“Yeah. That’s her.” I nod, my lips curving. “And she’s got a beautiful one.” I hold the ring up to the light, turning it from side to side, liking it even more now that I’ve seen it from all angles—and seen the tiny white tag that assures me it’ll scoot in just a hair over my budget.
I set it back on the glass with a sigh, excitement and nerves making my heart beat faster as I say, “I’ll take it.”
Robert gives a sharp nod. “Perfect. Shall we have it sized?”
I shake my head. “No, that’s okay. I’m not sure about her ring size, and I’d rather take it with me today.”
He smiles, making his moustache twitch up at the ends. “Sometimes coming back in to get the ring sized later is best. That way you can start browsing for wedding rings. We’ve got a lovely diamond-studded ring that’s made to fit beneath the curves of this one. Really beautiful on the hand.”
I nod, silently thinking that a hunk of tin will look beautiful on Maddie’s hand as long as it means that she’s my wife.
“I’ll get this cleaned and boxed,” Robert says. “And we’ll have you ready to go in a few minutes. Do you have a credit card you’d like to use?”
I plunk down my credit card, and while Robert busies himself getting the ring ready to go, I wander farther down the engagement ring section, wondering which ring Mick picked out for Faith.
Knowing Faith as well as I do, I hope it was something simple that won’t stick up too high or get in her way. Faith isn’t a fan of things getting in her way. Even love and wedding rings.
But then, I didn’t think she would be a fan of having her boyfriend move in with her just weeks after they started dating, either. Love changes people, something I can testify to firsthand.
A month ago, I couldn’t have imagined dropping thousands of dollars on anything except my Mustang. Now, I’m considering trading in the Mustang for something more family friendly. I don’t want to drive a new baby around in a convertible.
A baby.
A baby I’ll have with Maddie.
Maddie, who’s going to be my wife.
The miraculous thoughts are a song I can’t help playing over and over again in my head, a melody that gets sweeter every time I hear it.
A few minutes later, I step out into the sun, feeling certain this will be a day I’ll never forget.
Later, when I’m sitting in the Emergency Room waiting area all alone, wondering how my life could have gone to shit so completely in such a short amount of time, I’ll look back on the ignorant, hopeful Jamison of this afternoon and wish I could punch him in the face.
Chapter Eighteen
Jamison
I’ve just passed the shiny vintage blue Oldsmobile parked down the street from the firehouse when my neck begins to prickle, the tiny hairs lifting of their own accord, sending out an alarm I don’t immediately understand but realize has something to do with that Oldsmobile.
The car is familiar for some reason, and the reason isn’t a good one.
My firing synapses are just starting to connect the dots when Art Scully steps out of the firehouse and starts across the grass toward me.
Charges across the grass is more like it.
I barely have time to drop the jewelry bag and lift my fists before Art is on me. I block the first punch and the second, but the third connects with my cheek hard enough to send me spinning as agony blooms through my jaw.
I recover quickly and turn back to my old boss, fists raised to protect my face and spine curled to defend my stomach, but I don’t fight back.
I know why Art is here throwing punches, and I know I deserve the beating he’s come to deliver.
“You should answer the phone, you piece of shit,” Art says, panting hard as he swings at me again, the punch connecting inches above where the first landed.
I feel the skin above my cheekbone burst and fight the urge to cry out.
Art isn’t a regular at the gym—he does the bare minimum when it comes to station-mandated fitness, insisting he’s been on the job too long to need to look like something from a hose bunny calendar—but he’s a big man. At six foot four, Art has a couple inches and maybe fifty pounds on me.
If I were to fight back, I’d easily make up for our difference in size with muscle, but I’m not about to throw a punch at Art.
Not after I betrayed him the way I did.
Another punch connects, then another, sending me stumbling across the grass.
“You lousy, lying piece of shit.” Art is gasping for breath now, gasping and snuffling, choking sounds emerging from his throat as he barrels after me, shoving me to the ground.