by JD Hawkins
The guy looks at me like I’m a street corner evangelist he’d like to hurry away from. I gesture around me.
“Every piece of jewelry in here is a story. Sometimes the story ain’t that interesting. A Colorado millionaire who’s been burned too many times trying to find a piece beautiful enough to win something more than mercenary affection from his mistress. An aspiring rapper looking for a rock so loud and expensive that it can manifest the destiny he wants.” I pick up the cheaper ring and hold it aloft between us, at eye-level. “I’ve worked with jewelry long enough that I can almost see the stories right there in the rocks… You know what story I see between this ring and you?”
The guy shakes his head and shrugs impatiently.
“I dunno. What?”
“Five, maybe ten years from now… Maybe you have kids… Neither of you have looked at the wedding photos for a long time. You’ve let yourself go, she’s still trying to look her best but she’s succumbed to the family budget and the fact that the kids come first… And you have an argument, except by now arguments are as common as conversations—maybe even a little more. And then a little later she’s thinking about whether it was all worth it.
“She’s thinking about all the guys—and there’s for sure a lot of them—that hit on her, that wanted her… All those other potential futures… And maybe she’s eating her dinner, or washing her hands, or driving with her hand on the top of the wheel, and this ring… This ring…draws her eye… And she’ll know exactly what you were thinking when you bought it—your wife knows about these kinds of things… And she’s gonna think…” I take a moment, pause for dramatic effect. “That cheap motherfucker. Even at his best he came up short.”
I snap the ring box shut in one hand with a loud clap, and put it behind the counter.
“I’m not selling you the ring,” I announce in a firm tone, as if that little reverie was shut away with the ring.
“Excuse me?”
I look at him as if offended that he would make me repeat myself.
“I’m not selling you the ring.”
“You can’t do that,” he says, sounding as confused as he is surprised.
“I told you: it’s not about the money to me. You’re the one thinking in dollar signs.”
“Are you for real?” he asks.
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“I’m just buying a ring, dude—”
“Then find another jewelry store—one that ‘just sells rings.’ I don’t. I sell symbols. Stories. Manifestations of people’s desires and feelings. You want to ‘just buy a ring’ for a cheap price, then find a gumball machine.”
The guy shuffles on his feet and looks around him for support, but the store’s so busy nobody’s got time to notice the strange look on his face. He looks back at me and laughs awkwardly, stuck halfway between disorientation and anger.
“What the hell’s going on here?” he says. “I come in to buy an engagement ring and the next thing I know you’re telling me about arguing with my wife and insulting me. What the hell, man?”
“Insulting you? Let me tell you something. I’m a romantic—I play the field plenty, but I’m a romantic at heart. Maybe I always want what I can’t have, maybe I’m too picky, maybe I just can’t give up the field—that’s for me to worry about. Point is, I believe in love. Then a guy like you walks in here—one of the best jewelry shops in southern California, maybe even the whole state—a guy who bagged himself a dime against all odds. And you want me to sell you a ring like you’re shopping for groceries—checking the price first.
“You don’t even care what you walk out of this shop with. I’ll bet if I went out there and scratched your car, you’d show more emotion than you have buying the symbol of your love for this woman. You talk about insults—that’s an insult to me. That’s an insult to me as a jewelry shop owner, and more importantly, an insult to me as a romantic. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Greg Miller stares at me like a fish, then gives me that awkward laugh again—a laugh I’ve grown to dislike immensely, and which I’m sure his future wife will one day hate.
“I just wanted to buy a ring, dude.”
Just then, over his shoulder, I catch sight of somebody a million times more interesting, and even more beautiful than his wife. It makes me suddenly aware of how much time I’ve wasted on the guy, so I decide to get it over with.
“I’m gonna do two things for you, okay?” I say with an air of finality. “I’m going to knock twenty percent off the price of this—” I tap the glass behind the ruby trilogy ring on the counter. “And I’m going to give you the rest of the weekend to think about it—because you seem like a guy who needs time to figure things out. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some other business to attend to. I don’t wanna see you back here again unless you’ve made the right choice. Okay, buddy?”
I don’t give him time to respond, and move around the counter instead to get a good look at who just walked in before I approach her.
She’s alone, but she has the presence of an entire crowd. Maybe it’s because she’s impossible not to notice, so everyone around her becomes engulfed by her aura, lending her their energy via looks and awareness. She’s taller than the average woman, aided by a pair of red heels that she walks on as if she was born in them. A light summer dress over her body, white and patterned with tropical flowers that seem to come alive with her movement. The dress clings and hangs over every curve—her hips, back, breasts…accentuating every elegant, swinging step she takes. A small, blue, leather handbag bouncing against her hip in a way I can’t be the only guy to think is erotic.
She’s more than a sexy body, though. She’s a pretty face as well. Eyes so exquisite they could turn you to stone, and lips so sensual they could kiss life back into you. A platinum blonde pixie cut that reveals every delicate contour of her cheekbones. A neck so soft it’s as much a turn-on as any other part of her. High and haughty, her shoulders pinned back confidently, chin high, back hard and straight and just begging to be pressed against… Bent over… Everything on her draws the eye.
Those pretty feet in those high heels, her slender calves, the asymmetry of her hair to that mouthwatering neck, the knowing eyes. The silver bracelets pulling my attention to the graceful movement of her hands.
Even though I know her, every time I see her it feels like the first time.
Maeve.
She’s my sister Mia’s best friend, which is why she’s completely off limits…but we’ve got history. Not enough to fill a textbook, but a weekend hot and crazy enough that it stuck in my mind all these six years later—even though I don’t remember much of it.
Maeve likes to party, just like me. She also knows that the best kind of fun is the kind you have in private…just like me. But in the end, when it came down to it, she knew anything more, anything longer than a weekend, would have probably put Mia in the middle when it blew up, and Maeve cares about Mia more than any quick thrill. Just like me.
I watch her glide through the store, perusing the merchandise, her powerful presence causing people to move out of her way even though her gaze is toward the displays. When she bends a little to look at something more closely, I have to bite my lip to stop myself growling like an animal.
She knows she’s hot—there’s no “innocent little beauty” act with Maeve—but it wouldn’t surprise me if she knew I was watching her right now. Nothing gets past her. I’ve heard a lot of women complain about men playing games with them. Maeve loves it, because the guys who try always end up losing more than their shirts.
Somehow, I manage to peel my eyes from the way that summer dress falls and sways over her ass to check on what piece has grabbed her attention. I find something better than anything I own: a pair of hard brown jewels gazing back at me in the reflection of the display.
I laugh gently to myself, then stick out my tongue to show that I’ve found her out. She doesn’t show an inch of guilt as she stands up straight and glances back
at me over her shoulder, pushing a strand of perfect hair behind her ear and smiling as if she wanted me to catch her looking. She probably did.
I round the counter and make a beeline for her.
“Toby,” Sharon calls but I wave her away, my full attention reserved for Maeve now.
2
Maeve
“Of all the jewelry shops in all of L.A…” he murmurs in that unmistakably mischievous tone.
I don’t move away from the display, but turn my head and allow him a brief smile before turning back to look at the pieces. He’s not looking too bad these days. Either he’s been hitting the gym or pulling back on the drinking—the smart money would be on the former.
Wavy auburn hair that’s a few shades darker than his sister Mia’s coppery red, with just enough product to tame it while looking natural. Green, palm tree-patterned short sleeve Hawaiian shirt over a white tee, aviators hanging from its collar. Tattoo sleeve on his muscled right arm, Rolex on his left. And underneath it all, the kind of body that you rarely see outside of an underwear ad. Despite his many other faults, Toby’s always had that thing rare among men—the ability to look like what he really is: a flashy, roguish party animal who rarely thinks more than ten minutes into the future.
“Yours is the only one with a parking spot,” I finish for him as I move away from the display and saunter over to the counter on the other side of the shop.
He laughs as he follows me closely. His assistant calls him but he doesn’t break step, and remains by my shoulder while I peruse the bracelets below the counter.
“Ah come on, Maeve,” he says through a smile. “Don’t pretend you didn’t come in here for the personal attention I can give you.”
“Well, you do have to deal with the rough to get to the good diamonds.”
“Seriously,” he says. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you in here. Were you just in the neighborhood and realized you need a gem-studded whip? A gold-encrusted ball-crushing device, perhaps?”
I stand up straight and turn to project my smile at him finally.
“I’m definitely not interested in the silver-tongued lothario.”
“Oof,” he says mockingly, slapping his hand to his chest. “Lothario? Me? You of all people know I’m actually a romantic, Maeve. Unlike you I actually believe in lo—”
“Oh honey, don’t tell me you’re still using that line,” I say, turning back to the jewelry. “It’s too depressing to think there might still be a woman out there naïve enough to believe it.”
“You know, I’ve got a piece in the back that would look great on you,” he says.
“Let me guess—it’s in a discreet spot behind some boxes and the entryway is so tight I’ll have to remove my clothes to get in there.”
I glance at him and enjoy the half second of hesitation in his smile. His eyes trail an imaginary hand up my bare legs, into the curve of my waist, over my cleavage.
“Of course not,” he says. “You’re hardly wearing anything as it is.”
I let loose an eye roll and a sigh, turn back to the pieces, and move along the counter, past where he’s standing, my side brushing slightly against his leg. I know exactly what I’m doing. The little game we play.
“No thanks. I’m not in the mood for disappointment.”
To others it might seem like an odd thing, our semi-insulting flirtations with each other. But it’s an odd relationship. We’re just about acquaintances—friends only via our connection to Mia. Familiar enough because of that lapse of judgment so many years ago, but otherwise strangers in all aspects of our lives.
I’m not shy when it comes to men. Not afraid to take what I want from them, and experienced enough to be able to tell if they even have anything I want at first glance. Without Mia, without the messiness and risk involved in getting in deeper with my best friend’s brother, I would have had my fill of Toby in a week and been done with him—maybe two if he was lucky and I was particularly bored.
He would have been a nice little plaything. Good in bed, often funny, potentially able to spring a few amusing surprises, and able to carry his own as a plus one. Any other man, and any other situation, I would have ended it as suddenly as I started it, leaving him wanting more (I always get bored before they do). In another lifetime, Toby would be begging me to let us “try one more time,” and I’d be avoiding him because of it. Luckily, we both came to our senses and agreed our little frisson would end the same weekend it started, before our mistake turned into a problem.
But because we finished where we started, our relationship is forever stuck in that night so many years ago. An eternity of flirting that we both know can go nowhere, that we’ve already agreed will go nowhere. I’m fine with that, and judging by all the reports I hear of Toby screwing his way through every hot, unavailable woman in Los Angeles, I guess he is too. It’s better for both of us if we remain as we are—frenemies.
“How’s Mia?” I ask, ditching the flirtiness for a moment and turning to face him head-on.
“You probably see her more than I do these days.” He shrugs. “I spoke to her on the phone yesterday. She sounded good. Baby Alison is keeping them both plenty busy. But she and Colin are still staying in his apartment while they’re looking for a house.”
“Well, you know Mia—if there’s a wall one inch from where she wants it, she won’t settle. She’s probably done a degree’s worth of research into building materials already.”
Toby laughs and nods.
“At least she was smart enough to marry a guy who could put up with her overanalyzing,” he says. “She did say something about dinner at her place this week. I guess you’ll be going?”
“I guess I might,” I say nonchalantly, then turn back to the jewels. “To answer your original question, yes, I was in the neighborhood. I’m attending a very lavish birthday party this evening and I need a fabulous gift, and given your history of unseemly bragging about the shop, I hoped you’d have just the right thing. My friend wears necklaces a lot—shorter ones, she’s all cleavage—but I don’t want anything too flashy. Something classic, minimalist. Like the one you gave to Mia.”
“Stay right there,” he tells me as he starts to move away. “I wasn’t joking when I said I had some great stuff in the back.”
A few minutes later he emerges on the other side of the counter and lays out a cloth spread with several glimmering necklaces, the dancing light on them drawing me in for a closer look.
“These are lovely…” I murmur as I pick out one with a hammered O-shaped pendant and hold it up.
“So your friend with the cleavage,” Toby asks with a half-smile I can see through the necklace. “Do I know her?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, turning the necklace in the light. “She’s too sweet to move in your circles.”
“Is she single?”
I turn my eyes from the necklace to him.
“Aren’t you still chasing that married pop singer from Texas?”
“I wasn’t chasing her,” he says indignantly. “I’m not that kind of guy. Not a homewrecker. I was just…infatuated. In love. The heart wants what it wants.”
“She was very hot. You sure it was your heart that wanted her and not another part of you?”
He groans a little, losing his smile at my undermining of his emotions. I place the necklace carefully back down again and peruse the others.
“You wouldn’t understand, Maeve. You’re incapable of love.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m currently having a tempestuous, on-off relationship with a Margiela dress. And I’ve got a pair of Louboutins I’ve been in a loving, loyal union with for nearly a decade.”
He says nothing for a while, and it’s only when I pick up another necklace with aquamarine beads and hold it to the light that I can see he’s watching me keenly, studying my face with an expression of deep, intense thought on his brow.
“You can’t really think that,” he says, in an almost intimately sincere tone. “I find
it hard to believe a woman can be that cold all the time. So…opposed to the idea of romance.”
I smile and lower the necklace, but keep my eyes fixed on his, so he can see the sincerity in them.
“It frightens you, doesn’t it? That a woman might actually not be besotted with the idea of ‘soulmates’ and ‘relationships’ and ‘everlasting love.’ It terrifies you to think a woman might actually be perfectly satisfied with a complex, diverse wardrobe and only need men for the occasional distraction.”
Toby laughs but I can sense the lack of confidence in it. The assistant calls his name again but he ignores it once again.
“Why would that frighten me?”
“Because you’ve been using the ‘dashing romantic’ line to pick up women for years now,” I reply easily. “Talk about finding something hard to believe…”
“It’s not a ‘line,’” Toby says, trying to sound cool but there’s a quickness in his tone which indicates I’ve touched that nerve again. “I mean, I like to have fun—sure. But I’m not dumb enough to think I can keep doing that forever. You aren’t either, Maeve.”
“No… You’re right,” I sigh, as if giving in to his incredible logic. I give him a moment to feel as if he might have cracked me, then say, “I suppose at some point I’ll have to get a dog.” Toby shakes his head and smiles, and I hand over the necklace. “I’ll take this one. With your most generous friends and family discount, if you please.”
He gives it a quick polish with a cloth and tucks it into a nice velvet box. I watch him as he gift wraps it.
“So tell me more about this party tonight,” he says casually. “What’s the venue?”
“It’s at her place,” I say, then sigh. “She’s old money, so it’ll probably be full of boring stiffs and their obnoxious offspring. But it’s just next door to me, so I’ll be able to escape easily enough.”
