Two work shirts, three pairs of jeans, my one nice dress, the green one I bought four years ago for a friend’s wedding. A sweater my mother knitted me the winter before she got sick. A handful of socks, underwear, a bra I’ve repaired three times.
I hang the dress in the closet on the left beside a row of suits worth more than my yearly rent. My green dress looks tired next to them. I close the closet door.
In the bathroom, I open the cabinet above the second sink.
Empty. Linda has wiped it down. There’s a single hook on the inside of the door where she’s hung a hand towel for me.
I put my toothbrush in the holder.
His is already there. White, electric, sleek. Mine is the plastic drugstore type with bristles starting to fan. They sit beside each other in one small holder. For some reason, that nearly undoes me.
Two toothbrushes in one holder.
I put my hairbrush on the counter. My face cream. Three bottles in a row. They take up almost no space.
“You moved in fast.”
I spin around.
Grayson is leaning in the doorway with a small velvet box in one hand.
My stomach drops. I refuse to dignify the sensation with a name.
He walks in. The bathroom shrinks to closet dimensions. His eyes flick once to the toothbrush holder. Something I can’t read crosses his face. Then he turns to face me properly and sets the velvet box on the counter beside my face cream.
“For tonight,” he announces.
I don’t move. “What is it?”
“What do you think it is, Miranda?”
“Drugs?”
The corner of his lips twitches. “Yes, because I will give you drugs in a ring box.”
He opens it.
The ring sits in dark velvet. Old gold. A single stone the size of my thumbnail. Smaller ones banding the sides. It catches the bathroom light, throwing it back in pieces.
I stop breathing for a full second.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It belonged to my grandmother,” he murmurs. “I had it resized for you. The provenance is documented. If anyone digs, it holds up.”
I swallow. “Grayson, are you sure you want to give me this? It’s precious. I can wear a ten-dollar ring—”
“No. If you’re going to pretend to be my fiancée, I want to do it right.” The way he says it has my heart fluttering again. Stupid thing.
“Hold out your hand,” he murmurs, and I move before I can think.
His fingers close around mine. Always warm. He turns my palm up, then over. His thumb passes once across my knuckle. Slowly.
He slides the ring onto my finger.
It fits exactly.
His thumb hasn’t moved. It rests against the back of my hand, pinning the band in place. I should pull my hand back. I’ve pulled my hand back from this man a dozen times in the last few months. My fingers should already be retreating.
