But after one more moment of studying us both, Raoul shakes his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. If my father knew, he didn’t tell me. I don’t know if anyone knows anymore.”
Dane and I share a look.
Someoneknows something, or we wouldn’t have gotten a copy of that letter last night.
“Ah, here we are.” Raoul slips behind the farthest counter, any suspicions or hesitations he might’ve had either masked well or slipping away. He bends and fiddles with his keys, and a moment later, I’m staring at a tray of diamond rings.
Unlike my occasional window-shopping trips in the diamond district in New York, though, this time, I’m up close and personal with these gems.
Teenage Amanda used to dream about having a billionaire boyfriend who would buy the whole jewelry store for me. There would be the starter rings that were upgraded every year to bigger diamonds and fancier settings.
Not long into my dog-walking journey, I met a billionaire.
My dreams changed.
I started saying I’d rather build snowmen in Central Park or spend a day at the Met than have all the jewelry in the world. And I meant it.
But staring at a row of sparkly diamonds, even knowing this is for an act and not real?
That Dane is committed enough to the ruse to buy one of these?
That the world will see me wearing his ring on my finger?
I suppress a shiver.
There’s something about buying a ring that makes it feel almost real.
“One of them catch your eye?” Dane asks me.
I point without conscious thought and despite my best intentions to insist something smaller is better. There’s a round-cut diamond insetamong diamond, emerald, and ruby chips, making it look like a brilliantly sparkling snowflake on a poinsettia.
It’s so Tinsel.
“Ah, wonderful choice,” Raoul murmurs. He’s put on gloves.
I briefly wonder if I should, too, but Dane takes the ring from Raoul without gloves, lifts my left hand, and slips the ring onto my finger.
His touch sends a warm thrill through my arm, and he doesn’t let go after he has the ring on my hand.
Instead, he turns my hand in the light, making the diamond flash and sparkle and sending little rainbows dancing off the floor and walls. “It fits.”
“Lucky finger size,” I stutter.
“Want to try others?”
I shake my head.
Raoul’s saying something. I think about the diamond’s color and clarity.
But that’s not what I care about.
What I care about is Dane holding my hand, both of us staring at the massive engagement ring currently sitting on my finger.
This is pretend. This is pretend. This is pretend.
And even if it wasn’t, I made up my mind years ago that I can’t be bought with jewelry.
It’s not the jewelry. It’s the guy.
