Nina smiles brightly. She’s tall and neatly dressed in a silk blouse and gray skirt, and her brown hair is swept into a bun. “Then let’s make sure the glass slipper fits you perfectly,” she says, and disappears to the back of the store to have the ring sized.
“You’re a pro,” I say once Nina’s out of earshot. Charlotte waves a hand dismissively, and I tell her, “No, seriously. You’re going to be accepting an Oscar soon for nailing the role of ecstatic fiancée.”
She drags her fingers along a glass case and shrugs, like her performance is no big deal. “I like diamonds. That makes it easy for me.”
“Ah, so this is Honest Charlotte in action? And Honest Charlotte loves jewelry?”
She nods. “Honest Charlotte adores princess-cuts and platinum. When my friend Kristen got engaged last year I was thrilled for her, and couldn’t stop staring at her princess cut diamond. It was gorgeous, but more importantly, she’s so happy, and she’s madly in love. Being elated over an engagement ring isn’t an emotion I have to fake,” she says, meeting my eyes. I can see her sincerity written in them—in this moment, those brown eyes are completely guileless.
She loves the idea of being committed. Maybe not to me. But just in general.
The truth of that emotion is almost too big for me. I gotta go for a joke. “What if it were a pinkie ring, though? What if I wanted to get you a gold pinkie ring with a big, fat rock? Would that fit your style?”
She leans in closer and wiggles her eyebrows. “Thanks for the hint, snookums. Now I know just what to get you for a wedding gift.”
Nina returns to tell us the ring should be ready in fifteen minutes. “Thank you. I can’t wait,” Charlotte says, and now I know she means it. She’s telling some sort of truth to Nina.
But I’m lying, and that makes me feel like a bit of a schmuck. I’ve known Nina for years, and she even babysat for Harper and me when we were younger. She was my dad’s first employee when Katharine’s started as a small boutique off Park Avenue. A sales clerk, she worked her way up over the years, rising to VP as that one shop grew into an international business. My father has often said that Nina and my mother have helped him make most of his important business decisions in the last thirty years. They’re his key advisors.
“I’m so thrilled for the two of you, and I’m so glad you’re the woman who brought him to one knee,” Nina says to Charlotte, who looks away. Nina rests a hip against a display case of diamond tennis bracelets and turns to me, gently swatting my arm. “I still can’t believe you’re getting married.”
“I have to pinch myself too, just to remind me that it’s all real,” I say, and pinch my forearm, doing my best to ignore the nagging seeds of guilt. I can’t let the lying eat away at me. It’s all for a good cause, and no one is getting hurt. Besides, I’m not the first dude in the history of the world who needed a fiancée, stat.
“I can remember when you were a wild five-year-old boy like it was yesterday,” Nina says, nostalgia glimmering in her eyes.
“I can’t believe my dad actually let me visit the store as that crazy five-year-old boy,” I say, flashing back to all the hours I’ve logged in this upscale joint. I know the place inside and out. Five floors of sophistication, glitter, and glamour. Diamonds sparkle behind gleaming glass showcases and atop marble pedestals, and the burgundy carpet is so lush you want to curl up and sleep on it.
Or run circles on it, which is what I did as a kid.
“You were so wound up,” Nina says, shaking her finger at me. She smiles, and her gray eyes crinkle when she does.
“How wild was he exactly?” Charlotte asks. I detect a note of mischievous curiosity in her tone. She casts a quick glance at me, and I know what she’s doing—fishing for fodder to tease me with at some unsuspecting moment.
Nina laughs delightedly as she answers. “Little Spencer was a handful. Once, when his mother was visiting relatives out of town, Spencer’s father brought him into the store an hour before opening, and this little devil child immediately started zipping and zinging around all the cases,” she says, weaving a path in the air with her hands to demonstrate.
I cringe, as Charlotte laughs. “I can picture that perfectly.”
“Oh, that was only the start of the havoc he tried to wreak. He knocked over a case of rubies once during one of his marathon laps around the store. Another time, he snagged the velvet lining from a display case, and turned it into a cape,” she says, and Charlotte’s lips twitch in amusement. “But,” Nina says, narrowing her eyes and holding up a finger, “I had a solution.”
“Benadryl?” Charlotte asks playfully, then squeezes my hand.
I groan inside, knowing what’s coming.
“Oh, I wish I could have gotten him to nap while his father was busy in a meeting. Instead, I went to the fancy pet accessories shop down the block, bought a leash, and attached it to the loops of his corduroy pants.”
Charlotte’s hand flies to her mouth, and I drop my forehead to my palm. There it is. The story I will never live down now. I don’t know what’s worse—the leash or the corduroy.
“You walked him around the store on a leash?” Charlotte asks, taking her time with each word, wonder in her voice.
Nina nods, proud of her solution. She pats the side of her leg as if she’s giving a dog a command, then emits a low whistle. “C’mere boy,” she says, laughs shuddering through her. “He loved it. He took to it like a little Cocker Spaniel.”