinking and buying expensive shit and socializing with strangers?”

  “Do you really want to talk about this?” he asked. “Or do you want to drive to the Four Seasons in Baltimore, get a suite with a big bathtub, and lay waste to another set of pearls?”

  “Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t try to distract me with the sexy and the shiny.”

  He blinked. “The what?”

  “Every time you don’t want to talk about something or answer a question, you start throwing money at the problem.” She clenched her molars in frustration. “I just want to know who the hell I’m married to. You swore Google to secrecy, you have an apparently endless stream of money, you do things to people that make them give me death stares across crowded rooms . . .” She waited for him to give her something. Anything. The tiniest scrap of self-disclosure.

  He kept his eyes on the road.

  “Don’t just sit there being inscrutable,” she said. “We’re having our first official fight.”

  “I’m not angry,” he pointed out.

  “That’s the problem!” She was suddenly yelling. “You’re never angry. You’re never angry or sad or frustrated or anything besides sexy and charming. Get angry! Fight with me.”

  “Brighton.” His tone was soothing and reassuring and made her want to start throwing things.

  She realized that this was how Colin must have felt when she tried to reason with him during the great zipper-merge debacle. She desperately wanted Jake to engage, to show some sort of emotion, but he remained patient and unflappable. Because he didn’t care.

  This is how drama queens are born, she warned herself. Get ahold of yourself. So she did. She forced herself to stop talking and sit back. To bottle everything up, just like he did.

  They spent the rest of the drive home in silence.

  When the car pulled into the driveway of Don’t Be Koi, Brighton noticed a familiar figure silhouetted against the porch light.

  “Oh my God. Is that . . . ?” She covered her mouth with her hand as she recognized the stoop of the shoulders, the downcast profile. “It’s Colin.”

  Jake didn’t seem at all surprised. “That’s him?”

  She nodded. “That’s him.”

  “I figured he’d show up eventually.” Jake turned off the truck and took the keys out of the ignition. “I’ll handle this.”

  “No. No, no, no.” Brighton’s voice shook as she reached for the door handle. “I’ll handle this. Stay right where you are.”

  Jake looked half-amused and half-alarmed. “Should I frisk you for weapons?”

  “No need. I’ll deal with him with my bare hands.” Brighton handed him her purse and went to work on the dainty art deco screwbacks. “Here, hold my earrings.”

  chapter 17

  “No,” 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.”