He leans back, one arm along the back of the chair, and gives me a direct look. “I’d rip his arms off.” My jaw drops. “What?”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m totally serious. My ring on your finger also means a big no-entry sign above your head.” His eyebrows waggle at the double entendre behind that.
“No wonder you’re not married,” I tell him sarcastically. Deep down, though, my heart is hammering. I’ve never seen this side of him—possessive, intense, and passionate. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to be truly engaged to this man. To be his, as he says, to belong to him, one hundred percent.
I blink. I can’t. I have no idea what it would feel like. I think my head would explode.
“Oh,” he says, his face lighting up, “that reminds me. I have something for you.” He glances around to make sure nobody is looking, then extracts something from his trouser pocket.
It’s a small velvet box.
“It was mykuia’s,” he says. It’s Maori for grandmother. “My mum gave it to me when she died. She said to keep it for when I met Mrs. Right.”
I frown. “Again, you don’t see the irony in that?”
He looks puzzled. “Sorry, I thought you’d prefer this rather than have me spend another hundred thousand on a meaningless rock, but I’ll happily buy you one of your own.”
“Jesus, Kingi, no, no, no. This is fine. I just meant… never mind.” Heart still racing, I watch him crack open the box.
My lips part, but no words come out as he takes the ring from the box and holds it out to me. It’s probably white-gold, and the band wraps around a large central diamond in a koru shape similar to the one he wears around his neck. A smaller polished greenstone sits on either side of the diamond.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, automatically holding out my hand and splaying my fingers as he moves the ring toward it.
He slides it onto the fourth finger, saying, “Mykuiawas small, like you, so I’m hoping your hands are a similar size to hers.” He pushes it halfway down, then leaves me to wiggle it over the second knuckle.
“It’s a snug fit,” I murmur.
“At least it won’t fall off.” He smiles.
I study the ring, trying to get a grip on my emotions. It’s not real. He’s not proposing. We’re not really getting married. So why do I feel almost tearful?
“Are you sure about this?” I turn the ring this way and that, watching the diamond catch the light. “It feels a bit… disrespectful.”
He looks baffled. “Why?”
“Because it was your grandmother’s. And she would have wanted it, I’m sure, to be used in love.”
“I do love you,” he says. “As a friend.” He’s totally sincere. “She liked you,” he continues. “You remember meeting her, right?”
I nod. “We were climbing the jacaranda tree in the garden. She was sitting on the deck with your parents. I fell and banged my knee, and you took me over to the house and told them I’d hurt myself. She gave me a hug and said I was anUrukehu.” It’s a term for a fair-skinned and fair- or red-haired Maori person. “She said they’re descendants of Patupaiarehe.” They’re supernatural beings with red or fair hair, a fairy-like people associated with mist and twilight.
He smiles again. “That sounds like her.”
“I just… I feel like an imposter.”
He shrugs. “Don’t think of it as an engagement ring, then. Think of it as a friendship ring.” There’s warmth in his eyes. I think he really means it.
“I can do that.” I like that idea. We are friends, even though we’re not as close as we once were. We’ve drifted apart over the years, and it might be nice to rekindle our friendship.
“Good.” He leans back again, satisfied. “I can relax now that’s done.”
“Relax? What do you mean?”
“I thought you might refuse it.”
I look at the beautiful ring. “Why would I possibly refuse it?”