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Blond number one’s face fell, though she recovered admirably. “Perhaps a sapphire. Or emerald. Or—”
His gaze fell on a red gemstone surrounded by pinprick diamonds. More diamonds lined the platinum band on either side of the stone. Some traditional in there to suit him, and something unique to fit her. She was fire and ice to him. So much passion and drive and life cloaked in a cool demeanor that showed she could handle anything.
Anyone. Even him.
“That one.” He pointed, grimacing as he smudged the glass. Couldn’t take him anywhere. “I’ll take it.”
Blond number two frowned. “Don’t you want to see it first?”
“No, it’s right. I want it. She’s a size seven.”
He’d found that out through dubious means. A random conversation about his mother’s wedding ring a few days ago and he’d found himself feeling around for more details. He’d needed her ring size, even without admitting to himself why.
Forget telling her how he felt. He was still getting there himself.
“Can I hold it?”
Blond number one’s eyebrows drew together. “You said you didn’t want to see it.”
“It’s the right ring, I just want to hold it.” He held out his palm and blond number one set it in the center.
For a moment, he just stared. Then he closed his fingers, testing the weight. The feel. And he grinned.
“Yes, this is the one. Is this a seven? Or can it be sized into a seven? I need to take it with me.” He waved off the box that blond number two produced. “No, I’ve got it. I’m good. Here you go.”
He pulled out his wallet and slapped down his credit card. He’d just dumped money on the thing. Thank God for that recent check from Ripper.
You still owe Denver. Shouldn’t you be paying that back instead of buying rings she may not want?
“That ring is a seven, yes. Still, in case you’re wrong about the size—”
“Good enough. I’ll take it. Ring it up, please.” He flashed the blond a smile. “Thank you.”
She didn’t dally. Guess she’d decided her commission was dead in the water, so might as well just move him along. She ended up giving him the box anyway, and he took it and tucked it into his pocket. The receipt went in his wallet, the bag in the trash.
The weight steadied him as he took his time heading to the Event Center. Maybe if he didn’t rush, Denver would already be there waiting for him.
His gaze strayed to the flashing lights that indicated the direction to the gaming floor. Nope. He wasn’t going there. Not that he had a problem, but he’d already gambled once today. Harmlessly. How could he resist? One of the sponsors of tonight’s awards show was The Hummingbird Group, and hummingbirds were a special thing with Denver. So he’d placed a little bet on them. She couldn’t hold that against him.
Besides, he wasn’t hiding what he’d done. In fact, as soon as they met up, he’d tell her about the bet he’d made. Then kiss her senseless, because even being away from her for fifteen minutes felt like a century.
He grinned and cupped the box in his pocket. Yeah, what he’d just done had been reckless. He probably should’ve asked West’s or Michael’s opinion first. They were experts compared to him at this love stuff. But the move he’d made felt good. So did the solid weight in his hand.
Time to keep moving forward.
He found the Ripper Records table in the Event Center in record time. Minus the detour he took to the men’s room to splash water on his face and dry off his damp palms. He hadn’t been nervous about buying Denver’s ring. This stupid awards thing, though, had him churned up.
At least he assumed it was that. Something was unsettling his gut, and he didn’t think it was buying a ring for his girl. That had eased him, not riled him up. Just knowing he could say those words to her whenever he wanted to and not have to worry he didn’t have a ring for her made him happy.
She deserved the ring. The perfect proposal. The fucking gloriously happy life that erased the tension lines around her eyes. Ones he still didn’t fully understand, because he’d wanted to help chase away her ghosts last night, not make her relive her past.
He stopped a few feet away from the Ripper Records table. She wasn’t there yet. Donovan was, but no Denver. And Donovan was talking to Lila and her husband, Nick, and not on his phone.
Fuck. Where was she?
Almost against his will, snatches of their conversation last night filtered through his mind. The whole jam thing Donovan had helped her with that had led to her dropping out of college and basically setting up a new identity with a new first name wasn’t your garden variety situation. He’d wanted to press for more, but she’d been adamant it was in the past and he’d wanted nothing more than to ease her mind.
And her body, yes. He wasn’t a saint. Didn’t claim to be.
