Put a Ring On It (6 page)

“What do I want?” She mulled this over for a moment. And then the answer presented itself. “A shot of whisky.”

He frowned. “But you just said . . .”

“Forget what I said. I changed my mind again. Come on, do one shot with me.”

He rested his hand on the bar behind her. “This is a bad idea.”

“Good.” She angled her shoulder until she pressed into his arm. “It will change the whole trajectory of today. Instead of remembering this as the night Colin married someone else, I'll remember it as the night that I did shots of whisky and threw up all over the hot guy with the great watch. Bartender, two shots of . . .” She turned to Jake. “What kind of whisky is good?”

“You're going to hate it all,” he predicted.

“Okay, well, what kind will I hate the least?”

“Try this.” He handed her his glass. “It's Macallan.”

She peered down at the amber liquid. “I thought that was scotch.”

“It's scotch whisky.” He smiled at her evident confusion. “What we call scotch is really whisky from Scotland.”

“What?”

“As opposed to whisky from Kentucky, which is bourbon, or whiskey from Ireland, which is whiskey with an
e
.”

“Whisky, Scotch, and bourbon are all the same thing?” Brighton stared at him. “My mind is blown. I learned something new today.”

“Great. Now taste something new.” He tapped the glass in her hand.

She took a tiny sip of the Macallan and gagged. “Maybe I'll stick with champagne.”

“That should cut down on the throwing-up factor.” He caught the bartender's eye and signaled for a refill of Brighton's glass.

“You are a refreshing change of pace from the men I normally
meet.” She rested her cheek against his arm for a moment, then picked up his wrist and tried to discern the time through the watch's cloudy, scratched glass faceplate. “You could fix that, you know,” she murmured up at him. “
I
could fix that.”

For the first time, he moved away from her, freeing his wrist from her grasp. “I don't want to.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “It has so much potential. It could be amazing.”

“Potential is a myth,” he said. “I'd rather deal with the here and now.”

“Me, too.” Her whole body felt flushed, and for a moment, she imagined she was a different kind of woman. The kind of woman who could work a skirt suit and closed-toed pumps like a backless dress and stilettos. The kind of woman who let good-looking bad boys buy her drinks on a school night. “The here and now is really working for me.”

•   •   •

Two and a half glasses of champagne later . . .

Brighton shrugged out of her suit jacket and rested her bare elbows on the glossy black bar top. “This is the best night ever!” She beamed at Jake, who now sat on the stool next to hers. Their shoulders, arms, and thighs pressed together as they surveyed a growing collection of empty glasses. “Are you having fun?”

He paused long enough to drain the rest of his Macallan. “Yeah.”

“Good—you definitely did not look like you were having fun when we first got here.”

“I'm making up for it now.”

“Oops.” She frowned as she felt one shoe slip off her foot and tumbled to the floor. “So? What next?”

He inclined his head. “You tell me.”

“No, no, no. I've made enough bad decisions already today.” She yawned. “
You
tell
me
.”

“If you're done here, I can call a car to take you back to wherever you're staying.”

“That's it?” She couldn't keep the disappointment out of her voice. “You chat me up, buy me drinks, and now you're just sending me back to breakup purgatory?” She shook her head in despair. “It's this outfit, isn't it? And the pearl earrings? And the fact that my name isn't Genevieve and I don't wear thongs?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off by pressing her index finger to his lips. “It's because I'm a normal person with a normal job and a normal life and you're, like, some indolent rich guy who looks like he should have a British accent and a vast estate in Provence.”

His lips twitched. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“You're also clearly bored out of your mind.”

“I assure you, I'm not bored right now.”

“No, I mean in general.
Ennui
: You have it.” She gave up searching for her shoe as she sank back in her seat and crossed her legs. “So don't waste the whole night buying me drinks and being agreeable.
Do
something with me.” Her voice held a note of rebellion she hardly recognized. “I dare you. Do something with me that you've never done with anyone else.”

He gave her a look she couldn't quite decipher. “I've done a lot of things with a lot of women.”

“I'm sure you have. Hence the ennui.” She circled the crystal of his disintegrating watch with her index finger. This time, he didn't pull away. “Get creative. As long as we don't end up in a cop car or the emergency room, I'm game.”

An obviously drunk guy wearing a white baseball cap and the desperate miasma of an over-the-hill frat boy descended upon them.

“Jaaake,” he slurred. “Jake, my man, Jake Sorensen.”

Jake acknowledged him with a nod and a tight half smile. “How are you, Buddy?”

Buddy turned to Brighton with a leer. “Who's your lady of the evening?”

Her champagne buzz evaporated as she assembled all her social defenses. “Brighton Smith.” She tried to appear sober as she offered a handshake.

Buddy blinked at her with bleary eyes. “That's a weird name.”

She and Jake exchanged a look. “So I've been told.”

“You look like you're all business, honey.” Buddy's breath smelled like the floor of a tavern. “Are you hooking up with this guy or taking a deposition?”

“Good seeing you, Buddy.” Jake got to his feet and offered his hand to Brighton. “We're on our way out.”

“I bet you are.” Buddy practically fell over in his attempt to convey
wink-wink-nudge-nudge
solidarity. He recovered his balance, then warned Brighton, “Don't get attached.”

Brighton gave him a flat, cold stare.

“This guy isn't relationship material.” Buddy slung one arm around Jake's shoulder. “You and me, man. We're alike.”

Jake had to use both hands to extricate himself from the man-hug. “See you later.”

“We're both
wounded
.” Buddy grabbed Jake's shirtfront. “No one understands us.”

Brighton stifled a laugh. Jake looked appalled.

As Buddy rambled on, Brighton collected her bag and lost shoe. Jake finally escaped the existential frat boy's clutches and hustled her out of the bar. “Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize.” Brighton couldn't help laughing at his obvious horror. “I understand. You secretly wounded man-whores have to stick together.”

He scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand. “Buddy and I are not the same.”

“Well, obviously not. You're way better looking.”

“That's true.”

The note of challenge crept back into her voice. “Back to what I was saying. Defend your title as ‘designated rebound guy.' What are you going to do for a type A corporate drone whose trusty, dependable fiancé just married some stranger with no warning?”

Jake looked at Brighton. Brighton looked at Jake.

“Let's get married,” he suggested in the same tone he might use to ask if she wanted to grab a soda.

She held his gaze for a long moment. “You're insane. And drunk.”

“So are you,” he pointed out. “You said you wanted to do something I've never done with any other woman.”

She maintained eye contact, trying to assess how serious he was.

He looked pretty serious.

“You're bluffing,” she said.

He didn't blink. “Try me.”

“You don't even know my middle name.” She furrowed her brow as she considered the logistics. “And it's Friday night. Even if we did agree to get married, there's no possible way. All the courthouses are closed.”

He pulled out his smartphone with an air of determination. “Prepare to watch an indolent rich guy get to work.”

“A
re you
sure
this is safe?” Brighton asked for the third time as she checked her seat belt and crossed her ankles.

“Yes.” Jake settled into his expansive leather seat. “Calm down. You said you were game, remember?”

“But small aircraft have a terrible safety record.” Brighton had to speak up to be heard over the hum of the engine.

“Yeah, Gulfstream is famous for cutting corners.” Jake shook his head. “It's a miracle I'm still alive.”

“You mock me, but I speak the truth.” Brighton ticked off the facts on her fingers. “Statistically, private planes are at much higher risk for loss of control, mechanical failure, collision with terrain . . .” She clutched the sumptuous padded armrest. “Aren't you looking forward to being married to a woman who memorizes aircraft safety statistics?”

“We're not married yet,” he reminded her. “If you want to talk
stats, I'd say there's a ninety-five percent chance you'll lose your nerve before this deal is actually done.”

“No way,” she swore.

“We'll see.”

“I've never been on a private jet before.” Brighton surveyed the gray leather upholstery, the polished walnut wall panels, the luxurious cashmere throws, the flat-screen TV. “This is crazy. Who the hell are you that you have your own jet?”

“It's not mine,” Jake said. “Technically, it belongs to my company.”

“Indolent Rich Guy, Inc.? Seriously, how did you get all this?”

He merely smiled in response and nodded at the bottle of red wine on the table. “You should try that. It's great.”

“I can't. Not if we're actually going to go through with this.” She tightened her seat belt one more time for good measure. “You have to be sober to get married in Vegas. All those Hollywood movies about drunken weddings are factually inaccurate.” She tapped her phone screen. “So says Google.”

“What?” He sat up straighter. “What the hell is the point of going to Vegas to get married in the middle of the night
sober
?”

“I'm just guessing, but maybe they don't want people making terrible choices with random strangers because of too much champagne.”

He considered this, then shrugged. “It'll be fine. Keep drinking if you want.”

She shook her head. “But—”

“Even if there's a sobriety checkpoint at the altar, I know a guy.”

“You know a guy?”

He pulled out his wallet. “Benjamin Franklin.”

“Seriously?” She rolled her eyes. “You think you can buy your way around the rules?”

Again with that heart-melting smile. “You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“Well . . .” Brighton held out her glass for some wine. “I guess if I'm going to be irresponsible, I might as well do it right.”

“That's the spirit.” He took a sip from her glass, then passed it back to her.

“So . . . one of the drive-through chapels?” she suggested.

“I like it.”

“And then we can go get fries.”

“Done.” Jake pulled out his phone. “I'll have a plan in place by the time we land.”

“You can plan an impromptu wedding after drinking this much?” She stumbled over the pronunciation of “impromptu.”

“I haven't had that much.”

“Yeah, I guess I'm drinking enough for the both of us.” She blinked. “Are we really doing this?”

He didn't glance up from his phone. “It's your call.”

“Because I'm only doing this for spite, you know.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“You don't have a problem with that?”

“Nope.”

“But . . . I'll be your
wife
.” The word sounded so strange in her mouth.

“That's usually how it goes after a wedding.”

She tilted her head, assessing him through the shadows. “Why are
you
doing this?”

He held up his index finger and started talking on the phone. For the next few minutes, Brighton gazed out the window at the blinking lights on the wing while Jake talked marriage license logistics.

“So what are we going to do for the next few hours?” Brighton
asked when Jake hung up. “Besides go through all the wine they have on board? It's a long flight, right?”

“A few hours.” He reached into a drawer and produced a deck of cards. “Want to play blackjack?”

“Sure. Give me a quick rundown on the rules.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “You don't know how to play blackjack? A midnight Vegas trip is wasted on you.”

“Tell me the rules. I love rules. And I'm really good with numbers and statistics.”

He seemed skeptical.

“Come on, tell me the rules and deal the cards. You might want to go grab some Kleenex, because I'm going to beat you so bad, you'll be crying just like my bar-exam-failing fiancé.” She hiccupped. “
Ex
-fiancé.”

•   •   •

After losing her twentieth game of blackjack, Brighton's memory of the night's events got a bit blurry. Which was too bad, because she was sure that arriving at a private airfield and being whisked away in a limo were very exciting and glamorous.

The good news was, she was no longer thinking about Colin—or anything else related to her real life. In a matter of hours, she'd gone from total burnout to jet-setting party girl.

“My shirt has red wine on it,” she lamented as the limo cruised down the neon-lit Vegas strip.

“I'd say that's the least of your problems right now.” Sprawled out on the seat next to her, Jake was trying—and failing—to conceal the fact that he was completely wasted.

“You may have a point.” She kept dabbing at her cream-colored blouse with one of the wet wipes she always carried in her bag. Looking at her naked fingers under the traffic lights reminded her: “What are we going to do for rings?”

“Whatever you want. After we hit the drive-through, we can go pick something out. I'll buy you the biggest, blingiest diamond in Nevada.”

“Eh, I'd rather get fries.” As if on cue, her stomach growled. “I'm starving. Besides, I doubt we'll be married long enough to actually wear the rings. It'd be a waste.”

His expression was almost pitying. “It's not a waste if it's fun.”

“Yeah, but . . .” She threw up her hands. “How long do you think we'll last, anyway?”

Jake shrugged. “Haven't really thought about it.”

“We have to last longer than Colin and his new bride,” Brighton decided. “You can date other people if you want to, but there's no way I'm filing for divorce until he does.”

“It's good to have a goal.”

“This is a huge mistake,” she said cheerfully. “But you know, it's kind of exciting. Getting drunk. Marrying a stranger. I have a feeling . . .”

“Yes?”

She flung out her arms. “This is the beginning of what shall be known as my screw-up summer. I'll act out and make mistakes and not care what anyone thinks.” The whole world was spinning. All she could see were streaks of dark and light and bright colors. “I'm really looking forward to it.”

“You'll have stories to tell your grandkids one day.”

“Oh, I'll never be able to tell my grandkids anything about it. That's the point.” She stifled a huge yawn. “Thanks for being the catalyst for chaos and self-indulgence.”

He patted her knee. “Happy to help.”

Brighton bounced in her seat as the limo arrived at a white sign emblazoned with two interlocking yellow rings. “We made it.” She reached across the seat, took Jake's hand in hers, and stared deep into his eyes. “Last chance to bail.”

“I'm not bailing,” he vowed. “I'm in if you're in.”

“Then get your bribery cash out and let's do this.”

But there was a line at the drive-through—a rusty pickup truck and a red convertible idled in front of the limo.

“Damn,” Brighton muttered. “There should be a VIP lane at the drive-through chapel. Can't your people get us an E-ZPass?”

“We're looking at a ten-minute wait, tops.”

“I know, but we need to get this over with before I lose my nerve.” The pickup truck's brake lights flickered, and Brighton bounced in her seat. “Okay, here we go. Five minutes and counting.” She fumbled for her bag. “I swear I had a stain stick in here somewhere.”

“Let it go.” Jake pulled her other hand into his.

She leaned in toward him, basking in the hormones and the buzz. “We're about to get married and we haven't even kissed yet.”

“I can cross that off your list right now.” He tilted his head.

But she forced herself to pull back. “Not yet. We waited this long. Might as well wait five more minutes 'til we make it legal.”

He laughed. “An old-fashioned girl.”

“Practically Victorian.” Brighton dug her cell phone out of her bag and turned on the camera feature. “As long as we're stuck in traffic, I have a few texts to send a certain ex.”