Wow, they had a weird relationship.
Two more models strutted the catwalk, and then Nicolai casually lifted his phone, swiping and texting for several prolonged minutes.
Nicolai was a dark flutter at the very edge of my field of vision, just movement and shadows that distracted me from the women modeling flowing gowns on the stage, until he pluckedmyphone off the couchcushions between us.
I twisted myself toward him, eyes popping wide, jaw dropping that he’dgrabbedmyphone.
He held my own phone up to my eye-level and used my face to unlock it.“Nico!”
“One sec.” He tapped maybe a dozen quick tappity-taps and then handed it to me.
I snatched it back. “What’d you do?”
“Ordered flowers for myself on your wallet’s credit card,” he drawled.
Nuh-uh.Any credit card of mine would’ve been declined. When I’d checked that morning, the bank app had a red warning box on the top.
The phone screen was on texts, and the one at the top was now an unfamiliar phone number. The only message in the conversation was a blue bubble that read, “Your wife.”
As I gawked, a black bubble appeared. “It’s Nico. Put down your phone. Clemmy will pick up that I didn’t have your number.”
I dropped my phone like it had electrocuted me and snapped my head around to stare at the models still prancing down the runway.
For many minutes.
Or more.
While my heart thudded.
My phone screen lit again, and I picked it up.
Nicolai’s text read: Is there a particular metal or design you’d like for your wedding rings? Gold? Plat? And what diamond cut for the engage?
Oh, wow. He was really taking what Clementine had said to heart.
I texted back,You don’t have to get me anything else. I like the rings we were married with. I like that *these* rings were the ones we married each other with, even if it’s just for show.
Tell me what you actually like.
You don’t have to do this.
Lexi. Tell me.
The deep tone in his voice echoed even in his text.
So I thought about it.
Jimmy had picked out a rose gold wedding set to give me, the center stone-region a heart-shaped setting with three tiny diamond chips embedded in it, and I’d never really thought about what I would have picked out.
Except I had.
Somewhere deep inside, in all the romance novels I’d read, I knew what I liked to picture in my head when the dashing male main character flipped open a ring box.
I liked to imagine white gold rings with a round diamond solitaire, maybe something just a little bigger than the one-fifth carat total weight Jimmy had given me.
It was the love that mattered, right? Not the ring. The pretty rocks didn’t matter.
Love hadn’t mattered to Jimmy.
