Put a Ring On It

by Beth Kendrick

  “Getting married is a pretty drastic move. Why now?”

  “I’m still trying to piece that together.” Brighton glanced around the office. “Do you have any chocolate in here?”

  “You know I always keep a secret stash.” Kira pulled a Kit Kat out of her desk drawer. “Here. Slow down. Breathe. Let’s not go down the rabbit hole of gloom and despair just yet.”

  “Too late.” Brighton shoved a piece of crispy chocolate-coated wafer into her mouth as she thought about the reactions she’d gotten last night at the gala. “God’s gift to women has a hidden agenda. Guaranteed.”

  chapter 18

  Brighton thought she knew what to expect on her first day working solo at the Naked Finger: weepy ex-girlfriends, jaded ex-wives, shell-shocked Maxim models who had traveled all the way from New Hampshire to get some fresh perspective and a piece of Jake Sorensen.

  But the first customers to stroll into the store were a man and a woman, holding hands and openly groping each other. Despite the PDA, no one would mistake them for soul mates. The woman was a taut, tanned, fading beauty in her forties, and the guy was . . . well, he had to be at least seventy-five. At least. She was wearing a short black skirt, a ruffly white halter top, and lipstick so pink it probably glowed in the dark. He was wearing khaki pants, a khaki jacket, and a gray fisherman’s hat that was visibly soiled. She called him Puppy. He referred to her as Dumplin’. Brighton greeted them both and tried to remember Lila’s rules for compiling an aesthetic “profile.” She noticed that Dumplin’ was rocking high-heeled mules with interlocked gold Gucci G’s on the ankle strap, which coordinated with a matching logo’d handbag.

  “Are you looking for something special?” she asked, heading straight for the display case containing the high-end designer bling. “We have some lovely Tiffany and Cartier pieces.”

  “I want a Rolex,” Dumplin’ announced with absolute authority. She reached over and took her companion’s hand. “Look, Puppy, they have one in rose gold.”

  Her companion shook his head, wheezing so hard the brim of his floppy gray hat fluttered. “No.”

  “No?!” Dumplin’s voice got so shrill that Brighton couldn’t suppress a wince. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  Puppy cleared his throat in a loud, phlegmy display of displeasure. “I just bought you that ruby ring last week.”

  “That was two weeks ago. And I don’t have anything nice to wear on my wrists.” Dumplin’ held up her bare arms, a martyr in a miniskirt. She batted her eyelashes; she pulled down her halter top. She simpered and smooched her companion while Brighton busied herself with paperwork and pretended to be blind and deaf.

  Then, just when it seemed she was out of ammo, Dumplin’ slapped Puppy on the shoulder and pointed toward the door. “Give me your credit card and go take a nap.”

  Without a word of protest he handed over his wallet and shuffled toward the door, pausing only to cough up another bit of phlegm on the way.

  “Thanks, babe. Meet you back at the hotel!” Dumplin’ turned to Brighton with an air of brisk efficiency. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the rose gold Rolex. What’s the diameter of the face?”

  “Thirty-seven millimeters.” Brighton unlocked the case and took out the watch. “This is a lovely piece, probably from the midnineties. The dial and the casing are both original and in excellent shape.”

  “It’s nice, but it needs more sparkle.” Dumplin’ draped the watch over her wrist and studied the effect. “Can you put little diamonds all around the face?”

  “Of course,” Brighton said. “It’ll take a few days, but we can do that.” She inventoried the contents of the safe and sketched a few different design options. After the client selected her favorite, they discussed the precise quality and placement of the diamonds.

  “Great. We’ll be in town until Friday.” Dumplin’ pressed the credit card into her hand. “I’ll give you my number. Just call me when it’s ready.”

  “Okay.” Brighton hesitated before processing the credit card. “Should we maybe call your, uh . . .”

  “Friend,” Dumplin’ supplied.

  “Maybe we should call your friend and make sure he’s cool with your spending twenty-three thousand dollars.”

  “He’s fine with it.” Dumplin’ scribbled her phone number on a gum wrapper, checked her cleavage and her teeth in the mirror next to the cash register, and strutted back out to the sidewalk.

  Just as Dumplin’ walked out, a clean-cut, middle-aged man walked in. With his sandy-colored hair, glasses, neatly pressed shirt, and very visible wedding ring, he looked like the type of guy who would help make dinner and attend every parent-teacher conference.

  “I’m looking for a gift.” He smiled, which only added to the J.Crew Dad effect. “For my wife.”

  “You’ve come to the right place.” Brighton returned the smile. “Tell me about your wife. What does she do for work? What type of jewelry does she normally wear?”

  “I already know what I want.” The guy pulled out his smartphone and consulted his notes. “Diamond stud earrings, no less than half a carat each, I color or better.”

  “Well, that does narrow it down.” Brighton led him to the earring display, which featured several pairs of well-matched studs. She displayed each pair, extolling their beauty. She didn’t mention that almost all of the diamonds had been the center stones of engagement rings in a previous life. Some people got superstitious about the whole bad-karma thing. Which Brighton had never understood—even the most extravagant ring was nothing more than rock, metal, and clever advertising. The raw materials meant nothing without sentiment. Monetary value could never trump the emotional value of a gift selected with care and consideration.

  And that’s why I don’t have a wedding ring.

  “So, what do you think?” She glanced up when she finished her spiel, trying to determine whether he wanted to make the final selection himself or would prefer to delegate to her.

  “Those are nice.” He pointed out a pair of sparkling studs. Then he nodded at another set featuring brilliant blue sapphires. “But those are nice, too.”

  Brighton pulled out the second pair. “These are amazing. Three carats total weight. And look at the cut.” She encouraged him to hold them up to the overhead light. “Phenomenal.”

  He paused for a moment, then shrugged. “What the hell—I’ll take them both. Wrap them up.”

  “Lucky lady.” Brighton accepted his credit card and boxed up the earrings in velvet cases with bows.

  As she tucked the receipt in the bag and sent him on his way, she experienced a pang of jealousy for a woman she’d never even met. She wanted what her customer’s wife would have when she opened the jewelry box: the feeling that she was cherished. The knowledge that the man she loved had been thinking of her and planning ahead.

  She snapped to attention as the phone rang and answered with brisk professionalism: “Naked Finger. This is Brighton.”

  “Do you make deliveries?” asked a suave male voice. “I need the nicest diamond necklace you have.”

  • • •

  “It was testosterone day at the jewelry store,” Brighton told Jake as they shared a glass of red wine in Don’t Be Koi’s huge, airy kitchen. “Steady parade of guys from open to close.”

  “Did you move a lot of product?”

  “Yeah, including a twenty-three-thousand-dollar Rolex that I’m customizing with pavé diamonds.”

  “Nice. I hope Lila’s paying you commission.”

  “Oh, I don’t care about the commission.” Brighton froze, her wooden spoon midway to the pot simmering on the stove. “Did I just say those words? What’s happening to me?”

  “It’s part of the screw-up summer,” Jake said. “Go with it.”

  “I don’t even know who I am anymore.” She put down the spoon, reeling. “Eight days in a mansion with housekeepers,
groundskeepers, and an endless supply of twelve-dollar strawberries, and I’m ruined.”

  “The term is ‘spoiled.’”

  “Even worse.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “That makes me sound like a kept woman.”

  He laughed. “No one would ever accuse you of being a kept woman.”

  She went from horrified to defensive in a split second. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re not trophy wife material.” Before she could respond, he added, “That’s a compliment.”

  “And yet somehow, I’m not feeling very complimented. I mean, I get that our society wants me to spend all my time and money trying to look perfect, but you know what? I have shit to do. Sometimes finishing a report comes before touching up my pedicure. I apologize for nothing.”

  “For the record, you’re beautiful.” He picked up the spoon she’d put down and resumed cooking. “And I like a woman who can get shit done.”

  “Is that why you married me?” She held her breath, watching his expression.

  “In part.”

  She folded her arms. “I’m waiting for the other part.”

  A clatter in the front hallway shattered the tense silence. Brighton and Jake rushed to the doorway to see Dylan speeding along the custom hardwood floor on a filthy skateboard. When he reached the end of the corridor, he used an upended antique side table as a makeshift ramp.

  Brighton glanced up at Jake, who looked more upset than she’d ever seen him. She touched his arm and opened her mouth to tell him to go easy on the young boy.

  “Put on a helmet!” Jake yelled, returning to the stove. “Concussions are serious business.”

  The clattering stopped and Brighton heard the pounding of sneakers against wood as Dylan raced for the garage. Two minutes later, the skateboarding resumed.

  “If I’ve told that kid once, I’ve told him a thousand times,” Jake muttered as he sprinkled sea salt into the sauce.

  “But what about the coffee table?” Brighton flinched as she heard breaking glass.

  Jake shrugged. “What about it?”

  She tilted her head. “I’m guessing it was expensive.”

  “Everything in this house is expensive. But that hall is perfect for skateboarding. I can always refinish the floors.”

  Brighton gave him a long assessing look. “You’ve done it, haven’t you? You’ve gone skateboarding in the hall.”

  “If I did, I wore a helmet.” He winked at her. “You want to borrow my board later?”

  “I kind of do,” she confessed.

  “It’s a date,” he said. “We’ll do it after dinner when it gets dark, with mood lighting and the audio system turned all the way up.”

  She shook her head. “Can’t. I’m booked after dinner. Which reminds me, where’s the Gull’s Point country club?”

  “Out by the preserve on the other side of town,” Jake said. “I’ll have to look up the exact address.”

  “Really? I thought you’d be all over the country club scene.”

  “I hate golfing.” He grimaced. “What do you have to do over there?”

  “I told one of the guys who called today that I’d meet him at the country club restaurant to surprise his wife with a necklace.” She glanced at the clock. “I should probably start getting ready. What should I even wear for something like that?”

  Jake gave her a look. “A flak jacket.”

  “What? Why? It’s a romantic dinner. A special occasion.”

  He leaned back against the counter. “You said he called? Meaning he didn’t pick the necklace out himself?”

  “Well, no.” Brighton tried to recall the conversation. “Maybe he knows he has bad taste in jewelry and opted to leave the selection process to a professional. Maybe he’s a man who knows his limits.”

  “So he dialed a phone and threw some money at the problem?”

  She frowned. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds so . . .”

  “That necklace is a guilt gift,” Jake proclaimed. “He’s trying to placate his wife with dinner and jewelry.”

  “You know,” Brighton mused, “that thought did cross my mind. But I was hoping that I was just a bitter cynic.”

  Jake turned off the stove burner with a definitive click. “Let me ask you one question: Did the guy negotiate?”

  Brighton nibbled her lip. “Well . . .”

  “He didn’t, did he? He asked for a necklace, you named your price, and he rolled over.”

  “Yeah,” she had to admit. “How did you know?”

  “I told you, I know how this works. One of these days, you’ll start to believe me.”

  “Oh, I believe you.” Brighton grabbed the spare paring knife and started hacking away at a carrot with great vigor. “How many diamond guilt gifts have you given away in your time?”

  “Zero.” He looked offended at the question. “I don’t get myself into those situations. If the guy is at the point where he needs a fancy dinner and an emergency call to a jeweler, he seriously screwed up his strategy somewhere along the way.”

  Brighton abandoned all pretense of cooking. “What exactly are you saying? Are you saying he shouldn’t have cheated on his wife or he shouldn’t have gotten caught? Or are you saying he never should have gotten into a real relationship at all?”

  “Why are you mad at me?” Jake looked genuinely puzzled. “I didn’t do anything. I’m not involved in any way.”

  That’s why I’m mad. “I’m not mad at you,” Brighton lied. “I’m mad at that guy for being a tool; I’m mad at myself for selling him the guilt gift like a sucker. I’m just mad.”

  “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.

  chapter 19

  “You 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.