Page 56 of Things We Fake
My jaw dropped, and I shook my head. This was getting out of hand. “Oh no, we’re not buying a ring.”
“Oh yes, we are. My fiancée will need one. Something to make Brittany take notice and accept that this is real. Didn’t Neil give you a ring?”
“Yes, but I gave it back to him.” And he’d promptly had it resized for Sally. Seeing the ring I’d picked out on her finger had been almost more painful than discovering them together. “Didn’t you give Brittany a ring? Did she give it back to you?”
He shrugged, looking sheepish. “I don’t have it anymore. When I proposed to her it was a spur of the moment kind of thing, so I didn’t have a ring.”
His face was a mix of embarrassment and amusement, making me believe he’d proposed while she was screwing his brains out. I’d heard men tend to do that sometimes.
As though reading my mind, Cam didn’t meet my eyes while he spoke. “I did get her a ring eventually, when I realized what I’d done.” He chuckled. “But she always complained the diamond was too small, so when she gave it back to me I sold it. It wasn’t worth much.”
But it was priceless from a sentimental value perspective. What a greedy bitch! Imagine saying that to a man you’re supposed to love, that the diamond he’d worked so hard to give you was too small. My dad had always taught me that if I wanted pretty things, I should work for them, not expect anyone to serve them to me on a platter. The dislike I felt for Brittany was turning into pure hatred.
“Do you hate her?” I asked softly.
His expression turned introspective. “Hate is a very strong emotion. I don’t think I've ever hated anyone in my life. She simply couldn’t give more. All humans are imperfect.”
I was speechless. He was good and kind to the core. I could write a ten page list of people I hated—just to warm up. I could effortlessly hold a grudge for decades. This man was so gentle, so intrinsically good, he didn’t even hate the woman who’d crushed his soul. I wanted to cradle his heart between my palms and keep it safe forever.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Cam took my hands into his, talking to me slowly and reasonably, as I often did to some of my students.
“I want you to have a ring. Everyone would expect the CEO of Omega Software to buy his fiancée a beautiful, expensive ring. To a guy, this is a matter of pride.”
I rolled my eyes. “Why do guys have to measure everything in dollars? I’m a fake fiancée, not a trophy wife.”
He didn’t budge, his eyes steady on mine, a silent plea in their depths.
“Okay, we can buy a ring, but it will absolutely not be anything expensive. I mean it, Cam.”
“We’ll pick something to make us both happy.”
“What will you do with it after… our breakup?”
“I’ll keep it for my future wife.”
“I doubt your future wife will appreciate a second-hand ring.”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we get there. Now come on, take your coat, and let’s go.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cam
The afternoon was warmer, and the city pulsed with weekend energy. Waves of people spilled out of coffee shops and stores, crowding the sidewalks in a constant flow. Street musicians played in corners, taxis honked with their usual impatience, and the sun bounced off glass and steel with a blinding dazzle.
Right after two p.m. we walked into Tiffany’s, hand in hand. The moment we crossed the threshold, the air turned crisper, cool with elegance. It smelled faintly of fresh-cut flowers and polished glass. Light refracted from glass cases like prisms in a dream, and everything inside them shimmered with the quiet confidence of very expensive things.
Sue gulped. “You do realize how absurdly overpriced everything is here, don’t you?” she whispered.
I’d been here before, but never with a woman I genuinely wanted to impress. Never with someone like her.
I bit back a smile. Of course she was worried. Her frugality was one of the million things that made herdifferent from the women I’d dated before. It wasn’t about the cost for me. It was about the wonder and joy on her face when she saw something beautiful. Hell, I’d buy out the entire store just to see it again.
“If I’m not worried about the bill, you shouldn’t be either,” I said easily. “A ring’s not about the price—it’s about the statement. And mine says: I have taste, I have means, and my fragile male ego will combust if I let you walk around with a bargain bin rock.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your ego could bench-press a truck. Don’t pretend it’s fragile. Honestly, I think you might be just a smidge narcissistic.”
“Save the psychoanalysis for our questionnaire, Dr. Morelli.” I leaned in, my voice low against her ear. “Picking out an engagement ring is supposed to be fun.”
