It's Always Been You. Elle Wright
you insisted,” the concierge stuttered. “Your wife spotted the ring in the display case. You paid for it with your credit card and she gave us her ring size. Trust me, it was a legitimate transaction.”
Advil. Better yet, Vicodin. He sat on the edge of the couch and pinched his forehead. Could this day get any worse? It wasn’t enough that he had made love to his best friend and remembered only bits of it. Obviously, there was more to last night than sex.
“Are you sure, sir?” Love asked. “Maybe someone stole Drake’s wallet and used his credit card to purchase this ring?”
The concierge sucked in a deep breath. “Ma’am, perhaps the problem was too many drinks?”
Drake flew to his feet, twisted the man’s lapels in his fists and pulled him closer—nose to nose. “Watch your mouth. Perhaps you got the situation wrong.” He let him go, shoving him back a bit.
After straightening his tie, the concierge smoothed a hand over his suit coat. “I’m sorry, Dr. Jackson. But you purchased the ring. I’m sure we can pull up the security cameras.” He drew an envelope out of his inside pocket. “And this was sent over via courier this morning.”
Drake snatched the envelope and ripped it open. Love rested a hand on his arm and he glanced at her. She was stunning, and she smelled like warm vanilla. Forcing his gaze away, he pulled the thick paper out and scanned it. Sighing, he handed it to her.
“Oh, my God!”
Drake rolled his eyes. “You said this was around three?” he asked the concierge.
He nodded. “Yes, according to Bill, the manager in charge. By the way, I wanted to come here in person to let you know that we’ve upgraded you to the honeymoon suite.”
“This can’t be happening,” Love mumbled.
“Honeymoon suite?” Drake asked.
“Yes. To show our appreciation for your business.”
Running his hand through his hair, Drake told him, “I don’t need to switch rooms.”
“We’ve already made the arrangements,” the concierge insisted. “A bellboy will be here shortly to collect your things and transfer them to your new accommodations.”
“This is Vegas.” Drake crossed his arms over his chest. “People get married here all the time. Why upgrade us?”
“Well, after the amount you spent in our hotel store, it’s our pleasure.”
Drake didn’t want to ask the question, but he had to. “How much is the ring?” he groaned.
“This is an original design, worth more than the price you paid.”
“How much?” he repeated.
“We agreed on a discounted price of $15,000.”
Love let out a colorful curse, then covered her mouth.
“Fifteen thousand?” Drake roared. “Are you crazy? They knew we were drinking and they still let me pay that much money for a ring?”
“Like I said, sir, you insisted,” the man responded.
“Thank you,” Love told the concierge. “We appreciate your hospitality. Can you leave us alone for now? We need a moment.” She walked him toward the door. More like pushed him. “And we appreciate the gesture, but the honeymoon suite is not necessary.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Jackson,” the man said, with a wide smile. “Please let us know if you change your mind.”
“We will,” she assured him. “Thank you again. Have a good day.”
“I will and—”
She closed the door before the man could finish his sentence.
Drake clutched the ring box in his hand. “I spent $15,000 on a ring, Love.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “Drake, we’ll figure this out. We’ll find the receipt and try to return it.”
“Good luck with that. They sold it at a discount. It was probably a final sale.”
“We have to find your wallet,” she said, hurrying into her suite bedroom.
He followed her. She picked a pair of discarded pants off the floor and shoved her hands into the pockets. He checked his coat and discovered his wallet was there. He opened it, leafed through the receipts and found nothing. “It’s not here. I’m screwed,” he said, dropping the wallet on the dresser.
She propped her hands on his shoulders. “Drake, we got married. We don’t remember our wedding. We had sex, after almost thirty years of innocent friendship. Screwed is an understatement. But all is not lost, because we still have our brains. So I say we go find the—” she glanced at the wedding certificate “—Hunk O’ Burning Love Wedding Chapel and try to get this thing annulled. Then we can check with the jewelry store.”
Love grabbed an outfit and disappeared into the bathroom.
“Okay, Mrs. Chipper, what if this can’t be fixed?”
She emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, wearing a pair of capri pants and a tank top. “I’m not dealing with that right now. The worst has to be over.”
Another knock sounded, and they heard a familiar voice from the other side say, “Lovely, open the door.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God.”
He shook his head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not over—not by a long shot.”
“Don’t answer that.” Love wrapped a hand around Drake’s arm. The constant knocking was getting to her, but she could handle it. “Maybe she’ll go away.”
“Have you met your mother?” Drake asked.
“She can’t come in here.” Gloria Helen Washington was the last person Love needed to see today. “She’ll know what happened.”
“How? We’re both fully dressed.” He peeled her hand off him. “Just act normal.” He hurried to the door and opened it.
Gloria breezed into the room. “Lovely Grace Washington, what is your problem? What took you so long to answer the door?”
Love rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. As if naming her Lovely wasn’t bad enough, her mother had added Grace to it. As soon as she was old enough, she’d insisted everyone call her Love. “What is it, Mother? You know it’s early.”
Love knew she hated to be called “Mother.” Gloria wasn’t your average stay-at-home mom. As a child, Love could be found chanting during a windstorm watch, and running around in a bright bandanna and a tie-dyed T-shirt. Yes, her mother was a hippie and damn proud of it. Even in her sixties, Gloria still had a carefree way about her. Her gray curls were wild and free, and she wore loose-fitting, flowing clothes at all times. Her mother thought the world would be a better place if everyone embraced love, hence the name.
Growing up had been pretty traumatic for the straitlaced Love. She was the only black kid in the neighborhood who wore sandals in the winter and listened to Jimi Hendrix. Instead of Ring Pops or Now & Laters, Love was forced to munch on celery sticks and snap peas. No hopscotch or Foursquare for her. Gloria thought it best that she recited poetry in the park. And Love hated poetry. Yet, even though they clashed often, Love adored her mother. And she was proud of the independent woman she’d become after the divorce. Her mother went from doting on her husband to owning one of Vegas’ premier flower shops. Gloria was famous for her floral creations.
Her mother pulled her into a tight hug. “I’ve missed you, my baby girl. The rest of the family should