Put a Ring On It (4 page)

Some of the women who had been eyeing Jake started glaring at Brighton and Lila. Lila seemed oblivious, but Brighton wasn't used to being the object of anyone's envy or hostility. Blending into
the background was more her deal. She studied the drink specials on the chalkboard above the bar until Lila made the official introductions:

“Jake Sorensen, this is Brighton Smith. She just arrived for a weekend visit.”

Base, carnal desire surged through Brighton, shocking in its immediacy and intensity. One second she was reading about champagne cocktails; the next second she was struggling to keep her hands to herself. She hadn't even made eye contact yet and she wanted to peel his shirt off.

Then for God's sake, don't make eye contact.

“Hi.” She jerked her chin in a kind of a side-nod and kept her gaze focused on his wrist. “Is that a 1950s Patek Philippe?”

“It's 1953.” He lifted his wrist so she could inspect the watch. What had once been a flawless Swiss timepiece had become nearly unrecognizable with age and neglect. The brown leather band was cracked and scarred. The stainless steel lug and case had blackened. The crystal covering the dial was cloudy and scratched so badly, she couldn't read the manufacturer's name. But she appreciated quality when she saw it. “How'd you know?”

“The lugs.” She pointed with her index finger but didn't trust herself to touch. “They're extended and curved downward. That's really rare. They only made that design in the late forties and early fifties.”

“I would have figured you for a Rolex guy,” Lila chimed in, cheery and chipper and apparently oblivious to the pheromones. “That watch is . . . underwhelming.”

“Just had a meeting with my financial advisers.” Jake was speaking to Lila but focused on Brighton, who didn't dare look up. “They're all about understatement. Except when they're swilling my forty-year-old scotch.”

“Sounds like a fun day.” Lila's tone softened. “Is that why you look stressed?”

Brighton was still hunched over his hand, but she could
feel
his gaze on her head. She noticed the tan of his skin and the smell of his leather jacket, and the Death Star tractor beam almost kicked in.

Almost.

She straightened up, took a step back, and stared over his shoulder at the glittering crystal chandelier.

He stepped forward, closing the distance she'd just created. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Oh, nothing, thanks. I don't really drink.” She forced herself to pretend that his face was a solar eclipse.
One glance and you'll burn your retinas.

“That's too bad,” Lila said. “They have some really great cocktails here. There's one with champagne and fresh orange juice and vermouth—”

“You're an antique watch expert who doesn't drink.” Jake shifted his body so his arm was less than an inch from hers. If she relaxed for even a second, they'd be touching.

Brighton tensed up. “That's right. I like Swiss precision and I don't like to lose my self-control.” Halfway through the sentence, her vigilance lapsed. She looked at his face.

“Good to know.” He finally smiled, slow and wicked, and she tingled in places she didn't know she could tingle. She suddenly felt alluring and aglow, and she wanted more of that feeling. More of him.

“Hey.” Lila wedged herself in between them and leveled her index finger at Jake. “Don't start with her.”

He seemed to take this admonishment as a personal challenge. “Why not?”

Lila looked at Brighton, who couldn't dredge up any kind of
verbal response. Her brain had shut down. Her good sense had deserted her. Her hormones, however, were very much present and accounted for.

“Because she's too good for you, that's why,” Lila informed him.

His dark eyes flickered. For a fraction of a second, something surfaced behind all that seduction and calculated charisma. It happened so quickly that Brighton almost missed it, but she
felt
a pulse of emotion pass through her like a heartbeat.

She looked down at her naked fingers. When she glanced back up, he had sidled into the perimeter of her personal space again. He didn't make any move to touch her; he didn't try to engage her in conversation. But he was looking at her as if he could see right through the pearl necklace and silk blouse and wool suiting.

“I'm serious.” Lila swatted him on the shoulder. “Go pick up one of those women over there. They're dying to be picked up, and I know you know it.”

He gave Lila the same eye-rolling routine she'd given him earlier. “Don't tell me what to do, Alders. I'm buying. What're you drinking?”

“Oh, nothing, I'm fine. I'm about to drive home.” Lila couldn't suppress a girlish little smile. “Takeout and a movie with Malcolm.”

Jake signaled to the bartender. “Throw a bottle of Sea Smoke in a bag, Jenna. The pinot noir. Thanks.”

The bartender batted her eyelashes and hastened to do his bidding.

Lila shook her head. “Jake, you don't have to do that.”

“Here.” The designated rebound guy of Black Dog Bay handed the bartender a credit card and passed the bottle to Lila. “Enjoy your date night.”

“That's really fancy wine.” Lila's expression was part amused, part dismayed. “You can't just—”

“It's not for you; it's for Malcolm. I made him work twelve-hour days all week.”

At this, Lila turned a bit salty. “Yes, I noticed.”

“Then you know he earned it.” He took Lila's elbow and steered her toward the door. “You have a hot date to get to.”

“But—”

“Bye.” He escorted her out to the sidewalk, then returned to Brighton by the bar. “You sure you don't want a drink?”

Suddenly, she did. She wanted a drink and so much more. But she couldn't have it. She was a smart, levelheaded, and
engaged
woman.

To remind herself of this fact, she reached up and touched her tasteful pearl earrings. “No, thank you.”

He looked at her for a long minute. Then he glanced down at the watch that was practically rotting away on his wrist. “Anything you want. Pick your poison.”

“No.” Her voice came out very prim and proper.

He accepted her curt refusal with a nod, then turned away from her. The music changed from Ben Folds Five's “Song for the Dumped” to Sara Bareilles's “Gonna Get Over You,” and the front door swung open.

“Brighton!” A woman waved and started across the room.

Kira. Thank God. Brighton rushed to greet her friend.

“Ooh, look at you in your fancy suit, Miss Corner Office. You're positively glowing!” Kira held Brighton at arm's length before engulfing her in a hug. “You must be in love.”

Brighton hugged back. “Right in the middle of planning a wedding, actually.”

“I knew it!” Kira squeezed Brighton again. “I need to hear everything. Who he is, how you met, when you knew he was the one.”

And just like that, they were back in sync. It felt as if no time
had passed, no distance had separated them. They picked up right where'd they left off years before. A little spark of hope kindled in Brighton's heart, and this time, when she told herself that everything would work out, she actually believed it.

Relationships are resilient. Love can endure.

Kira seemed to sense the sudden shift in her mood. “You all right?”

“Mm-hmm.” Brighton tucked her hair behind her ear. “Let's get a table.”

That's when Kira noticed Jake Sorensen. “Ooh, look at
that
guy. Let's sit by him.”

“Let's not.” Brighton spotted an empty table on the opposite side of the bar. “Follow me.”

“S
orry I kept you waiting.” Kira sat down at a tiny café table in the corner. “I don't usually work this late on Fridays, but I just opened the practice and I hate to turn away new clients.”

“Don't apologize,” Brighton said. “It's nice to have a bit of free time. I got to walk around and see the town. This place is adorable.”

“Isn't it?” Kira grabbed the wine list and studied the selections. “The perfect place for a fresh start.”

“And the perfect place for a psychologist.” Brighton grinned. “The woman who owns the Naked Finger told me Black Dog Bay was named the best place in America to bounce back from your breakup. Opening a practice here was genius.”

Kira put down her menu and focused on her friend. “So you were at the Naked Finger?”

“Yes, and you'll never guess what they had.” Brighton launched into a detailed explanation of the poison ring. “It was so cool.”

Kira smiled. “I'm so glad you're still designing jewelry.”

“Uh . . .”

“Remember that silver bracelet you made me sophomore year? With the sea glass we found on the beach? I still have that in my closet somewhere.”

“I don't work with jewelry much anymore. I sold my soul to the corporate world.”

Kira looked disappointed and a bit reproachful. “But what about your grandparents? I thought you were going to take over their business one day.”

“My grandparents died a few years after we graduated.” Brighton sighed. “They left their jewelry business in its entirety to my mother.”

Kira's eyes softened. She knew enough about Brighton's mother to know what was coming. “And then what happened?”

“She ran it into the ground. My grandfather spent forty years building that business and my mom bankrupted it in eighteen months.” Brighton shook her head. “I begged her to keep the overhead expenses down, but she couldn't do the hands-on work and she hated the bookkeeping side of things. So now she's back to teaching part-time and I'm an actuary.”

Kira waited a beat, then changed the subject. “And how's your sister?”

“Back in school. She's in an accelerated accounting program. My mom's bitterly disappointed in us because we refused to follow the artist's path. What can I say? We like to eat.”

Kira tapped her finger on the top of the laminated wine list. “So you're an actuary.”

“Yes.” Brighton smiled wryly. “Don't be jealous.”

“What does an actuary do, exactly?”

“I minimize risk for the insurance company. I figure out how
much we should charge different entities for different policies, based on all kinds of statistical models and behavioral patterns.”

“Sounds . . . juicy.” Kira didn't try to hide her skepticism.

“It's very interesting,” Brighton insisted. “Plus, I get to travel.”

“Ooh, like to check out overseas markets? Africa? Asia?”

“Um, more like Cleveland and Chicago.”

“But what happened with the jewelry?” Kira asked. “I know you loved it, and you were so good at it.”

“I was never all that serious about it.” A hint of defensiveness crept into Brighton's voice. “It was fun, but it was never going to go anywhere.”

Kira waited, her head tilted. “Uh-huh.”

“Let's be real, Kira. Who actually grows up to be a jewelry designer?” Brighton pointed out her own accessories. “I don't even have cool jewelry anymore. It's all tasteful gold pendants and dainty little earrings.”

Kira rested her chin in her hands, never glancing away from Brighton's face. “You've changed.”

“I haven't.” Brighton spread out her hands. “I'm exactly the same. The eternal designated driver. Except now I have an office, a lovely condo, and an awesome dental plan.”

“And a fiancé,” Kira reminded her. “What's his name?”

“Colin.”

“I want to hear all about him.” Kira rotated her hand to indicate that Brighton should start talking. “Go.”

Brighton swallowed and tried to figure out where to start. “Well. We met at a networking breakfast two years ago. He got me the packet of sugar for my coffee.”

“Romantic.”

“It kind of was—he had to fight a line-cutting mortgage broker for it.”

“Your knight in shining armor.” Then Kira asked the question Brighton had been dreading: “What does he do?”

“He's a . . . Well, he's going to be a lawyer once he passes the bar. He's cramming all weekend, holed up with his study group.” Brighton clasped her hands next to her cheek in a mock display of sentimentality. “The actuary and the attorney, riding off into the sunset together. We'll live happily ever after with our spreadsheets and our 401(k)s.” She felt a bit chagrined, and her friend seemed to pick up on this.

“Hey, if you're happy, I'm happy,” Kira assured her. “
Are
you happy?”

Brighton finally cracked. “Listen, if I tell you something, can you keep it a secret? Put it in the vault of psychologist confidentiality or the former roommate bunker of trust or whatever?”

“Of course.”

Brighton glanced around and lowered her voice. “Do you ever do couples' counseling?”

Kira remained totally blasé. She must have heard this lead-in hundreds of times. “With some of my clients, yes.”

“Well, how do you know who's going to make it long term and who's not?” Brighton gripped the wrought iron tabletop with both ringless hands. “There have got to be signs, right? Red flags that you can see even if the couple can't?”

Kira settled back in her chair, her blue eyes kind and patient. “Why do you ask?”

“Because Colin . . .” Brighton ducked her head as her eyes flooded with tears. She knew she shouldn't be talking about this, especially to someone she hadn't seen in years, but she was desperate for an outlet for all her anxiety and confusion. “We had a huge fight
this morning—a really ridiculous, petty fight—and he asked for the ring back.”

Kira reached across the table and rested her hand atop Brighton's. “Tell me everything.”

“The whole thing was so stupid.” Brighton dabbed at her eyes with a pink paper napkin. “
So
stupid.”

•   •   •

In retrospect, Brighton could pinpoint the source of the fight as nutritional in nature. Neither she nor Colin had eaten a proper breakfast. Although she was typically fastidious about starting her day with an egg white frittata or a Greek yogurt smoothie, Colin had offered to drop her off at her office on his way out of town and she'd barely managed to brew coffee before he'd arrived because her mother had called the second she stepped out of the shower.

“Hey, Mom. How's the new job going?” Brighton had held her breath, half-afraid to hear the answer. Her mother had just moved from a low-paying adjunct teaching job in Indiana to an even lower-paying adjunct teaching job in Iowa.

“Okay.” Despite the early hour, her mother had sounded alert and upbeat. Perpetual optimism, no matter how dire the circumstances, was her mother's best and worst trait. “Settling into the new apartment.” Halfway through a description of the new teaching position, Brighton asked the question she always asked:

“Any chance this one'll turn into a full-time position?”

“I brought it up to the department chair, and she started in about budget cuts and belt-tightening. You know how it goes, honey.”

“I do know how it goes.” Brighton stifled a sigh. Her mother had been painting and teaching art history part-time for the past thirty years. She had never had dental insurance or paid vacation time, but she had always done what she loved. She'd encouraged
both her daughters to do the same—to live fully, to create and appreciate art.

And when she needed a root canal or a car repair, Brighton sent a check.

“The good news is, I get to teach Tuscan altarpieces this semester. Giotto and Cimabue and Duccio.”

“Tell them I said hi. Listen, Mom, I have to go. Colin will be here any second—”

“Sorry, hon, I know you're busy. I just wanted to ask . . .”

Brighton waited for the rest of the sentence. “Yes?”

“Nothing. It's just that Cat's tuition is due, and . . .”

“I paid it online last night.” Brighton poured coffee into a travel mug, wincing as a drop of hot liquid spilled on her thumb. “Did you really think I'd forget?”

“No. I never worry about you. You're so responsible.”

Brighton screwed on the travel mug's lid and ran her hand under cold water. “Even though I live inauthentically?”

“We can't all paint masterpieces,” her mother replied. “Every artist needs a patron.”

Brighton's door buzzer sounded. “I've got to run. Love you, Mom.”

“We need to talk,” Colin announced as the car merged onto the highway.

Commuter traffic was heavier than usual due to construction in the left lanes, and Brighton braced one hand against the dashboard as Colin slammed on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the car in front of them. “Please be careful,” she said. “What do we need to talk about?”

“The wedding.” He cursed under his breath at the hulking SUV that was tailgating the car. “You're stalling.”

“I . . . what? How can you say that? I'm setting up cake-tasting appointments for tomorrow.”

He shot her a sullen sidelong glance. “You keep moving the date back.”

“Colin.” She took a moment to suppress all the hurt and surprise. “The hotel called and said they wouldn't be done with renovations on the original schedule. If you want to change reception venues—”

“Do you?”

“Not really. We made a plan and I think we should stick to it.”

“
You
made a plan.” He laughed, the sound dry and bitter. “You always have a plan and a backup plan—just in case things don't work out.”

Brighton stared out the window and reminded herself that he was under a lot of pressure right now. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you're hedging your bets by dragging out the engagement.”

“Hedging my bets?” she repeated. “What does
that
mean?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

“Nothing.” He switched from surly to sheepish. “Sorry. I'm just stressed about the bar exam.”

Brighton reached over and rested her fingertips on his forearm. “Honey. Don't get upset, but I have to ask you something: Did you skip breakfast today?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But that has nothing to do with this.”

“With what? I don't even know what's going on.” She turned off the radio. The insistent ding of the turn signal ticked off the seconds while she waited for him to respond.

He shook her hand off and resumed muttering under his breath.

“Look.” She put her hands on one knee. “I know prepping for
the bar sucks. But it'll be over soon, and you'll never have to take it again. Want me to quiz you?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. As long as we're stuck going five miles per hour, we might as well go over real estate holding law again.” She lowered her voice to a breathy whisper. “For every question you get right between here and the office, I'll make the dinner of your choice. Even that strawberry rhubarb pie I swore I'd never make again.”

“Then we're both going to starve, because I can't understand the real estate statutes to save my life.”

“Don't be like that,” she implored. “You can do this. I know you can! You—” She sucked in her breath as the minivan next to Colin's car edged closer. “Sweetie, you're supposed to let him in.” She pointed out the van's blinking yellow turn signal.

“No way. I had to wait in line; so should he.”

Brighton abandoned all attempts at pie bribery and shifted into actuary mode. “But if everyone in our lane lets one car from that lane in, it's faster and more efficient.”

Colin hunched his shoulders and set his jaw.

“It's called a zipper merge.” Brighton kept her tone light. “They've done studies.”

“I don't care. I'm not letting him in.”

“Can I just tell you about the research I read on—”

“No.” He'd gone cold and hard and almost unrecognizable. “Doesn't your brain
ever
shut off?”

She turned in her seat to face him, bewildered. “What's going on with you? Why are you being so . . . ?”

“I'm fine.” He turned away from her, scowling toward the minivan. “Although I would like to know why you always get to make the rules and the schedule.”

She drew back. “We're supposed to be a team; I thought we agreed. You're the one who said you wanted to pass the bar before—”

“The bar is bullshit, Brighton.” He hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “The zipper merge is bullshit! All of your rules and excuses and expectations are bullshit!”