chapter 19

“You were definitely right about the guilt gift,” Brighton said as she and Jake hurried out of the country club restaurant. “That woman is pissed. Slightly less so since you gave her the Jake Sorensen routine, but still pissed.”

“You sound sad.” He placed his hand on her back.

“I am. It feels disgusting to be bailing out cheaters.”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t bail that guy out,” Jake said. “You saw the look on his wife’s face. He’s not talking his way out of anything.” He held the door for her as they headed out to the parking lot filled with late-model European cars and one gray Ford pickup. “And I’m sure that you sell plenty of things to couples who are hopelessly in love.”

“That’s true.” She recounted the story of the man who had bought the two pairs of earrings.

Jake listened, looking as though he were fighting back a smirk.

“What?” Brighton demanded. “What now?”

“Nothing.”

“Just say whatever it is you have to say.”

“I don’t want to ruin your romantic illusions.”

“I don’t have romantic illusions.” Brighton bristled at the mere suggestion. “I’m practical to a fault, remember?”

“You say that, but I’m not seeing a lot of evidence.”

She “accidentally” elbowed him as they walked through the parking lot.

Jake responded by slinging one arm around her shoulder and stealing a kiss. He held the passenger-side door for her and said, “I’d bet half my business holdings that one pair is for his wife and the other for his girlfriend.”

She gasped. “You’re crazy. And/or high. And/or just mean.”

“As long as I’m being mean, I bet he’s giving the more expensive pair to the girlfriend.”

“What is wrong with you?” Brighton reached across the front seat and swatted his shoulder as he got into the driver’s seat. “Why is it so hard to believe that a husband could want to give two pairs of earrings to his wife? Just because you can’t imagine loving a woman enough to make that kind of grand gesture—”

“You’re making my point for me.” He started the truck. “If the guy loved his wife enough to be faithful and show up every day, he wouldn’t need to make these grand gestures.”

Brighton considered this. “Hmm.”

“Verdict: I’m a better husband than that guy, and I’m not even a real husband.” He nodded at her. “Believe it.”

She half laughed, half sighed. “If only I could.”

•   •   •

Brighton woke up the next morning at nine a.m. She hadn’t slept this late in years, but skateboarding had proved to be a very challenging cardio workout. Her leg muscles ached, her knees were bruised, and her lips were swollen from all the post-wipeout kissing. As she looked around the huge bedroom suite with floor-to-ceiling views of the Atlantic and empty Gatorade bottles strewn across the rug, she realized that she could be content living like this forever. Doing her dream job. Sleeping in. Skateboarding at midnight with the lost Hemsworth brother.

Speaking of which, where was he? Every night she drifted off to sleep curled up next to Jake, and every morning she woke up alone. She was never sure when he left or where he went, but she didn’t want to ask him. That would be too needy, too relationship-y.

So she didn’t ask. But she did wonder.

She hurried to shower and dress, then went downstairs to find that the huge house was empty—and the hardwood floor was marred with black streaks from the skateboard wheels. As she crouched down to inspect the damage, she heard Jake’s voice from the porch.

Then she heard a deep, booming bark.

She opened the side door to find Jake, his dark hark still tousled from last night, placing a stainless steel dish on the weathered wooden boards of the deck. A gigantic brown dog with short floppy ears wolfed down the kibble—well, “dog” was an understatement, really. This beast appeared to be part mastiff, part pony.

When Brighton stepped onto the porch, Jake straightened up with a stricken expression, as if he’d been caught doing something truly nefarious.

“Who’s this?” Brighton approached the dog, who stared up at Jake with soulful golden eyes, clearly hoping for seconds. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“I don’t.” Jake sounded a touch defensive. “He’s a stray.”

Brighton noticed a clean black nylon collar around the dog’s neck. “Uh-huh.”

“He made friends with the construction crew when we started building the houses here. They left, he hung around, I let him.” Jake couldn’t look her in the eye. “That’s it.”

“So he lives here. Which makes him your dog.”

“He’s a dog, but he’s not my dog.” Jake attempted to distract her with the Sorensen Smolder, but she would not be distracted.

She glimpsed a huge sack of dog chow in the storage bench next to the door. “And yet you have dog food and designated dishes.”

“You can’t prove that’s for him.”

“And you let him sit on your foot.”

Jake glanced down at the drooling brown behemoth who beseeched him with the eyes of a starving orphan. “How could I stop him?”

Brighton grinned. “Admit it: He’s totally your dog.”

“He is not my dog; he’s a squatter with four legs and fur. That happens to live in my guesthouse.”

“Classic denial.” Brighton sighed. “Tragic but common in these situations. Look at the two of you together; you have something really special.”

The Sorensen Smolder started to sputter out. “I don’t even live here most of the time. I’m in New York, D.C., Mexico, Saudi Arabia. My lifestyle is not conducive to pet ownership.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I swear to you, we barely know each other.” He tried to nudge the colossal canine off his feet. The dog didn’t budge. A speck of drool fell from his muzzle onto Jake’s bare foot. “There’s no license, no paperwork in place. We just hang out here sometimes. It’s casual.”

“So you never take him anywhere with you?” Brighton went into prosecutor mode. Thanks, bar exam study guides. “You leave him for months at a time and hope Christina and Dylan remember to feed him?”

“I don’t have to answer these questions. I have the right to an attorney.”

Brighton laughed. “I think it’s sweet. Remember that documentary you were watching? It’s like you have your own radioactive wolf. Look at his head! It’s like an anvil.” Disarmed by the floppy ears and mournful eyes, Brighton reached over to pet the dog. “Hey, buddy. Where have you been hiding all this time?”

“It’s possible I took him to work with me,” Jake muttered. “Once or twice.”

“Who’s a good puppy? You’re a good puppy.” Brighton baby-talked to the giant beast, heedless of the drool and the shedding.

Jake watched them for a minute. “Remember when you asked me to tell you something I’d never told any other woman?”

“Mm-hmm. I also remember you deflecting that question and seducing me into silence.”

“You’re the only woman who’s met Rorschach.”

Brighton frowned. “Rorschach?”

Jake pointed out a black patch of fur on the dog’s haunches. “Looks like an inkblot.”

“You named him? Oh, come on. You one hundred percent have a dog,” she concluded. To the dog, she crooned, “You’re too sweet and cuddly for a name like that. I’ll call you Rory for short.”

The dog thumped his tail against the porch, then got up, moved from Jake to Brighton, and sat back down on her feet.

“He likes you,” Jake said.

“Of course he does. Because I don’t call him a squatter and make him live in the guesthouse.” Brighton scratched Rory behind the ears. “But don’t get too attached, buddy. I’ll only be here for a little while.”

Rory started panting, his tongue lolling out of the side of his cavernous maw.

Brighton glanced up at Jake. “Should we talk about that, by the way? My inevitable departure date.”

“Nope.” He strode across the porch and opened the door. “Let’s go have breakfast.”

“We need to start getting things in place for when I leave.” She hated the sound of her own voice—so chilly and impersonal. “Paperwork, divorce decree, all that stuff.”

He lifted his chin, indicating she should proceed through the door. “Sounds fun.”

“Divorce isn’t supposed to be fun. But we still have to deal with it.” She walked inside, then stopped. “Wait.” She glanced back toward the porch. “What about Rory?”

“Rorschach,” he corrected. “He won’t come in. He only likes the guesthouse.” Jake called to the dog, who responded by walking in the other direction. Seconds later, Brighton heard splashing as Rory took a drink from the koi pond.

Something clicked into place in her brain. “Is that where you’ve been going at the crack of dawn every morning? The guesthouse?”

“Look at this place.” He gestured to the soaring ceilings, the ocean vista, the handcrafted textiles and furnishings. “Why would I hang out in the guesthouse when I have all of this?”

“Because you consider this a glorified skate park.” Brighton gave him a little kiss on his cheek. “And because you love your dog. Don’t worry—your secret’s safe with me.”

“For the last time, he’s not my dog.” Jake rested his forehead against hers. “Don’t file for divorce just yet. Stay a few more weeks.”

She inhaled, buzzed on the blended scent of laundry detergent, sea salt, and pheromones. After another kiss, she had no interest in filing for divorce or doing anything else that didn’t involve taking off his pants.

“Stay,” he urged.

“I can’t.”

He backed her up against the wall. When she reached for him, he caught her wrists and pinned her arms above her head. He kissed her again, tender and unhurried. “Stay.”

“For a little while,” she relented, closing her eyes.

He brushed his lips across her eyelids, his voice like a caress. “Forever.”