Put a Ring On It by Beth Kendrick

the casing. The metal had been engraved, although the letters were obscured by rough patches of oxidization from years of neglect. She scraped lightly with her thumbnail, trying to discern the words.
    Jake appeared in the doorway, a bottle of orange Gatorade in hand. “You’re obsessed with that thing.”
    â€œI’m sorry, I know it’s none of my business, but it just seems wrong to let it stay in this condition.” She turned the watch over and over in her hands. “You obviously have the resources to restore it.”
    He barely glanced at it. “I have the resources to buy a new watch.”
    â€œYeah, but you can’t buy the history and the cachet.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her fingertip across the scratched crystal, trying to imagine the past owners. “You must have liked this at some point or you wouldn’t have bought it.”
    â€œFor someone who claims to be so practical, you’re kind of a romantic,” he remarked.
    â€œOnly about inanimate objects. My grandfather was a benchjeweler—I have a thing for well-designed pieces. We used to repair watches together.”
    He leaned against the doorframe, listening intently. He was so good at making her feel special. Even though she knew it was a practiced act, she couldn’t help responding. “No wonder you can’t keep your hands off it.”
    â€œWe didn’t do the mechanical recalibration—that’s a whole other skill set.” Brighton held up the watch as she talked. “But we used to replace the crystals—that’s the glass part here—and polish the cases—that’s the metal part here—and resize the bands. It’s a lot of detail work, but it’s kind of Zen. I once read that the Dalai Lama repairs watches to relax.” She remembered the peace she’d felt working side by side with her grandfather in silence. She would become totally immersed in the project. As an adult, no matter how hard she worked at her corporate jobs, she’d never been able to recapture that sense of fulfillment and intensity. “Where’d you get this, anyway?”
    He pushed off the doorframe and unscrewed the cap of the Gatorade. “An estate auction. I was twenty-five and drunk on good scotch.”
    She couldn’t hide her surprise. “You had enough money to buy a Patek Philippe at twenty-five? Did you have a trust fund?”
    His laugh had a dark undertone. “No. I told you, I literally made my money from dirt and rocks.”
    â€œBut to have made so much, so young . . .” She waited for him to elaborate, then finally gave up. “Anyway, this watch spoke to you.”
    â€œNot really.” His brown eyes betrayed no hint of emotion. “I bought it to impress people who did have trust funds. I was young enough that I still cared what they thought about me.”
    â€œTrust fund or not, you have good taste. This is an heirloom.”Brighton showed him the back of the casing. “See the engraving here? Men pass these watches down to their sons and grandsons and great-grandsons. Each owner has his name engraved back here, along with the date he inherited it.” She smiled up at him. “You should do that. It’d be easy to refinish.”
    He quirked one eyebrow. “I don’t have a son.”
    â€œBut you might someday.” She flushed again. “Not with me, obviously, but, you know.”
    â€œI’m new money, Brighton. Heirlooms are for families that came over on the
Mayflower
.” He sat down next to her on the bed and offered it to her. “That thing’s going back into the drawer it came from.”
    She took a sip and shook her head. “This right here is why we’re doomed to failure. We’d never be a match on any online dating site. eHarmony would make us go to our separate corners.”
    â€œWe both like orange Gatorade.” He took a sip from her