Hilary Fields - Bliss

“Well, I, ah… that is, I try to be… um, thanks,” she babbled, absurdly tickled. The puppy gave a bark of agreement, seconding the sentiment. She scratched behind the little fella’s gray-tipped ear, loving the distinctive charcoal-colored face mask markings that set off his snowy coat. The pup leaned into her fingers, whining with joy. “What’s his name?” she asked Asher shyly.

“He hasn’t got one yet. If you’d like, you may have that honor.”

And just like that, standing on a rustic, sun-dappled porch, giddy with high altitude and sage-scented desert air, Serafina had a moment of gratitude so strong that tears sprang to her eyes.

A year ago, nobody had been asking her to name their puppies. She’d been lucky if she could get through a day without having an angry sous chef lobbing a saucepan at her head. Now she was trading pleasantries on a brisk September Santa Fe day with a fascinating gentleman who had entrusted her with a piece of his dog’s future. Maybe to him, this was no more than the friendly gesture it seemed. But to Sera, it meant she was finally on her way to becoming the woman she’d always hoped she’d be.

“I’d like that,” she murmured when the lump in her throat finally dissipated. She buried her face in the pooch’s snowy fur, laughing a little when he started chewing on her hair. “I might need some time to think of the right name, though.”

“He’s in no rush,” Asher said, reaching out to fondle the pup’s ears. Sera took note of his hands: big knuckles, long, sensitive fingers—and lots of scars and calluses. She’d seen their like on chefs before—cooks collected burns and cuts like they were auditioning for a slasher movie. She guessed jewelers faced some of the same occupational hazards. Hot metal, sharp tools.

Speaking of hot stuff…

“I came bearing gifts,” she blurted out. “I hope you’re not allergic to chocolate or anything.”

“A fate worse than death,” Asher said with real horror. “Not at all. I consider chocolate one of the major food groups.”

Could he be a more perfect human being? Sera wondered. Just, please, don’t let him be one of those people who believes in alien abduction or listens to Rush Limbaugh, ’cause this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

“Then you’re going to love this,” she promised, letting her dimples show as she held up the Tupperware container she’d placed on the porch rail before the puppies glommed on to her.

Asher gallantly accepted the battered plastic tub. “What is it?” he asked, already busy peeling off the lid. “I think I smell…”

“Chocolate babka,” she affirmed. “I thought, since Pauline told me you’re Israeli, you might like a taste of home.”

Asher inhaled appreciatively. “Actually,” he said, his fingers already busy tearing off a hunk, “it’s not really common back where I come from, in Tel Aviv. I’d never tasted babka until I visited my cousins in New York a few years back. But once I did”—he flashed that signature grin—“I considered moving there permanently.”

She blushed, embarrassed at her cultural ignorance. But Asher didn’t seem the slightest bit offended. Sera watched as he freed a fluffy, chocolate-marbled wad of the sweet bread and crammed it in his mouth. His eyes slid shut with an almost carnal bliss.

So did Sera’s.

There was just about nothing that compared to watching someone enjoy the foods you made with your own two hands. Watching a gorgeous, lanky, Siberian husky–owning artisan who just happened to be your landlord enjoy your food… well, it was singularly rewarding. A heat that owed nothing to the sun-washed day suffused Serafina.

A wet, warm tongue began laving her neck.

Her eyes snapped open, and were met with the curious, mischievous tundra blue eyes of her nameless puppy friend, whose tongue lolled from his doggie grin without the slightest shame. Sera, on the other hand, ought to spend at least a week doing penance for her lascivious thoughts. Thoughts, she reminded herself, that should be nipped in the bud before she started falling under her landlord’s spell…

Asher swallowed, the strong column of his neck working. Sera’s gaze was drawn to the hollow at the base of his throat, olive skin just barely sprinkled with golden hair at the vee formed by his open shirt collar. “Delicious.” He sighed, opening his own eyes at length.

Yeah, that was one way to put it.

Suddenly, Sera became aware of the fact that they were still standing on the porch outside Asher’s store, and that she’d been monopolizing his attention for quite a while.

“You must have customers. I don’t want to keep you… I just wanted to check in with you about Pauline’s store, if you have a few moments. If you don’t, I can come back,” she rambled.

“Not at all,” he said with a reassuring smile. “It’s early, and the tourists don’t really start bombarding us full force until lunchtime, as a rule. I find the ladies are generally in a better mood for buying jewelry after they’ve checked a few of our town’s fine museums off their list and had a bite to eat. And it goes similarly with their gentlemen companions. So business is quiet just now. Would you like to look around my shop?” he offered, licking his thumb clean of babka crumbs and shoving away from the door.

A peek inside the wolf’s den. Why not? She put the puppy down, watching as Sascha gently chivvied him and the rest of the litter back to their little doggie hideout.

Asher beckoned Sera inside after him, and she followed.

And broke into a delighted smile.

Smaller than Pauline’s House of Passion, more intimate, and warmly lit, Lyric Jewelry was fairly bursting with the personality of its owner. As with its plant-laden exterior, the interior was pulsing with life and energy, but here it was expressed in a different way. Inside, the atmosphere was all about flow and grace, while the outside was more about exuberant, untamed growth. As Sera gazed about in fascination, she took in antique wooden display cases with beveled glass fronts, walls lined with gilt picture frames repurposed to hang earrings and pendants, and most intriguingly, violins everywhere she turned.

Hung from the ceiling, resting on display stands, pictured in old lithographs of tuxedoed or beautifully gowned musicians, the richly lacquered, mellow aged wooden instruments played dramatic counterpoint to the main focus of the shop—the exquisite silver jewelry. Sera moved forward to examine the nearest display case, forgetting the creator momentarily as she marveled at his creations. Rings, pendants, bracelets, and earrings, some polished to a high shine, others treated with a patina to achieve a smoky, tarnished effect, were placed in the cases just so—neither with military precision nor with careless abandon, but with an instinctual understanding of space and artistry to best show off their unique craftsmanship.

The pieces themselves were nearly all sterling silver, with just a few gold accents and semiprecious gemstones. Some had inlays of smoothly polished, fine-grained wood or iridescent seashell, bringing an organic, living feel to the pieces. Like the chain she’d seen around Asher’s neck at their first meeting, they were substantial, imposing works of metal, but they had a flow that was anything but clumsy. Neither masculine nor feminine, overly intricate nor plainly modernistic in style, still the jewelry sang. Clearly, Asher had been inspired by the fluid lines and shapes of the musical instruments with which he’d surrounded himself. Sera spotted a superb ring made of patinaed silver that swirled just like the neck scroll of a violin, while a pendant displayed in one of the wall cases was elegantly reminiscent of a cello's curves without flogging the likeness too literally. There were very few items she wouldn’t want to own, though the discreet price tags tucked beside the pieces told her there were few she could easily afford.