Dante taps the nearest display case. “Show us what’s new.”
“Straight to business,” Paulie hums, adjusting their oversized tortoiseshell glasses with bejeweled fingers. “For this lovely creature? I have just the thing.” They reveal an array of delicate chains. Some meant for thighs, others for waists and ankles. One particular piece catches my eye. A gossamer-thin emerald-studded chain that captures light like dewdrops.
“These are stunning,” I murmur, my fingers hovering over the emerald piece. “But not really for me…”
“The thigh chain would look exquisite on you,” Dante says, pointing out the exact one that caught my eye.
“I’ll leave it here for you to consider, darling.” Paulie winks. “Now, Dante, my favorite customer, what are we looking for today?”
“Got any interesting rings? She made quite a point of telling me how much she loves mine.” He nudges my arm. “Thought you could help me pick out a new one.”
My mouth opens. Closes. That night floods back to me. Drunk on absinthe, doing things with his rings that in no world can be considered proper. Kissing them. Rubbing them against my skin. Oh my. I definitely hallucinated that whole interaction, right? But Dante’s expression is pure smug satisfaction, the kind that says he’s been waiting to bring this up at the most mortifying possible moment. Then I steal a glance at his forearm. My signature is still there, although it’s nearly faded.
Not my finest night.
“Lucky for me you chose a permanent marker to tattoo me with,” he chuckles.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I scold and pull off my baseball cap and sunglasses, tucking them into my hoodie pocket.
“For someone who acts for a living, you’re remarkably unconvincing.”
I can’t help the snort that exhales through me. I don’t know why it feels like we’re old friends. We’ve known each other for such a short time, and we hardly got off on the right foot, but I feel close to him. Can someone feel close to someone like Dante?
“Darling souls, the tension is simply unbearable!” Paulie exclaims and guides us to a velvet-lined tray. “Though who could resist him? Now then, precious, let me show you what I’ve curated.”
“Tell me what you think,” Dante purrs. The rings sparkle as he roams through the display case. He picks up the first ring,and I’m hyperaware of his proximity. The gaudy diamond feels all wrong.
“It’s…” I search for the right word. “A bit flashy for my taste.”
Dante doesn’t flinch, just smoothly slides another ring across the velvet. “Next.”
“Now this,” Paulie swoops in with theatrical flair, “is a gold signet ring for the pinky finger.”
“Too…” I try to mask my nervousness with humor. “Corleone.” The heavy gold would look clunky on his elegant fingers. His hands are made for something more refined.
“Ah, my dear, I can read you like a rare gem. You’d rather see these beauties on him, wouldn’t you?” They gesture to Dante, who’s leaning against the counter with infuriating grace. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”
Before I can stammer out a protest, Paulie glides away in a cloud of expensive perfume, leaving me alone with Dante and his knowing smirk.
“Maybe you’re not a fan of these because you don’t wear much jewelry yourself,” he observes.
“I do for awards shows. At the Golden Globes this year, I wore earrings that came with their own bodyguard. This guy in a black suit followed me everywhere—even waited outside the bathroom like I was planning a heist.”
“And these?” Dante gestures to my pearls.
“These are actually mine. First piece I ever bought myself after winning my first Teen Choice Award. No bodyguards required.”
“They’re lovely.”
“How did you get so confident with…” I gesture vaguely at his whole…everything, from the artfully layered chains to the chipped nail polish catching the light. “All of this. Was it like a switch flipped one day?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Yeah, I emerged from my mother in a leather jacket, obviously.” When I shoot him a look, he leans back, considering. “It was gradual. Aesthetics are a language, aren’t they? A way to write your own story before anyone else can.”
“No baby photos of you brooding in chains then?” I laugh, trying to picture him as anything other than this curated image before me.
“God no. Went through every phase imaginable. Preppy. Sporty. Brief California surfer period—puka shells around my neck and everything. I wanted to fit in but never quite found my people.” He absently touches one of his rings. “Then I started fencing. Something about holding a sword, being good at it, changes how you carry yourself.”
“Fencing always seemed more buttoned-up to me,” I say, watching his fingers trace the silver band.
