Put a Ring On It (10 page)

He looked equally surprised. “Aren't you?”

“Well, I mean, considering I did this for spite, drunk off my ass . . .”

“Yeah?”

“And you're known far and wide as the designated rebound guy who will never settle down . . .”

“Yeah?”

“And I still have no idea why you agreed to all this—feel free to fill me in, by the way . . .”

He watched her, waiting for her to finish.

“But okay.” She shrugged. “I'm fine with it if you are.”

“Then we have a deal.” He moved on to the next order of business. “Let me know what you want to do about rings.”

Before she could think about anything gold and shiny, she was distracted by sweet and scrumptious. “Ooh, waffles,” she breathed as she grabbed a brown paper bag filled with (organic, artisanal) waffle mix.

“You like waffles?” Jake asked.

“I
love
waffles.”

He tossed the mix into the cart. “Done. I'll make you waffles to go with the strawberries.”

“Oh, please. You can't make waffles,” she blurted before her mental censor could kick in.

He gave her an amused smile over his shoulder. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“You don't even know where your laundry room is. You have a driver and a jet and properties all over the world. You're like Bruce Wayne. Your house should be called Wayne Manor.”

“And Bruce Wayne doesn't make waffles?”

“I don't think he does.” She crossed her arms, trying to summon up memories of old-school
Batman
reruns.

“Just another way in which I kick Bruce Wayne's ass.” He selected parchment paper with CEO-level decisiveness.

She knew she shouldn't say anything more, but she couldn't
help herself. “Be honest: Are waffles the only thing you know how to make? And you make them for every woman who spends the night?”

Jake turned to face her. “You want honesty? If I made waffles for every woman I slept with, I'd cause a world waffle shortage. Panic in the streets.”

“This conversation, right here? This is why I'm surprised you want to tell people we're actually married. Or why you got married at all.”

“We decided it would be fun,” he reminded her. “Aren't you having fun?”

“Yes,” she conceded. “Because all of this is way outside my comfort zone. But you get to do whatever you want all day, every day.” She glanced at the spot where Mimi Sinclair had stood. “You're famous among single women all along the Eastern Seaboard. I don't mean this in a low-self-esteem way, but you could do better than me, and we both know it.”

“That sounds pretty low-self-esteemy to me.”

“Start talking, Sorensen. Why'd you marry me? Why me, why now, why all of this?”

“I never took a philosophy class, but this is what I imagine it'd be like.”

“Don't sidestep the question.” She positioned herself in front of the shopping cart so he couldn't escape her interrogation. “I want you to tell me what's really going on.”

He turned the smolder back on to distract her. She could
see
him do it. One second, she was thinking about how to make him talk, and the next second, she was thinking about stripping his shirt off and running her hands along his—

Damn pheromones.

“Brighton.” Even his
voice
smoldered. “We're having a great time together. Can't we relax and enjoy?”

“If you actually knew me, you'd know how ridiculous that question is.” She had to laugh. “‘Relax and enjoy' is not how I operate.”

“Until now. Welcome to your screw-up summer.”

She edged closer to him. Closer. “Stop changing the subject.”

“Let's go home and make waffles,” he said. “And whatever else your heart desires.”

“What about potatoes?” she asked. “Can you make potatoes?”

“Mashed, roasted, or boiled.”

“What about seafood?” she challenged. “Halibut with fancy chutney? Crab cakes? Lobster mac and cheese?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

She tried to decide if he was kidding. “How did you learn to cook like that?”

He kind of shrugged. “I was in Mexico for six months on business—this was a few years ago—and I almost got kidnapped. So after that, I had to stay in the compound all day every day, and I was bored.”

Brighton was inching ever closer to him. She could smell his freshly laundered shirt. “You're making this up. This is confabulation at its finest.”

He raised his hand as if taking an oath. “True story. Kidnapping corporate guys for ransom was a big thing for a while. They used to call it ‘millionaire tours.'”

“Millionaire tours,” she repeated.

“Yeah. It's a big thing with insurance companies—I'm surprised you haven't heard about it.”

“Why were you in Mexico?” she demanded. “Specifically?”

“I was overseeing construction of a resort. I've done some projects with this Mexican billionaire who develops luxury resorts and shopping centers. Javier Mendoza. Makes me look like a pauper. My guys were supplying and pouring the concrete.”

“Do I even want to know how you got connected with a Mexican billionaire when you live in Delaware?”

“I have a summer home in Delaware,” he corrected her.

“Where do you live when it's not summer?” She was kind of afraid to hear the answer.

“I have apartments in New York, London, and D.C.”

“The better to network with government officials who want sand shipped to Saudi Arabia,” Brighton said. “And how did you and Javier join forces?”

“We met at a gallery opening–fund-raiser thing in Manhattan. I was there with a date; he was there trying to break into the East Coast old boys' club. But he never could, even though he's smarter and richer than most of them. In those circles, having money isn't enough. You have to have social currency, too. He doesn't belong to the right social clubs and he speaks with an accent, so he and I ended up talking.”

“And your relationship with him outlasted your relationship with your date from that night.”

“She had a good time,” he assured Brighton. “But yes, Javier and I have been working together for years now.”

“And almost got kidnapped.”

“Good times, good times.” Jake smiled at the memories. “We'd send the guards to the market for ingredients and then spend all night cooking. Javier makes the best
asado de bodas
.”

“Your life is like
Proof of Life
meets
Sex and the City
,” Brighton marveled. “Meets
Top Chef
.”

“I'll take you to Mexico next time I go down there. You'll like
Javier. When he sets a goal, he gets it done. No matter how long it takes or how many obstacles are in the way.”

“Sounds like you.” Brighton straightened her shoulders. “Which leads me to the next topic of discussion.”

Jake finished tossing things in the cart and headed toward the cash register. She hurried to keep pace with him and gathered her hair back into a bun.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “The hair is going up. Shit is about to get real.”

“Yes, it is.” Brighton took a deep breath. “Because if you won't talk about love, then we definitely have to talk about money.”

“I
feel like I should be wearing a suit for this conversation,” Jake said.

“I bet you look great in a suit. I'd like to see that someday in the near future.” Brighton let her mind wander for a moment. “But that's not the point. The point is money.” She tried to sound brisk and businesslike.

He stopped in front of a stack of fair-trade coffee canisters and regarded her with a mix of exasperation and amusement. “What about it?”

“Well.” She cleared her throat. “You obviously have some.”

He nodded.

“And so do I. Not as much as you, obviously, but I've worked hard for what I have.”

He nodded again.

She wanted to stop talking sense and go back to the suit
fantasies, but she forced herself to keep going. “We did, technically, get married. So all boozy fun and hot sex aside—”

He grinned. “It is pretty hot.”

The suit fantasies gave way to naked fantasies. “
That aside
, we need to acknowledge the reality that marriage has legal and financial ramifications.”

“Tell me what's bothering you, Brighton.” He rested one hand on her shoulder and maintained eye contact. “Be specific. I'll take care of it.”

“This is more like a one-night stand than a marriage. Which is not a bad thing; so far it's been great.” She studied the coffee labels. “But given the formalities that went down at the drive-through, we should follow up with more legal documents. We need to find an attorney who can draft a post-nup.”

He blinked down at her, his expression unreadable. “You're worried I married you for your money?”

“No!” she sputtered. “Obviously not. Although, now that you mention it, in the interest of due diligence, I should ask if there's any chance you're living beyond your means and are about to go down in flames like a Wall Street investment bank circa 2007. You can tell me. I won't be mad.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “No.”

“You're sure?”

He kept staring at her. “Yes.”

“All the more reason to make sure you're protected. You have a lot of assets to consider.”

“I'll consider them. You don't have to.” He gave her shoulder one last squeeze, then proceeded to the cash register, where he paid for and bagged the groceries with efficiency that rivaled even Brighton's.

“You can't be fine with all this,” Brighton insisted as she trailed behind him out to the sidewalk. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know we have fun.” He stopped at an intersection and took her hand. “In bed and out of it.”

“How can you possibly trust me?” she cried. Her agitation increased in direct proportion to his nonchalance. “Maybe I'm a consummate gold digger who's out for all I can get.”

He laughed and led the way across the street.

“This isn't funny!” She extricated her hand from his. “What the hell is wrong with you? I mean, the beach house and the apartments in D.C. and New York and your corporate jet . . . are you really willing to risk all that?”

When they reached the curb on the other side of the street, he stopped, turned toward her, and did the laser-beam-focus routine. He moved closer, until she could feel his cheek brush against hers. “I'll let you in on a secret. I don't care. You want the beach house that bad? Take it. It's yours.”

She pulled back, frowning. “What do you mean, you don't care? Of course you do.”

His eyes darkened. “That's the secret to success. You have to not care if you lose sometimes.”

She went silent in the sea-scented breeze. “Well, for someone who doesn't care about stuff, you sure have a lot of it.”

His voice remained soft, but for the first time since they'd met, he seemed remote and unyielding. “I realized years ago that no matter how much I have, it'll never be enough. So now I
make
investments; I don't invest.”

Brighton decided to use one of his own tactics on him—she got flippant. “Is this the part where you finally tell me about your dark and tortured past?”

She held her breath, aware that she'd just ventured into dangerous territory. She'd pushed too far and now she was going to find out what happened when the charming, casual Jake Sorensen got angry.

But he didn't do anything. He stood motionless for a moment, squinting in the sunlight reflected off a store window, and then that cold anger melted into a rakish smile.

“If I had a dark, tortured past, believe me, I'd exploit it to the fullest.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I work, I make money, I have fun. That's it.”

Brighton crossed her arms. “I'm not buying it. You built an empire from the ground up—there has to be more to you than money and good bone structure.”

“I wish there was.” He looked forlorn. “If I were you, I'd get my gold digger on and snag a beach house or two while the snagging's good.”

Before she could try a new interrogation technique, a voice interrupted: “Hey, Sorensen! Get over here!”

Lila had stepped out of the Naked Finger and was waving both arms to flag them down.

Brighton glanced at Jake. “You don't think she's heard about us already?”

“Everyone's heard everything. Guaranteed.” He rolled his neck as if prepping for a boxing match. “Let's go.”

Together as husband and wife, they did the walk of shame through the shop's glass door. The little blue showroom was lined on all sides with glittering gems and precious metals.

“Well, well, well.” Lila put both hands on her hips like a parent about to ground two curfew-breaking teenagers. “So the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?” Brighton feigned innocence. “What have you heard?”

“I told you,” Jake said. He put down the grocery bags and gave Lila a quick hug. “I tried to tell her about the way this town works.”

Lila looked both delighted and scandalized. “You two actually got married?”

They nodded.

“For real?” Lila pressed. “You signed legal documents to this effect?”

“Do you need me to send you a certified copy of the marriage certificate?” Jake asked.

“Maybe you'd better.”

He nodded knowingly. “You and Malcolm had a bet going that I'd never get married, didn't you? And you just lost.”

“This whole town's had a pool going for years. Why couldn't you have waited two more years? I could have made a killing!” Lila shook her fist. “Is this a sign of the impending apocalypse? Should I start stockpiling bottled water and canned goods?”

Brighton shook her head. “No need. It's temporary. We're having a fourteen-night stand.”

“Thirty-night stand,” Jake muttered.

Brighton ignored this. “The paperwork was just to prove a point.”

“What was the point?” Lila asked. Before Brighton could respond, she glanced at their hands and practically started jumping for joy. “You don't have rings yet? You've come to the right place.”

Jake's phone buzzed, and as he started reading an e-mail, he kind of lifted his chin in Brighton's direction. “She's the jewelry person. Whatever she wants is great. I'll pay.”

“Ah, romance.” Brighton walked over to Lila. “We don't really need rings.”

“You got married, didn't you?” Lila rubbed her palms together. “This is going to be fun. You need something bold and dazzling. Something that proclaims to the world, ‘I married Jake Sorensen and I'm loving every minute of it.'”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Brighton cautioned. “It hasn't even been two full days.”

Lila waved away her protests. “I just got in a stunning three-carat brilliant-cut solitaire. Ideal cut, VVS1 clarity, G color—”

“Three carats?” Brighton almost choked. “No, no, no. That's way too big for me. And way too expensive.”

Lila glanced over at Jake. “Hi. Have you met your husband?”

“Buy it,” Jake yelled from across the room.

“Read your e-mail and mind your business,” Brighton yelled back. To Lila, she said, “Look at the outfit I'm wearing right now. Do I strike you as a three-carat eye-gouger kind of gal?”

“You got Jake Sorensen to marry you,” Lila stated flatly. “Rules don't apply to you.” She pulled out a glittering diamond ring from under the counter.

“That is gorgeous,” Brighton conceded. “For someone else.”

“Then how about this?” Lila handed over a small marquise-shaped diamond in a wide yellow gold band. “We can reset the stone in platinum.”

“It's a little eighties.”

“I know, damn it.” Lila snapped her fingers, foiled again. “I have five of these now and no one wants to buy them. Marquises aren't in fashion right now.”

“You have five?” Brighton studied the stone. “Could you put them together to make a new piece? Like a cross pendant? Or maybe earrings flanked with trillions?”

Lila regarded her with renewed interest. “Yes, yes I could.
If
I had a designer to do it.”

“Oh, it'll be easy.” Brighton waved her hand. “Bring out the pieces and I'll show you.”

Lila fetched the diamonds, along with a pad and a pen. Brighton glanced at the stones and started sketching a few possible designs.

“You're going to freehand?” Lila asked, a note of awe in her voice.

“Sure. I'm not certified or anything, but I can sketch, do basic design on the computer, make wax molds, do polishing and engraving, that sort of thing.”

“So you
are
a jewelry designer.”

Brighton shook her head. “Not really.”

Before Lila could argue, the phone next to the cash register rang. While Lila picked up and greeted her caller, Jake joined Brighton by the jewelry case. “What's going on?”

“Nothing.” Brighton tilted her head and considered the placement of the hypothetical trillions. “Just fooling around.”

Lila's tone sharpened. “You want me to do
what
? For
when
?” The sweet brunette's expression looked panicked. “Wait, slow down. What happened? You were where? Uh-huh, uh-huh, okay. But . . . Yes, but . . . Well, do you have a photo I could work off of, at least? I see. Listen, I'm with a customer right now. May I call you back in five minutes? Okay.”

“What?” Jake asked when she hung up.

“That was some guy who lives in Bethany Beach,” Lila explained. “He just lost his wedding band and he wants to know if I can make an exact replica by Wednesday at noon.”

“What happens Wednesday at noon?” Brighton asked.

“He sees his wife,” Jake guessed.

Lila nodded. “She's coming back from a business trip. He says he'll pay whatever I ask, but he doesn't have any pictures I can work from.”

“Are you sure?” Brighton nodded at the computer in the corner. “Does he have a Facebook profile? If he does, you should look at the pictures where you can see his ring finger and zoom in.”

Lila looked impressed. “Let me call him back and have him
friend me on Facebook.” She hesitated as her hand hovered over the phone. “I'm going to hell, aren't I?”

Jake laughed. “Why would you be going to hell?”

“Because I shouldn't be aiding and abetting a cheater.”

“Who said that you are?” Jake asked. “You don't know the facts of the case.”

“Come on. This guy went carousing without his wedding ring and now he's trying to make sure his wife never finds out. I
hate
cheaters.” Lila turned to Brighton. “My ex-husband was a cheater.”

“You can't be sure of that,” Jake pointed out. “For all you know, the ring could have fallen off and rolled away. It's unlikely, but it could have happened. Bottom line, it doesn't matter.”

“How can you say that?” Brighton protested. “Don't you have any morals at all?”

Jake ignored this and focused only on the issue at hand. “If you want to run a business, you can't make value judgments on your customers.”

“But . . .” Lila frowned. “But
cheating
.”

Jake shrugged. “Do you want to be the cheating police or do you want to be a successful jeweler?”

Brighton recoiled a bit. “Who
are
you?”

“A guy who runs successful businesses.” He glanced at his phone again. “Speaking of which, I've got to run.”

“You do that.” Lila all but shoved him out the door. “Run along and don't come back, because I'm keeping her.”

“You can't keep her,” Jake said. “She's mine.”

“Then you're going to have to share,” Lila informed Jake. To
Brighton, she said, “You're hired whether you like it or not. Don't try to escape.”

“But I'm only here for the next two weeks,” Brighton said.

“Thirty days,” Jake intoned as he strode out the door.

“Then you're hired for two weeks,” Lila decreed. “Starting right now. Want to track down this ring on Facebook and make a wax mold?”