Page 12 of The Four Engagement Rings of Sybil Rain

THE THIRD RING

J AMIE WAITED SO LONG TO INTRODUCE ME TO THE K AUFFMAN CLAN— more than a year!

—that I had started to worry he was actively trying to keep me a secret…

or else that they had some terrible secret he didn’t want me to find out about.

Like maybe his father was a cult leader with eighteen wives, or maybe they didn’t live on a former vineyard at all but some sort of chinchilla farm—just cages and cages full of shaved rodents.

But a few weeks before Christmas, I was finally about to find out the truth.

We flew from LA to San Francisco then rented a car to drive the final hour up to his parents’ house in Napa.

My nerves were shot by the time the car crunched up a long, gravel driveway—well, really more of a private road than a driveway—and the house came into view.

Though house might not be the proper word for it.

Estate might be more appropriate. The idea of this being home—as in, the place where you built pillow forts as a kid and watched Sunday cartoons and did homework and got in trouble for drawing on the walls—was a little hard to picture.

The enormous chalet of creamy yellow stone was surrounded by garden paths that led out across the sweeping grounds.

The house was surrounded by acres of grape vines—remnants of a once-thriving winery that now served as a playground for Mr. Kauffman’s amateur winemaking hobby.

I knew Jamie’s family had money, but it hadn’t really registered for me how much money they had until someone greeted us at the door and took our luggage, like we’d arrived at a boutique hotel, before leading us inside.

Jamie’s voice echoed as he called for his parents, but no one answered. “Looks like we have the place to ourselves.” He grabbed my hand and led me back out the front door. “Let me give you the tour.”

Jamie pulled me around the side of the house where the perfectly manicured lawn gave way to a wilder expanse. Rows of grapevines stretched in every direction.

“Wow,” I breathed, taking in the scale of the vineyard. “This is incredible.”

Jamie ducked his head in embarrassment, but I could see there was a hint of pride in his eyes.

“Come check it out.” We walked down a set of stone steps and crossed the lawn until we were standing in front of the rows of grapes.

Jamie gestured toward a rustic barn nestled amongst the vines. “That’s where all the magic happens.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Magic?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, you know, the fermenting, the aging, all that stuff. It’s pretty fascinating, actually.” He plucked a grape from a nearby vine and popped it into his mouth. “Open up,” he said, before slipping a grape between my lips.

It burst with sweetness, a hint of tartness lingering on my tongue. “Delicious.”

“Right?” Jamie grinned. “And the wine tastes even better. I’ve been telling my dad for years we should expand our sales beyond wine country.

It’s off-menu at the Michelin-starred restaurant nearby, and the som there is a huge fan.

He says it’s a total crime that no one can find it outside of Napa because of our limited distro.

” He paused, his gaze sweeping across the vineyard.

“I think it could be a much more significant piece of our business one day, and a really meaningful part of our portfolio, you know? It’s exactly the type of venture our Kauffman Group clients would love to invest in.

” Jamie was practically glowing with this idea.

He looked way more excited about it than he usually did when speaking about The Kauffman Group’s investment machinations.

“Anyway,” he said with a shrug, “I just think maybe it could be something special.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his passion. I knew about as much about winemaking as I did about private equity—which is to say, basically nothing—but I knew one thing for sure. “If you’re behind it,” I said to Jamie, “I know it could be something special.”

Jamie squeezed my hand then led me toward a large meadow where half a dozen horses roamed leisurely, stopping every now and then to bend over to munch some grass.

He leaned against a wooden fence gone silver with age, and for a second, he looked not quite real.

Too perfect, like a photo in a catalogue.

“So, are you going to teach me to ride?” I asked, pulling myself up to sit on the top rail of the fence.

“Maybe. If you play your cards right.” Jamie’s hands left the fence and started to trail beneath the hem of my sweater.

“I did try to teach Sadie and Milo once—with very mixed results,” he added, referring to his niece and nephew.

“Milo insisted I hold the reins and walk him the entire time; Sadie took off at a canter after about five seconds in the saddle.”

I grinned, thinking eight-year-old Sadie sounded like my kind of girl. Though I hadn’t met her or her brother yet. “Are they here this weekend?” I asked, pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my hands.

Jamie shook his head. “They’re doing the first half of Christmas break with their dad and the second half with Amelia.”

“Oh, that’s sad.”

“Not really. They do Hanukkah with him and Christmas with us. And Amelia and Dan still get along really well. It’s very low drama.”

“I would definitely not be low drama after a divorce.”

“Oh, I know.” Jamie huffed out a laugh.

“What does that mean?”

“Sybil, nothing about you is low drama. It’s just one of the many things I love about you.”

Before I realized what was happening, Jamie had plucked me off the fence and swung me into his arms, holding me bridal style.

I let out a delighted shriek as he carried me along the meadow and behind the nearby stables, then into a thin patch of trees.

When the world turned right side up again, he’d set me down beside a little hidden creek, barely more than a foot wide.

“This was always my favorite spot to hide as a kid,” he said, a bit sheepishly.

We sat down in the shady grass. “I can’t imagine wanting to hide if you lived in a place like this,” I told him.

“You’d be surprised,” he said. And then he added with a sly grin, “The creek is very peaceful, and has the added benefit of not being visible from the house. No one can see us right now.”

I was already leaning into his shoulder but then he pulled me on top of him, my legs straddling his waist, his hands on the waistband of my jeans.

I leaned forward, my hair dancing into his eyes. “I had this fantasy of having sex tonight in your childhood bedroom,” I said to him. “Is that perverted?”

He smiled. “A little. But in a good way.”

I smiled, bending forward into his kiss.

“But I don’t want to wait until tonight,” he whispered, his lips moving to my neck. “Do you?”

I let myself get lost in the feeling of his hands as they slid under my sweater and gently lifted it up and off me.

I shivered against him, the desire for him so powerful, so certain, it was almost out-of-body.

It was like being here, in this place where he’d been raised, made me even more connected to him than I’d ever felt before.

“No, I don’t want to wait.”

T HERE WERE VOICES COMING from beyond the foyer when we stepped back into the house forty minutes later. The current of nervous energy that had calmed when I was alone with Jamie whipped back up as we entered the grand living room.

I’d known that Jamie took after his dad, but seeing them side by side, it was uncanny how similar they looked.

They had the same chestnut-brown hair and tall build, but where Jamie’s eyes were the warm brown of his mom, his dad’s were a dark blue.

His sister, Amelia, had the same coloring as Jamie but not the height.

She barely reached Jamie’s shoulder wearing three-inch heels, but she still managed to seem incredibly intimidating.

Probably because, as a district court judge, it was literally her job to project a sense of authority.

Seated in a wingback was an elderly woman with a snow-white bob, a nearly empty wine glass, and a well-worn Judith McNaught book balanced on the arm of her chair.

Jamie led me over to her. “This is my Grandma G,” he said, bending over to give her a peck on the cheek.

She squinted at me playfully. “Jamie tells me you and I share a love of happily ever afters.” She tapped the book beside her. “Are you a fan?”

I nodded and smiled. Grandma G stood from her chair and looped her arm through mine, placing a delicately bony hand on my arm.

I noticed her large ruby-and-diamond art deco ring—I had seen it in a picture of her on Jamie’s desk once.

He’d said it was called a “Toi et Moi” ring— you and me .

I always loved that idea, and how unique the ring looked. It was even more beautiful in person.

“Truth be told, I’m actually more a Johanna Lindsey girl,” I admitted as Grandma G began steering me toward the dining room—with an incredible amount of force for a woman of her age and size.

“Ah,” she said, “so you like a pirate.”

“Love a pirate,” I agreed.

“Our Jamie’s a little more of a Mr. Darcy type, you know. He’s not swashbuckling; he’s strong and silent.”

“Well, no one’s better than Darcy—not even a pirate.”

Grandma G gave me an appraising glance. She must have been satisfied with what she saw, because she patted my arm twice and released me. “Good luck, dear.” I could’ve sworn she added, You’re going to need it before settling into her chair at the far end of the dining table.

As I settled into my own seat, a woman in a black button-up shirt and slacks appeared and asked what I’d like to drink.

“We have everything,” Jamie said encouragingly, sensing my awkwardness. I’d never been waited on like this in someone’s home. “Patty makes amazing cocktails, and we have wine, of course.”

“Oh, um—could I get a vodka martini, please?”

“She likes them extra dry,” Jamie added with a sly smile. “And extra dirty.”