Page 55 of The Clinch
“And it sounds very convincing. I almost believe you.”
“Almost?” I keep my eyes on the road.
She shrugs. “You’ve been driving me to work. Making me smoothies. Feeding me dinner. Waking up at the crack of dawn to run with me.”
“Mornings are always roadwork,” I say too fast. “The only difference is my ego’s taking a beating now. You run like something’s behind you, and I keep pretending I can hang.”
She laughs again, softer this time, and turns back to the window. When we stop at a red signal, she reaches over and adjusts the air vent. Her fingers brush my hand.
Accidental. Brief. The contact is nothing. My body disagrees.
“Sorry,” she says, not looking at me.
“It’s fine.” I hear the rough edge and hate it.
She doesn’t notice. Goes back to the window. I keep my attention where it belongs.
The rest takes work.
At the next light, a guy in a delivery van glances over. He looks at her too long. Takes in the dress, the legs, the profile turned toward the window.
I angle the Rover forward on instinct, cutting off the sightline.
We turnoff onto a quieter stretch, away from the heavier Fifth Avenue foot traffic. I pull into a small garage, hand the keys over, and Liz looks up at the building we’re headed toward.
It doesn’t scream luxury. It doesn’t scream anything, which is the point.
She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder, all stubborn humor over nerves.
I reach for her hand as we step onto the sidewalk. She doesn’t pull away. Just lets me take the lead like this is already something we do.
The door opens on a hush. Expensive quiet. The kind money buys. Low lighting. Pale wood. Glass cases arranged with intention. The air is cool and still, a faint mineral edge of gold and glass.
Liz slows and maps the room automatically. I stay close enough that anyone looking would read us as a unit.
A woman approaches us. Early forties, sharp bob, tailored black dress. Efficient without being cold.
“Welcome.” She smiles at Liz first, then at me. “How can I help you today?”
“We’re looking for an engagement ring,” I say. Liz blinks. I keep my expression neutral. The salesperson’s already pivoting toward a glass case.
“Are you looking for something classic, or something with a bit of an edge?”
Liz takes her time. “Understated. If I can feel it trying too hard, I won’t wear it.”
The woman nods approvingly. “Always a good instinct.”
She unlocks the case and draws out a tray, setting it between us. Liz leans in despite herself. Her shoulders release as the stones catch the light.
She reaches out, then stops herself. The salesperson gestures. “Feel free.”
Liz lifts a ring from the tray. It’s a thin band with an oval stone. It suits her. I know it the second I see it.
She turns it between her fingers, thoughtful. Clinical.
“This one won’t snag,” she murmurs, mostly to herself.
I watch the way her thumb brushes the band, slow and absent.
