Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“A snake,” I say doubtfully, staring at the ring she’s pointing to. “It’s not quite what I had in mind.”
“I don’t know,” she says silkily. “There’s something about it that speaks to me.”
“It’s not quite a snake,” Jones carefully corrects. “It’s a serpent and one of our popular cocktail rings. A striking piece. Aquamarine and diamonds in white gold.”
“It’s very . . . avant-garde,” I say diplomatically. “But I believe Eve to have more traditional tastes.”
“I think it’s appropriate,” she contradicts, swapping the first ring for the second.
“I can’t think why.”
“Can’t you?” She smiles but not with her eyes. “Think harder.”
Eve and the serpent weren’t my aim. “What about that one?” I say, plucking a sapphire ring from the tray to turn it between us. The light from the chandelier turns it a shade I wouldn’t have expected.
“You have excellent taste!” Jones exclaims. “One of our modern classics. A double cluster of diamonds and a violet sapphire of striking color and brilliance.”
“It looks like an engagement ring,” Eve says, quietly discomposed.
“Don’t worry, darling. I wouldn’t cheat you out of it when the time eventually comes.” It glints as I twirl it between my fingers, my mind slipping to a long-ago memory. In the meadow at the back of my grandparents’ garden, I twirled a buttercup under my sister’s chin to see if it would reflect gold. Do you like butter or not? So went the game.
“Do you like it?” Our eyes lock, the huskiness of my voice twisting the question into something else.
“The color reminds me of your eyes.”
A madness grips me as I move closer. As I offer it to her. As she tentatively reaches for it. It feels like it could be the first in a lifetime of moments—shared laughter. Loving, living hand in hand as our bones weaken and our skin turns papery. But then, I remember who I am. What I’m about. And it occurs to me that I could never love her as she deserves.
I swipe the ring away just in time.
“But this one is more my taste than yours. Let’s look at the aquamarine again.”
EVIE
What the fuck?
Did that just happen, or did I imagine it? Because, for a split second, it looked like he was about to propose. Worse—I was not running for the hills! Did he think his shoelace needed tying and I misunderstood? Or did his brain misfire—or did mine explode, because I know I learned my lesson some weeks ago. Mitchell lied and cheated and manipulated. And Oliver, well, he’s guilty of at least one of those.
I am not that girl. I can’t be that stupid. Twice.
I resist the urge to press my hands to my cheeks. They feel nuclear-blaze hot.
Did anyone notice? Did anyone see my literal brain fart? I cast a quick glance in Oliver’s direction. He looks like he normally does, and Mr. Jones is still waffling about stones.
What in the actual fish cakes is wrong with me? I’d briefly considered throat punching Oliver when he made a joke about proposing earlier. I knew it was all just for show. Maybe my brain suffered a power drain because a stone complemented his eyes.
I don’t want to be here. I. Want. To. Run. Away.
“You look a little flushed, Eve.”
“I’m fine.” Or another f-word. My eyes dart to Oliver’s but don’t hold as I make a grab for the ring that looks least like a promise. “It’s just a little warm in here.”
“Let me adjust the air-conditioning.” Jones makes to stand but stills as I shake my head.
“No, it’s fine.” I plaster on a smile, hoping it doesn’t look too scary.
“How about a glass of water?”
Stop being nice to me, or I’ll cry. Come on, Evie. Get ahold of yourself, for fudge sake.
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 said ah hella like 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.