Rap music exploded across the quiet boutique.
"That's my cell." Demetri fished his iPhone out of the back pocket of his blue jeans and checked the number on the screen. "I have to take this. It's Coach. I'll be right back."
Rafael took out his cell phone to check his email, but his uncle plucked it out of his hands and tossed it on the couch.
"Selecting an engagement ring takes both time and concentration, so we better get down to work." Mario clapped a hand on Rafael's shoulder and steered him toward the rear of the store. He joked, "If you can't find a ring in my boutique that your girlfriend will love, then it doesn't exist!"
Rafael took a seat across from his uncle at a round glass table. The sign hanging from the ceiling said The Platinum Collection, and as he peered inside the case he noticed every ring had a six-figure price tag.
"Do you already have something in mind?" Mario asked, setting a box of diamonds on the table. "A style or design she prefers, maybe?"
"No, but the bigger, the better."
"I know that," Mario drawled, wagging a plump finger in his nephew's face. "But I'm going to need a little more to go on. Does she like white gold, silver or yellow gold? What style does she prefer? Do you want a two-tone diamond or a single color? What shape and size?"
Rafael scratched his head. Who knew buying an engagement ring could be so stressful? Wasn't it supposed to be the easy part? His shoulders drooped and cold beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. He didn't want to buy the wrong ring, or worse, screw up the Valentine's Day proposal. He'd never popped the question before, and the thought of getting down on one knee and asking Paris for her hand in marriage made him feel nervous and excited at the same time. What if she turned him down? Or laughed in his face? What would he do if she rejected him?
"Would your girlfriend like this?"
The sound of Mario's loud, booming voice yanked Rafael out of his thoughts. "It's too old-fashioned," he said, glancing at the gold, vintage ring. "Definitely not her style. Paris is a modern woman with an eye for fashion, and-"
"Why didn't you tell me her name was Paris?"
Mario flapped his hands in the air as if he was batting away a pesky fly. And when his eyebrows climbed halfway up his broad forehead Rafael felt the urge to laugh.
"Her name tells me everything I need to know."
Mario locked the jewelry case and jumped to his feet. "I have the perfect ring," he promised, bustling around the counter. "Follow me to the back. The custom-made solitaire costs more than your Jaguar, but you're going to love it and so will she...."
"Where is it? Locked in the safe under heavy security?" Rafael joked, rising to his feet.
His uncle raised a bushy eyebrow. "Yeah, how did you know?"
The next hour was a blur, a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. But when Rafael left Morretti Jewelers that afternoon with Demetri, carrying a velvet box wrapped with pink lace ribbon, he knew he was one step closer to making his dreams come true.
Chapter 15
"Paris, pick up the pace. This isn't Sweatin' for Seniors!" Mr. St. Clair snapped, raising his voice over the rock music playing on the radio in Excel Construction's fitness center. "Come on. You can do better than that...."
Groaning inwardly, Paris prayed her tired, aching legs wouldn't give way on the treadmill. Her chest was burning uncontrollably, and it hurt to breathe. Huffing and puffing, she gripped the front of the machine with one hand and wiped her forehead with the other. The ninth-floor fitness center inside the Washington headquarters of Excel Construction was filled with dozens of employees, but no one was exercising harder than her dad. Last year, after suffering a mild heart attack, he'd quit smoking, cleaned up his diet and adopted an intense fitness regimen. At sixty-one, Sebastian St. Clair was in the best shape of his life and had the muscles to prove it. He had the energy of a man half his age and loved to brag about his remarkable transformation.
"You're moving too slow. Increase your speed." Mr. St. Clair chugged a mouthful of Gatorade. "You're giving the keynote address at the Women's Business Expo in three days. Don't you want to look in tip-top shape?"
"Dad, I'm a senior executive, not Ms. Olympia 2014!"
Paris could think of a hundred things she'd rather do than exercise, but her dad had insisted. And since she wanted to talk to him privately, she'd reluctantly followed him to the spacious, brightly lit fitness center.
A Rashad J song came on over the speakers and a smile tickled her lips. Every time Paris heard "Between Your Thighs," the chart-topping single oozing with passion and sensuality, her thoughts turned to Rafael. When they weren't hanging out at his place, making dinner or cuddling on the couch, they were texting or video chatting. With Rafael, she felt the freedom to be herself-not the person her dad, her employees or her clients expected her to be-and Paris cherished every moment they spent together. Rafael was never too busy to see her, always lifted her spirits when she was having a bad day and never failed to make her laugh. He filled the emptiness in her life, gave her hope for a brighter tomorrow. There was nothing sexier than a sensitive, vulnerable man, and Paris found Rafael's honesty refreshing. More confident than ever, she was optimistic about her future and owed her new, improved outlook to her old college sweetheart.
Her eyes strayed to the wall clock above the glass door. At lunch, Rafael had called, sounding dreamy as usual, and asked her to meet him at his home at six o'clock. He had something up his sleeve; she could feel it, sense it, and could hardly wait to find out what it was. He spoiled her silly, did sweet, romantic things to brighten her day, and his thoughtfulness made Paris feel loved and adored.
"How are the plans coming along for the gala? Is everything booked and confirmed?"
Paris fanned a hand in front of her hot, clammy face. She was tired of jogging on the stupid machine and ready to hit the showers. Starving, with her stomach growling uncontrollably, she envisioned herself biting into a juicy cheeseburger, and hungrily licked her lips.
"Quit daydreaming," Mr. St. Clair snapped.
Blinking rapidly, Paris deleted the mouthwatering image from her mind. "Anthony and Kennedy are celebrating their sixteenth wedding anniversary in March."
"Good for them."
"They're throwing a party for their close friends and family in Atlanta at the Hyatt Hotel."
Her dad scowled. Sweat dribbled down his head and splashed onto his white Nike T-shirt. He was slim and of average height but had an imposing presence. "Is this conversation going somewhere or are you just shooting the breeze?"
Paris cleared her throat. "It's a big thing for Kennedy and Anthony, and I know it would mean the world to them if you were there."
"Your sister made her choice a long time ago, and I respect her decision."
"Dad, it's time to let go of the past."
"When I want your opinion, I'll ask you. Until then, zip it."
Paris exhaled, trying not to let his cold response dissuade her from speaking the truth. "Kennedy loves you, and she wants to have a better relationship with you."
"Then why are you telling me about the anniversary party?" he questioned, wiping his forehead with his white face towel. "Why didn't she call and invite me herself?"
Because Kennedy's just as stubborn and as bull-headed as you are! Paris studied her father, examining his profile. She detected a hint of sadness in his voice and felt a painful twinge inside her chest. Determined to get through to him, she stopped the treadmill and stepped off the machine.
"Drop it. I'm not going and there's nothing you can say to change my mind."
"You have three beautiful grandkids who never see you...." Paris paused, giving her words time to sink in. "I think we should reschedule the charity gala and attend Kennedy and Anthony's anniversary celebration together...as a family."
"Absolutely not," he said, striking the treadmill with his fist. "I've already invited my friends and associates to the charity gala."
"But Kennedy's your daughter."
"It would be discourteous to cancel the event at the last minute."
"Says who?" Paris argued, growing frustrated. Their conversation was going nowhere, and she didn't have the energy to debate the issue with her father. Not after a punishing, hour-long workout. It was time to get back to work, and not a moment too soon.