Oliver turns his wrist, the rubies (garnets?) in his cuff links catching the light as he moves back his pristine cuff. Hallelujah, he’s going to say it’s time to leave. Sounds good to me. I’ll feign an appointment—a meeting. Hit the nearest wine bar to drown this ick.
“I think we will have that champagne, Mr. Jones.”
“Ah, hell.”
“Sorry?”
“I saidah hellalike this one?” Shit. I’m wearing the ugly ring again. The one I only said I liked because Oliver didn’t. It probably costs a small fortune, even if it reminds me of a mouthful of broken teeth. But the other ring? The one that matched his eyes? It’s perfect—exquisite. I almost feel like I should tell him to buy it, to set it aside for his future wife. Except, when I think of that happy occasion, I feel a little stabby. I guess I’m just not that nice.
“This one?” Our eyes lock, his filled with something I can’t place.Relief?“All the more reason to celebrate.”
“Wonderful!” Mr. Jones actually claps his white-gloved hands. “I’ll call for refreshments.” He bounds from his chair. He must work on commission.
“Why do I even need a ring?” I whisper hiss, leaning in as Mr. Jones leaves. “And why isn’t he worried I’ll stuff all these jewels inmy pockets?” I gesture to the velvet tray holding at least a dozen rings.
“He must be expecting me to keep an eye on you.”
“You,” I scoff. “What makes you think he’d trust you?”
“Money,” he whispers with wide-eyed glee.
“Exactly the reason people won’t trust you.”Why I won’t trust you.
“Don’t worry. I’d visit you in prison.” He reaches for the tray, his fingers spread wide as though ready to grab.
“You’re not stealing anything,” I say, slapping his hand away. “I don’t even want a ring. I have no idea why we’re even here.”
“To give people lots to talk about, of course.”
“I don’t see how wearing a ring will help unless you also want me to wear a pin that reads, ‘Oliver bought this ring for me.’”
His fingers are soothing on the backs of my hands. “Just trust me.”
“About as far as I can throw you,” I mutter, making him smile. “Just so you know, when this is over, you’re getting it back.”
As Mr. Jones clears away the tray and sends off my lucky-bag ring, champagne arrives on a silver tray, and Oliver touches the rim of his glass to mine. “Here’s to getting what you want.”
“Yeah,” I return flatly. “And not what you deserve.”The story of my life,I think as I take a sip, ignoring the way his eyes stay on me. I get a ring, but what I need is to get out of here. Get this experience over with, get my visa, and get my life back on track.
I pretty much guzzle my champagne, and judging by the tiny-looking gift bag that appears on the table, Oliver paid for the gaudy bauble by sleight of hand.
“I hope you’ll come back to visit us again,” Mr. Jones says as we leave the room, and my panic seems to lessen. “Perhaps for one of our afternoon soirees. We call them ‘tea and tiaras.’”
“Tiaras? Like a princess?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder to see Oliver’s mouth lift in a slow grin.
“Princesses wear crowns, not veils.” His tone strokes like a caress.Our inside joke.
“Princesses do indeed wear crowns,” sings a high-on-his-commission Mr. Jones. “But they also wear tiaras. In fact, anyone can wear a tiara.”
“Oliver would look fabulous in one.” I snicker quietly. Mr. Devil of a Man. You are due some payback.
“You think so? Perhaps we should take a look at them.”
“Oliver, no. I was joking!”
“Not for me,” he says in the tone ofobviously.
“When am I going to wear a tiara?”
