Page 6 of Fated

“Max. I can’t?—”

“Don’t,” he says, shaking his head and pulling me closer.

His brown eyes flash with worry and I can feel the vulnerability in him. It’s rare that he shows that, so I relax into the steps of the dance and the soft sigh of the music.

I’m comfortable in his arms. I always am. He’s not quite six feet tall, lanky. He always wears a gold ring studded with a large ruby on his right ring finger, with the family’s crest imprinted on the gold. He twists it when he’s nervous. Long ago his ancestor was beheaded during the French Revolution. The daughter of the beheadee escaped la Terreur, met up with a Barone, and married him. The Barone business adopted the crest as their own.

Like Daniel, Max is always showing off his wares to the world. He always has a new pair of cufflinks at his wrists, gold or platinum or silver, a diamond-studded tie pin, or a sapphire and diamond wristwatch. But unlike Daniel, Max isn’t my brother, and apparently, he doesn’t want to be just friends.

Across the ballroom, the spun sugar timepiece reads 11:48 p.m. The Christmas Eve Gala is near its end.

“You don’t have to say yes or no,” Max says, looking out over the gala. Looking everywhere but at me. “But I wanted you to know, sometime in the past year, or maybe the past nine years, I’ve developed?—”

“Max, please. I know what you’re going to say and I don’t want you to say it.”

He looks back at me then, his mouth pressed into a firm line. He carefully watches my expression.

“I love you,” I tell him. “As a friend. I’ve always loved you as a friend. Please don’t ask anything more of me. You know I can’t?—”

“Can you say that absolutely? Without a doubt?” He leans close, and I’m reminded of the days we’ve sailed on the lake together, of him helping Mila learn to ride her bike, of the nights we sat side by side and worked late into the evening with a carton of takeout between us, without talking, just being.

He sees my hesitation and presses, “Fiona.” He whispers my name. “What if we try? What if I take you to dinner? What if I bring you flowers? Can you say absolutely that I can never make you happy? Can you know for certain that someday I can’t be the one?”

I grip the warm sleeves of his tuxedo jacket, the fabric slick against my fingers. I’m so close to Max that I can see the quick beat of his pulse in his neck. His nervous swallow.

I don’t want to hurt him.

But I don’t want to hurt myself either.

I take a breath, his cologne, an earthy, sanded wood smell, mixing with my Christmas vanilla-and-spice. There’s a stinging at the backs of my eyes.

Max has always been my friend. He’s always been just a friend. As reliable as the changing seasons.

I shake my head. Try to focus on the steps of the dance and the music weaving around us.

There are still dozens of people here. Large clusters of groups portioning off, couples dancing, business deals brewing over champagne and cranberry tarts.

Max’s expression turns hawkish again, his austere coating back in place. “This wasn’t the right time. I’m sorry.”

No.

“Max. I?—”

I’m cut off by a sharp, high-pitched scream.

The scream breaks through the noise and slices through the ballroom.

Then there’s the shattering crash of a dozen champagne glasses smashing to the floor.

The orchestra fumbles, cellos slide to silence, and violins screech to a halt. A cymbal ricochets and quiets.

I yank out of Max’s arms, searching for the woman who screamed.

Max tugs at me. “Fi. Stay behind?—”

He’s seen something I haven’t.

He’s trying to push me behind him.

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