Chapter 8 Amanda

Chapter 8

Amanda

Dane Silver is a lot funnier than I ever would’ve suspected.

And I don’t say that only because he’s parking the car in front of a ring shop after we picked up the motor for the mixer.

He’s cracked me up at least a dozen times since we left Tinsel, pulling me out of my head and all the worries that we’re doing the wrong thing. And now he’s parking in front of a jewelry store.

This one is only funny because it’s outrageous.

“You are not spending the money to buy me a ring,” I tell him.

“I’m sure they have a return policy.”

I gawk at him. “Are you serious right now?”

He cracks a grin.

And now I’m doubled over in the front seat, laughing until I have tears in my eyes. “Jewelry stores—do not —have—return policies,” I gasp out.

“They don’t advertise return policies,” he counters. “Who’d do that? Fellas, get her some bling for her birthday. If she says no, we’ll double your money back. Not happening. Doesn’t mean they don’t have return policies. We should go ask.”

“Dane—”

“My grandmother was staring at your hand last night too.”

“I’m splitting the cost with you.” My credit card is groaning at the debt this charade will cost me. But if our ruse makes our families call a truce, it’ll be worth it.

“Not necessary.”

“I got you into this—”

“—and I insisted on playing along. Until we find a solution to your Gingerbread House problem, I have more to gain than you do. I’m buying you a ring.”

We have a stare-down in the front seat even if my heart blips at the reminder that we have no plan for the Gingerbread House.

Only a plan for ending a feud.

Which won’t solve the bakery problem.

He kills the motor on the car.

Which means the air-conditioning peters off.

I have exactly forty-two seconds before this car gets too hot to continue this stare-down. “You play dirty.”

“When we break up, we’ll auction the ring off as the ring that brought peace to Tinsel, and they can donate all of the proceeds to charity. Maybe to fighting family charities. That’s money well spent.”

“I repeat, you play dirty.”

He grins again. “Shall we go find you the ring of your fake dreams?”

I grab his hand. “Promise me we’ll stay friends after this is over.”

He studies me, his smile slowly going more serious. “Are you a friend who keeps in touch every month or a friend who runs into someone after three years and picks back up right where you left off?”

“Is there a wrong answer if I want to stay your friend?”

He shakes his head. “I just like knowing what to expect.”

“I’ll send you memes that make me think of you and you can call me if you ever want to talk, and then whenever we’re in Tinsel at the same time, we’ll have eggnog lattes and you’ll bring the fruitcake and I’ll bring vegetables, and we’ll have a picnic at the lake.”

His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles at me. “Your optimism is inspiring.”

“I will send you memes.”

“I believe you. Let’s go get a ring.”

The heat’s already rising in the car, and he’s getting out, so it looks like my options are sweating it out solo in the car or agreeing to walk into the jewelry store.

I don’t have to let him buy me anything.

We can look and say there was nothing that inspired either of us or fit right.

He opens my door for me and takes my hand as I step out, then holds it all the way into the store. “Do not give them any suspicion that this is fake,” he murmurs as we walk in.

Not that I would—if we’re not telling Lorelei, we’re certainly not telling a stranger. But it becomes apparent immediately why he’s concerned.

The jeweler looks up from whatever he’s doing at a desk behind the counter, and his face breaks into a broad smile, flashing bright-white teeth. He has brown skin and short, dark hair, with a well-trimmed beard, and he’s in a suit. “Dane Anderson! It’s about time you—ah, oh. Hello, there.”

Dane’s lips twitch. “Raoul. Meet Amanda. My fiancée.”

Raoul’s face says These words do not compute —I feel you, Raoul, I do—but he quickly recovers and flashes that brilliant smile again at me instead, extending a hand as he reaches us. “Amanda. So lovely to meet anyone who can capture this young man’s heart.”

Up close, I realize he has a few silver strands woven into his dark hair, and there are more crinkles at the edges of his eyes than I expected.

“She’s a granddaughter of the gingerbread family,” Dane says.

Raoul sucks in a breath. “No wonder I hadn’t heard. Or possibly I should be saying, How have I not heard?”

“We broke the news to our families yesterday.”

“How’d they take it?”

“About like you’d expect.” Dane turns to me. “Raoul’s family has been doing wedding jewelry for my family for about four generations now. He might know more family secrets than I do.”

And we’re lying to him too.

Fantastic.

But I smile brightly. “So you’re practically family.”

“Practically,” Raoul agrees. “Though I take no sides in disputes. You need a ring?”

“We do,” Dane says.

I pinch my thumb and index finger together. “Just something little.”

“Definitely something big,” Dane corrects.

Raoul nods. “Can’t go Romeo and Juliet without something big.”

“We need a statement piece.”

“A bold statement piece.”

“At least two carats.”

“Hello?” I wave my hands at both of them. “Does the wearer get a say in this?”

They both study me for a minute.

Then they shake their heads in unison.

“No,” Dane says.

“You can pick the cut and the setting,” Raoul assures me, “but I can’t in good conscience let this young man walk out of here with a ring his family can argue with. Not for you, my dear. Not with the curse you’re breaking. Come, come.”

I trail after him, casting a sideways glance at the necklaces and earrings and watches in cases closer to the door as we move deeper into the store. “Curse? Is that why our families fight?”

“You don’t know the story?” Raoul asks me.

My pulse bumps. “No. Neither does Dane. Do you?”

Is it my imagination, or is Raoul looking at me like he’s still on Team Silver and isn’t sure if he can trust me?

“We think it’ll be easier for both families to come to peace with us if we can address why they don’t get along,” Dane says, making me wonder if he feels it too. “And we won’t breathe a word about how we heard anything, if you can help.”

But after one more moment of studying us both, Raoul shakes his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. If my father knew, he didn’t tell me. I don’t know if anyone knows anymore.”

Dane and I share a look.

Someone knows something, or we wouldn’t have gotten a copy of that letter last night.

“Ah, here we are.” Raoul slips behind the farthest counter, any suspicions or hesitations he might’ve had either masked well or slipping away. He bends and fiddles with his keys, and a moment later, I’m staring at a tray of diamond rings.

Unlike my occasional window-shopping trips in the diamond district in New York, though, this time, I’m up close and personal with these gems.

Teenage Amanda used to dream about having a billionaire boyfriend who would buy the whole jewelry store for me. There would be the starter rings that were upgraded every year to bigger diamonds and fancier settings.

Not long into my dog-walking journey, I met a billionaire.

My dreams changed.

I started saying I’d rather build snowmen in Central Park or spend a day at the Met than have all the jewelry in the world. And I meant it.

But staring at a row of sparkly diamonds, even knowing this is for an act and not real?

That Dane is committed enough to the ruse to buy one of these?

That the world will see me wearing his ring on my finger?

I suppress a shiver.

There’s something about buying a ring that makes it feel almost real.

“One of them catch your eye?” Dane asks me.

I point without conscious thought and despite my best intentions to insist something smaller is better. There’s a round-cut diamond inset among diamond, emerald, and ruby chips, making it look like a brilliantly sparkling snowflake on a poinsettia.

It’s so Tinsel.

“Ah, wonderful choice,” Raoul murmurs. He’s put on gloves.

I briefly wonder if I should, too, but Dane takes the ring from Raoul without gloves, lifts my left hand, and slips the ring onto my finger.

His touch sends a warm thrill through my arm, and he doesn’t let go after he has the ring on my hand.

Instead, he turns my hand in the light, making the diamond flash and sparkle and sending little rainbows dancing off the floor and walls. “It fits.”

“Lucky finger size,” I stutter.

“Want to try others?”

I shake my head.

Raoul’s saying something. I think about the diamond’s color and clarity.

But that’s not what I care about.

What I care about is Dane holding my hand, both of us staring at the massive engagement ring currently sitting on my finger.

This is pretend. This is pretend. This is pretend.

And even if it wasn’t, I made up my mind years ago that I can’t be bought with jewelry.

It’s not the jewelry. It’s the guy.

Nope. Nope nope nope.

It’s the weight of having my grandma wanting me to take over the bakery and me faking an engagement to get out of it while realizing I’ve accidentally picked the exact right guy because he wants to use our engagement to break a generations-long family feud.

Who could be immune to having big feelings over that?

“Amanda?” Dane says quietly.

Right.

We’re an engaged couple in love, and we have an audience. “It’s so beautiful. I don’t think I deserve it.”

He loops an arm around my shoulders, pulls me in for a hug, and kisses my head. “Goofball. Yes, you do.”

I don’t need a boyfriend.

I like being bound to no one. Exploring where and when I want. Not worrying if someone else isn’t in the mood for noodles or pizza or girl dinner. No guilt or shame when I change my mind at the last minute. Just pure freedom.

With a side of knowing that my family can’t disapprove of no one . There’s nothing to disapprove of. There’s no tests for no one . No insistence that no one pledge their loyalty to the Andersons over the Silvers.

But I’m starting to wonder what Dane would think of the Met. If he’s ever been to a Broadway show on Broadway. Would he go to a baseball or hockey game just to experience the vibes in the crowd? Or people-watch in Central Park?

Would he come see the inaugural play that we’re doing at our revived community theater?

The play that I wrote after being so inspired by the city itself? But that I’m not telling anyone about, in case it actually sucks?

I could tell him.

He wouldn’t mock me.

But I don’t.

Instead, I sigh heavily and hug him back as tightly as I can. “Thank you.”

For everything.

For absolutely everything.