Put a Ring On It (9 page)

T
he next morning Brighton woke up alone, surrounded by tangled white sheets and empty bottles of Gatorade. She could glimpse slices of ocean, sky, and sand through the slats in the white wooden shutters that covered the glass doors leading out to the balcony.

Before she had time to start speculating as to Jake's whereabouts, he appeared at the bedroom door. “Oh good,” he said. “You're awake.”

“I'm awake.” She stretched both arms toward the ceiling, then let them fall back on the pillows. “I can't remember the last time I slept so well. The ocean is the best white-noise machine ever.”

“I've got some conference calls later this afternoon, but I'm all yours this morning.” He walked over to the nightstand and put down a mug of coffee.

She clapped her hand to her heart. “You made coffee for me?”

“I figured you might be ready for a break from Gatorade.”

“Coffee is perfect.
You
are perfect.” The words slipped out
before her better judgment kicked in. “Which I know is impossible. Would you please just tell me what's wrong with you, already? Come on. Get it over with.”

He sat at the foot of the bed, giving her his full attention without crowding her. “What do you feel like doing today? I can show you around town.”

She'd come to view Jake as some sort of nocturnal, man-whoring superhero. He didn't do mundane things like show a visitor around town. He was . . . well, he was Jake Sorensen: larger than life and less than human.

Brighton tried to come up with a suggestion that didn't involve private jets or drive-through chapels. Something normal. Something she might do with Colin. “Well . . .”

“You'll need something to wear,” he pointed out.

“My overnight bag is still in my car, which is still parked by the Whinery.” She paused. “I hope. Maybe I can get one more day out of this suit?” She wrinkled her nose as she glanced at the floor, where her skirt, blazer, blouse, and shoes were strewn across the rug.

“You can't,” he decreed.

She draped a sheet around her shoulders like an oversize poncho, clambered out of bed, and started picking up the wrinkled clothes. “I have a Tide stick in my bag. All I need is an iron.”

“I don't have an iron.”

“You don't
use
an iron or you don't
have
an iron?”

“I've never seen an iron in this house.”

“Are you sure? Look at the shirt you're wearing right now.” She pointed at his deceptively well-tailored casual blue button-down.

“Dry cleaner pressed it,” he said.

“How do you know? Did you take it to the dry cleaner yourself?”

“Uh . . .”

“I didn't think so. You have a housekeeper, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you have a laundry room?”

He looked almost abashed. “Somewhere around here.”

“Then I guarantee you own an iron.” She gathered up her clothes. “Lead the way.”

“You're making this harder than it has to be,” he protested. “I'm happy to buy you new clothes. You can throw out the suit and be done with it.” He glanced at her strand of pearls, which was still fastened around her neck. “Keep the pearls, though.”

“I'm not going to throw out a five-hundred-dollar suit just because it got a little wrinkled from sleeping on your private jet.”

“But—”

“Fine, I'll find the laundry room myself.” She marched down the stairs, the sheet trailing behind her like the train of a wedding gown.

As predicted, Jake Sorensen owned an iron. He also owned a top-of-the-line washer and dryer, complete with a steamy “wrinkle care” setting and magical dry-cleaning abilities. Brighton's black suit was restored to like-new condition. The cream silk blouse . . . well, luckily the blazer covered the wine stain. Sort of.

She returned to the bedroom holding her freshly steamed clothes.

“I guess I do own an iron.” Jake sounded awed. “I'll be damned.”

“You own an iron,” she confirmed. “But as it turned out, I didn't need it. Your dryer has rendered ironing obsolete. Well played.”

“We should stock the kitchen for you,” he said. “Let's go to the grocery store.”

Going to the grocery store was definitely a Colin activity.

Brighton sank down on the edge of the bed. “Oh. Okay.”

“Don't sound so excited,” he drawled as he headed back to the hallway. “See you downstairs.”

As she hurried to shower and dress, she tried to identify the twisting, almost nauseated feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was the same sensation she'd had as a child after a day at the carnival, gorging herself on cotton candy and whirling around on midway rides. She was about to return to reality and she didn't want to.

But her husband (!!!) was waiting to go to the grocery store with her. So she swiped on some lipstick, combed out her damp hair, and tried to imagine what on earth a guy like Jake Sorensen might purchase in the produce section.

•   •   •

“Twelve-dollar strawberries?” Brighton gaped at the little chalkboard sign announcing the price of the “handpicked” berries. “No way. That's obscene.”

Jake grabbed the nearest carton of berries and placed it in the shopping cart. “Do you like strawberries?”

“Yeah, but I don't like them twelve dollars' worth.” Brighton reclaimed the berries and put them back with the others. She had passed several large chain grocery stores on her drive into town on Friday, but Jake had opted for a little gourmet shop by the boardwalk. Everything in there was organic and/or artisanal and/or handcrafted, with price tags to match.

Jake dismissed her protest with a roll of his eyes and placed the berries back in the cart.

Brighton called for a time-out. “Wait. Seriously. We are not buying twelve-dollar strawberries. That's highway robbery.”

He grinned. “Don't think of them as twelve-dollar strawberries—think of them as hand-selected, sun-drenched, locally-sourced strawberries that
only
cost twelve dollars.”

“That's a pretty good sales pitch,” she admitted.

“Thank you. And I'm paying for them, so you don't get a vote anyway.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Really.”

“Really.” He nodded, as if this settled everything, and glanced around the aisles. “What else do you like? Sweet corn? Tomatoes?”

“Do we have to pay for the tomatoes in Krugerrands?” she asked.

“I'll take that as a yes.” He tossed some vine-ripened tomatoes into the cart.

“Hold on.” She trailed behind him as he worked his way through the aisles in an efficient, systematic fashion. “I'm not done with the strawberries yet.”

“Yeah, you are.” He all but patted her on the head.

“I am not. First of all, I can buy my own berries.” She held up her hand to hold off his rebuttal. “But it's not about the money; it's about the principle.”

He scoffed. “Whenever anyone says that, it's about the money. Always.”

“That's not true.”

He pulled her in for a quick kiss. “Stop arguing before I add a ten-dollar box of blueberries and seventy-five bucks' worth of raspberries.”

She felt her resolve crumbling as she kissed him back. “I just feel like it's excessive and morally wrong to pay that much for what should cost three dollars. Five dollars, tops.”

“I'm excessive. Deal with it.” Jake moved along to the next aisle. “Let's figure out what we're having for lunch.”

She glanced at a display of jam jars topped with gingham cloth and ribbons. “What do you eat, besides, like, beluga caviar and snifters of brandy?”

He added artisanal cheese and organic wine to the cart. “I prefer burgers to beluga caviar. And what the hell is a snifter?”

Brighton had to think about this. “I'm actually not sure. A billionaire's shot glass?”

“Well, if it isn't Jake Sorensen!” A tiny, trim, middle-aged blonde, decked out in heels, diamonds, and a pink and green dress, rounded the corner. “I didn't realize you were still in town.”

“Can't stay away.” He gave the woman a smile and she simpered. Even this blow-dried, buttoned-up, Lilly Pulitzer devotee couldn't resist Jake Sorensen's swagger. The woman was all but fanning her face.

“And will you be staying for the rest of the summer?” she asked, sidling closer as the tractor beam sucked her in.

Jake shrugged, rakish smile still in place. “Unknown.”

The woman was eyeing Brighton with rapacious interest, and Brighton did her best to fade into the background and slink away to spare everyone the awkwardness of—

“This is Brighton.” Jake placed his palm on Brighton's back, thwarting her escape attempt. “My wife. Brighton, this is Mimi Sinclair. The Sinclairs are building a new house a few doors down from ours.”

Mimi Sinclair made a remarkably poor attempt to conceal her shock. “Your wife? Well! I hadn't heard you were engaged.”

Jake leaned over and kissed the top of Brighton's head in a display of husbandly affection. “It was very recent.”

Her eyebrows shot up as far as the limits of Botox would allow.
“Really.”

“Really.”

“Then I suppose I shan't be hearing about your exploits at the Whinery anymore?” The woman's smile looked almost serrated. She raked her gaze up and down Brighton. “You're certainly a . . . refreshing change from his usual type, aren't you?”

Brighton started coughing.

“There must have been an official day of mourning for single women all along the Eastern Seaboard. Well, best wishes to you both.” Mimi captured Brighton's hand in both of hers. Her skin felt buttery smooth, her fingernails glossy and sharp. “I'd love to send a gift. Where are you registered, darling?”

“Oh, we didn't do any of that.” Brighton tried and failed to free her hand from Mimi's manicured talons. “Everything was very spur-of-the-moment.” She glanced up at Jake.

“It was love at first sight,” he said solemnly.

“A whirlwind romance.” Brighton tried to look earnest and naïve. “What can I say? When you know, you know.”

Mimi narrowed her eyes and flared her nostrils, a gossip hound picking up a fresh scent. “No ring, I see.”

When Jake laughed, Brighton could feel the warm rumble against her. “We eloped to Vegas on Friday night,” he said. “Just couldn't help ourselves.”

“But we're going to take our time designing the rings,” Brighton added. “We want them to be special and one of a kind.”

“Just like our love.” Jake managed to keep a straight face.

Mimi appeared both horrified and delighted. “You're quite fascinating.” She continued her appraisal of Brighton. “Do you happen to have a business card or a pen? I'll be in touch directly to invite you both to dinner.” She waited for Brighton to provide her contact information and then walked away, looking back over her shoulder so many times that she nearly collided with a display of gluten-free scones.

“Did you hear that?” Brighton turned to Jake. “I'm
fascinating
.”

But his attention had gotten snagged earlier in the conversation. “Did she actually say ‘shan't'?”

As they made their way to the bread aisle, she spotted Mimi Sinclair again. The society matron was on her cell phone, hunched
over her shopping cart handle and murmuring with fevered intensity. When she noticed Brighton, she straightened up, waved, and cast a pointed look at her midsection.

“Oh my God.” Brighton nudged Jake. “She thinks I'm pregnant. She thinks this was a shotgun wedding.”

He shrugged. “So?”

“So doesn't that bother you?”

“Nope. Does it bother you?”

Brighton considered this for a moment. “No. Which is weird, because I'm used to doing everything in the right order. I.e., first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby carriage.”

“First ‘shan't' and now ‘i.e.'?”

She flipped her hair, which had started to frizz in the humidity. “Shut up; I'm
fascinating
.”

“Yes, you are.” He led the way to the baking supplies aisle. Almond flour and lavender-infused sugar galore.

“What are we going to say?” Brighton asked. “When people start asking about everything? We should set some ground rules. Get our story straight.”

He turned and gazed down at her. “What are you talking about?”

“It feels disingenuous to present ourselves as a real couple.”

“We're a real couple,” he assured her. “Exhibit A: last night.”

Brighton flushed. “Yeah, but are we really
together
? Like, exclusive?”

“We're husband and wife,” he pointed out. “The vows are pretty cut-and-dried about the exclusivity thing.”

She was surprised to hear this from him. “You're taking drive-through vows seriously?”