Page 127 of Fated

His expression clears and he nods. “That’s right.”

My chest tightens, and the watch still nestled around my wrist grows heavy and pulsing. I look down at it, at the face of my dreams.

Max reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls an object free. His hand closes around it.

“I thought I might take you to Paris, ask you at the Eiffel Tower. Or take you sailing and ask you at sunset. But”—he shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—“I’m me and you’re you, and it felt right to ask you like this.”

He leans forward, his warmth curling around me, as comfortable as the fire. He opens his hand and the glow of the flames reflects and glimmers on a large red ruby surrounded by diamonds, cradled by a double ring of yellow gold.

“Marry me, Fiona,” he says then, his expression questioning, hopeful.

He holds the ring between us and an overwhelming love wends its way through my chest. The ruby gleams in the firelight and it reminds me of Max’s love. The first time we met, the unselfish support he gave me when I was a new mom, the years of summer picnics in the country, the business advice exchanged, the dry wit and the comforting shoulder, the time I pulled him from the brink, and the days he carried me across a cliff. I love him so much.

But I don’t love him in the right way. I still don’t.

Perhaps yesterday I would’ve said yes. I would’ve said yes right away.

Yes.

I could see myself spending my life with Max and being perfectly, acceptably content. Happy.

But I know too that I have to be honest with myself.

You can love someone wholly, completely, and it doesn’t mean that they’re the one for you. You can love someone and they can still be the wrong someone.

I didn’t want to acknowledge that.

Or maybe it’s that the weight of the watch on my wrist is reminding me I haven’t truly let go. That I still love a dream so much I’ve not let myself love real life.

“It’s a no, isn’t it?” Max asks, searching my expression.

“I love you,” I tell him, “but not, I think, in the right way.”

“Is there a right way to love?”

I let out a breath. “I don’t know.”

“Still no sparks?”

I lean into him, breathing in the smoky wood, the piney scent of the Christmas tree, the popcorn and chocolate and hazelnut sweets. Outside the snow falls heavier, flickering in the moonlight in fat, slow-falling flakes.

“What happens to us if I say yes?”

He tugs me close, the fabric of the rug scraping against my jeans, the cashmere of his sweater soft and warm.

“Then we get married and I move out of my dismal family home and join you and Mila in your delightfully drafty chateau. And you bake terribly burned bread and brick-hard porridge, and I bring home takeout. You’ll make watches and I’ll make jewelry, and sometimes we’ll make things together. We’ll continue on as we are, except we’ll have agreed to do it for life. I’ll be here for you and you’ll be here for me. And, if you like, we’ll have children. Or we’ll decide that we’re happy just the three of us.” He still holds the ring between us, and it glints with the promise of his words.

I’m hot now, and cold, and my chest aches, and that phantom limb, the ghost of my dreams, it hurts.

“And what happens to us if I say no?”

Max’s hand curls and he nearly closes his fingers around the ring. The firelight plays over the angled lines of his face, the sharp cheekbones, the straight nose, his high, dark eyebrows. He’s austere, hawklike Max—the one determined to succeed in whatever he sets his mind to.

“Then we’ll be friends. We’ll always be friends, Fi. It’s the price you pay for saving a degenerate like me.”

“You’re not a degenerate.”

He smiles. “Anymore.”

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