Page 18 of The Temporary Bride

“Gray spinel.” I shrug one shoulder. “It isn’t light like diamonds or other colorless gems. It has depth to it. A darker color, like your eyes.”

I gaze into her irises as I speak, plunging myself back into that hue. Her jaw drops open a little, and those gray eyes go a bit wider as she stares up at me.

“And, what? You have that color memorized or something?” Her tone is half teasing, half challenging.

“Like clouds before a storm,” I murmur. “Like smoke from a fire.”

Her breath catches, and she seems momentarily at a loss for words. So am I, to be honest. I didn’t exactly mean to say that, to reveal just how much time I’ve spent trying to identify the exact shade of her eyes.

She opens and closes her mouth twice, her lips twitching as if she’s about to speak but keeps stopping herself. Her tongue darts out to wet her lip as she tilts her head up, almost imperceptibly. It doesn’t seem intentional, or even conscious…

Then she quickly steps back, her expression shifting as if she’s been jolted awake from some daydream. She turns to the jeweler, offering him a strained smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

D’Angelo returns her smile, but when she looks away, he shoots me a subtle wink. I respond with a thin-lipped grimace. Whatever that was a second ago, it felt… intimate, charged with unspoken thoughts and emotions, but it’s gone now, replaced by the sterile formality of the situation.

“This is to be a wedding band, yes?” he asks. “Would you like me to create a matching one for you, sir?”

I consider for a moment. “Well, the one my fiancée picked sounded beautiful. I think I’ll let her choose mine too.”

She makes a small, startled noise, shooting me a sideways glance. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

I almost expect her to argue, since I’m pretty sure that’s her kneejerk reaction to just about anything I say after the years of rivalry between us. But her gaze turns serious as she leans back over the display, surveying the men’s wedding bands on the left side of the case.

After a few moments of thought, she points a manicured finger at one of the velvet cushions. “This one.”

The jeweler unlocks the case and slides out the ring, holding it up for our inspection. It’s white gold, like her own custom ring, and has a narrow sliver of black obsidian through the center of it, giving it a darker appearance. It will match hers well.

“Would it be possible to customize this a bit?” she asks, and the jeweler nods graciously. The two of them begin to discuss the ring, and I wander over to the other side of the shop to let them work everything out. There’s something else I need from here, anyway. I might as well use this time to search for it.

It doesn’t take long to find—it’s probably the most commonly sold item this boutique carries. There’s a display case filled with sparkling diamond rings with thin, delicate bands. They’re classic engagement rings, refined and beautiful, all the more so for having been crafted by D’Angelo.

After a few minutes, Chloe returns to my side, and the jeweler approaches from behind the counter. “I should have both rings ready for you within a few weeks’ time. Will that be all?”

“Actually,” I say, “there’s one more thing. No alterations will be necessary.” I gesture to the case of diamond rings. “The fourteen karat one here. The square-cut.”

“Excellent choice, sir.” D’Angelo’s eyes gleam with approval as he opens the display case.

Chloe glances sideways at me, her lips pursed. I can feel the suspicion in her stare. She doesn’t trust me. She thinks everything I’m doing is part of some elaborate game, or a joke at her expense. I need to fix that. To set the record straight.

“What’s that about?” she asks.

“You’re my fiancée,” I remind her. “Can’t have you going out without an engagement ring.”

D’Angelo hands me a small, velvet-lined box with the ring nestled inside. I pop the lid open as soon as he passes it over the glass counter, inspecting the diamond before reaching for Chloe’s hand.

She offers me her ring finger without protest, watching silently as I slide the band over her polished nail. As it slips into place, her hand trembles a little. I give her fingers a slight squeeze, reassuring her. As I let go of her hand, I wonder if she was as aware of that exchange as I was.

She holds out her hand, letting the gemstone catch the light. I try to gauge from her expression whether she approves of my choice, but as always, it’s impossible to read her.

For some reason, though, I like seeing the ring on her finger. It feels right.

I told her that I was going to do this correctly, and I meant it. That must be it—this is a sign of my commitment to her. I hope she sees it the same way.

I pay D’Angelo for the three rings and the alterations, and the two of us step back out into the sun.

“Let me drive you home,” I offer.