Hilary Fields - Bliss

“I’ll do that,” Sera promised. As she watched him retreat—no hardship there—she had a feeling she’d be making an excuse to do so at the earliest opportunity—just to be neighborly, of course. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to fly so close to the flame with a guy that hot, but hell, a girl could look, couldn’t she? No harm pursuing a friendly acquaintance, Sera told herself staunchly. She’d just have to keep her… limitations… in mind, and she’d be fine.

“Wow,” she said to Pauline, “what’s the deal with that dude?”

“What do you mean?” Pauline asked innocently.

“Well, for starters, why does he have a key to your place?”

“Oh, that.” Pauline waved a hand dismissively. “Why wouldn’t he have a key to his own building?”

At Sera’s uncomprehending look, she continued, “Oh, didn’t I mention that? Asher owns the place. If you decide to reopen the shop, he’ll be your landlord, kiddo. And he’s single, too, you know.” She leered in that signature Pauline Wilde way—almost too cute to be obscene. “Maybe if you two start schtupping, he’ll give us a break on the rent.”

It wasn’t the next day, or even the next, before Sera got back to Placita de Suerte y Sueños. A full week passed in a haze of logistics and alarmingly grown-up concerns before she was able to visit her dream shop again.

Armed with advice from accountants, recovering from cauliflower ear after several marathon phone sessions with local officials, and newly expert in the bylaws of Santa Fe’s small business association and community boards, she finally felt prepared to say with reasonable certainty that, yes, opening Bliss might work out. But first, she’d have to talk to her landlord.

And Sera was feeling a wee bit woozy at the prospect.

The jungle around both Pauline’s shop and its neighbor had been pruned back a bit, she noticed as she arrived. But from under the slightly more manicured curtain of foliage draping Lyric Jewelry, a series of alarmingly animalistic yips, snorts, and whines was emerging.

Too bad I couldn’t get my pepper spray through airport security, Sera thought with a twinge of unease. But whatever it was doing the Animal Planet impression under there, she’d have to get past it to see Asher Wolf. And she hadn’t come all this way to get fainthearted now.

Leaving the package she’d brought with her balanced on the porch railing, she stepped up on the dusty boards, ducked under the canopy of leafy growth, and discovered that the source of the sounds appeared to be a… hm, is that a doghouse? Yes, definitely a handmade wooden doghouse, more old-school Snoopy-style than prefab pooch palace, tucked in a corner of the storefront beside a series of potted plants that were exuberantly climbing the walls and door lintel of the jewelry store.

A white, distinctly wolfish muzzle peeked out from the doghouse.

Oh, man, my landlord isn’t seriously a wolf wrangler, too, is he? she wondered. She had enough mental nicknames for Indiana Jones as it was; Dances with Wolves was just one too many.

Sera was uneasy with dogs. Cats were okay by her—the more aloof, the better—but if truth be told, she’d always been more of a turtle or sea monkey person than a fuzzy animal advocate. Sera preferred a pet that could be contained in a tidy display case, look decorative, and require little to no maintenance. Taking her neighbor’s wheezy pug out for its nightly walk had been about as much commitment as she’d ever wanted to offer a canine. With her baking schedule—up before dawn most days; elbow-deep in flour, butter, and sugar for most of her waking hours; and catering events all over the city—pet ownership had pretty much always been out of the question. Dogs, with their constant needs and shameless attention seeking—not to mention their droolly, treat-begging ways—had just never been her bag.

Until perhaps, just now. As Sera watched, four more muzzles joined the first in the darkened arch of the doghouse door. Four tiny, mewling, tongue-lolling, ridiculously lovable puppy muzzles.

Before she knew it, Serafina’s ankle-length circle skirt (one of Pauline’s, as she was getting to the end of her travel wardrobe and she’d yet to do laundry) had acquired a fringe of Siberian husky–shaped pom-poms.

Their impossibly adorable little faces were scrunched up as they did battle with her hem, growling and barking excitedly while their mother, a regal-looking purebred husky with piercing blue eyes, lounged half in, half out of her doggy domain and watched her offspring indulgently.

Was it possible to die of puppy love? Her heart was melting faster than Valrhona chocolate in a hot double boiler.

“C’mon, little doggies,” Sera crooned, trying to gently free the denim edge of Pauline’s skirt from the puppies’ mouths while simultaneously endeavoring to keep the tired elastic at the waist from giving its last gasp. Pauline was a bit more generous around the middle than her niece, and her well-worn clothing fit Sera rather more than comfortably. As playful growls and excited yips erupted, she realized she’d just inadvertently invented a new game for the pups—“denude Serafina in public.”

“C’mon… let the nice lady go,” she wheedled, hoping to reason with the puppies. They looked intelligent enough for a bunch of puffballs. No dice. So she tried distraction, crouching down and pointing excitedly with one hand while clutching her waistband for dear life with the other. “Look, boys! A bird! Um, puppy chow!” But nothing could possibly be as thrilling as anchoring her hippy skirt, making sure it gave no resistance to their mini-ferocious fangs.

Serafina got stern on their asses. “Drop the denim, you Lilliputian menaces,” she threatened, “and nobody’ll get hurt.” In response, the littlest one crawled right under her hem and began having it out with her socks, just where they met her favorite pair of slouchy ankle boots. “Ha, ha… no, stop, you little punk… ah, that tickles! Shit! No, you goobers, I’m not wearing my nice undies today, quit with the peekaboo—”

“Can I help you with something?” inquired an amused voice.

Serafina gave a yip fit to outshine her canine carbuncles. She spun on her heels, puppies swinging from her skirts like a carnival carousel, coming to a stop face-to-face with a grinning Asher Wolf.

He framed the doorway of his shop with aplomb; she had to give him that. Sans hat today, but sporting another clingy, beat-up pullover and cargo pants with what looked to be a full complement of jeweler’s tools poking from their many pockets.

Hello, Studly.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Wolf. Ah, do these limpets belong to you, by any chance?”

“Asher, please,” he reminded her, “or I’ll be forced to call you Miss Wilde, and Santa Fe is far too casual a town for such formalities.”`

“Right.” Serafina colored. Calling him by his given name felt too intimate somehow, but refusing to do so would make her look like a weirdo—or more of a prude than Pauline had already painted her to be. “Asher. Sorry. Um, I seem to have Velcroed up some puppies—are they yours?”

“Temporarily,” he allowed. “Sascha over there”—he gestured to the full-grown husky—“is mine, as I am hers.” At the sound of her name, Sascha got to her feet and wound her way through her gamboling offspring to Asher’s side, sitting on one of his motorcycle boots and looking up at him adoringly until the jeweler gave her a fond rub across her noble forehead. Man and beast exchanged identical wolfish grins. “The pups, however, are merely passing through. Three of them have homes waiting for them, but the runt of the litter hasn’t been spoken for yet—that’s the little rascal who seems to have developed a fondness for your sock. In a couple of weeks, when they’re fully weaned, I’ll have to find a place for him, too, though I’m growing perilously fond of the fellow myself.” Asher leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed one foot over the other, the picture of relaxed, self-confident male. Sascha mimicked him, flumping over on her side, crossing her paws in front of her, and cocking her head as if to say, “Isn’t my master awesome?”

You said it, bitch, Sera thought. She could stare at that kind of goodness all day long.

To cover the sudden heat that was short-circuiting her thoughts, Sera leaned down and let her fingers have the luxury of sinking into the runt’s exquisitely soft fur. He gave a funny little chirrup and began lapping at her hand with a dedication that was almost embarrassing. “May I?” she inquired, indicating that she’d like to pick up the pup. Asher nodded, and suddenly, her arms were full of squirming, barking joyousness. Face, neck, hands—every part of Sera within the pup’s reach was subjected to his sloppy kisses.

“He seems to have taken quite a liking to you, Bliss,” Asher remarked.

Sera started, still unaccustomed to the moniker and how frankly naughty it sounded on his lips. Her face flamed—again—but she hoped the husky’s ministrations would hide her blushes. “I’m sure at this age, they probably greet everybody this way,” she demurred.

“The other pups, yes. They’ll roll over and beg for belly rubs for any passing tourist—not bad for business either, I might add.” He grinned frankly. “This little fellow, however, has been very shy up to now—I’ve never seen him take to anyone so freely.” Asher folded his arms, scrutinizing Serafina. “Dogs have excellent instincts,” he said. “You must be a good… what is it Pauline says? A good egg. Yes, egg.” He looked pleased with his ability to whip out an English idiom.

“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.”