Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Once I’m securely on my feet, Griffin pulls out a chair, and I lower myself into it slowly, as if it might evaporate into thin air from beneath me. The two men shake hands and take their seats.
A nearby waitress immediately rushes over to pour two additional glasses of water for Griffin and me before disappearing once again.
I should look at the menu. I should make polite small talk with Mr. Conniver. I should take a sip of water. I do none of those things. Instead, I blurt out, “Do you want to see it?” with huge eyes and an even huger grin.
Mr. Conniver smiles graciously. “I would love to.”
I reach into my bag and pull out the engraved wooden box I special-ordered to house the ring. Holding it tightly, I say, “This is my most favorite piece I’ve ever designed, but if there’s anything at all that you or Georgina want to change, I’m happy to do so.”
I’m nearly bouncing out of my seat—truthfully, out of my skin!—with excitement. I’ve put myself through hell, all in an attempt to create something that honors the original stones from Mr. Conniver’s mother’s ring while designing an updated piece that his fiancée-to-be will treasure for her lifetime and be proud to pass down. A generational heritage ring that’s not only beautiful and amazing but also absolute wearable perfection.
But for all my hyperactive buzzing, Mr. Conniver is as bland as can be, as though I’m simply giving him a boring business card, not the most special thing I’ve ever created. Not the symbolic representation of his undying, never-ending affection for his bride-to-be.
“I’m sure it’s beautiful,” he says kindly.
I glance quickly at Griffin, silently asking, Are you hearing this bullshit? He gives the smallest shrug of agreement that Mr. Conniver’s reaction is underwhelming, to say the least.
I pull the ring box back into my chest, holding it hostage. “I need you to get a little happier about this. Excited or eager or something. It’s the engagement ring you’re going to hold up to Georgina when you get down on one knee and ask her to spend forever with you,” I emphasize heavily.
Admittedly, telling a client how to behave is a business faux pas. Telling a Mob boss? Downright stupid. But I can’t help myself. It’s an engagement ring!
“Miss Lee,” he intones warningly, “I assure you, I am excited to see what you’ve come up with.” I tilt my head doubtfully. “And to give it to Georgina.”
He holds his hand out expectantly, and I begrudgingly set the ring box in his palm. I watch his face as he opens the box, wanting to memorize and analyze his reaction to later obsess over and dissect with Griffin.
His face is typically fairly flat, expression-wise, never giving away too much of the heavy thoughts in his mind. But when he sees what I’ve created, his jaw softens, his lips part as if he’s whispering something to himself, and the beginnings of crow’s-feet crinkle beside his eyes. I swear I even see a hint of shine in his eyes, something I doubt anyone’s seen in a long, long time.
He loves it. And I instantly forgive him for the lack of anticipatory giddiness, considering I had more than enough for the both of us.
Now that we’re on the same page about the awesomeness of the ring, I rush to explain my design. “You said that Georgina appears to be delicate, almost dainty, so I wanted to give it a very feminine look with the rose gold and the garden vine–like band. The vines twist in and around each other, the way the two of you are merging your lives together. And they’re rooted together on the underside, solid and strong—like she is, and like your love is. The center stone is from your mother’s ring, and the smaller leaflike accent diamonds are new. I saved the baguettes from the original source for Georgina’s wedding band, which I have ideas for too.”
His eyes roam over the ring as I describe it to him, taking it all in. He closes the box, the clack of the wood almost sharp in the air, giving me a serene look with zero hints as to his actual thoughts. “It’s better than I could’ve hoped. Thank you.” He clears his throat roughly, and I belatedly realize it’s not that he doesn’t like the ring or isn’t excited about it. It’s that he doesn’t like showing emotion with everyone watching, and people in the restaurant are definitely side-eyeing us. This time, I don’t even think it’s the unexpected appearance of a local sports hero. They’re eyeing Mr. Conniver, curious about what he’s doing, how he’s reacting, and what’s in the jewelry box. I’m sure the city’s grapevine will be buzzing in moments, if it’s not already.
He passes the box to the nearby security guard, who places it in his jacket pocket without a word.