Page 100 of Wished

I usedto describe Max as austere, stark, a fortress of a man who only showed his true self to a lucky few. I thought he smiled sparingly, but when he did it was glorious. I thought he was fair-minded, levelheaded, a good man. I made this judgment after knowing him for three years, and then I amended my opinion after my wish.

It doesn’t matter if the wish wasn’t real—it still tinged my feelings for him and my view of him. After my wish, I thought of him as a man who thought deeply, laughed often, and loved wholeheartedly. A good man.

Right now Max looks like neither of those men. Not the one I knew before, and not the one I thought I knew.

His grip is tight around my wrist and there’s a tension emanating from him. The cold, fluorescent lights shine over him, and while they should illuminate him in a bright, golden light, instead the lights highlight the roughness of his features.

In Saint-Tropez he was rested and sun-brown, a delirious smile constantly lifting at the corners of his mouth. Here in the chill of the market, he’s the opposite of that picture.

I look up into his face and study the changes three weeks have wrought. The last time I saw him in real life was in his library. He was angry then, but still Max.

He doesn’t look like himself anymore.

He’s unshaven, with at least three days’ growth. There are dark hollows under his eyes, his skin is pale, and he looks ...

He looks how I feel.

When he sees my face, he takes in a sharp breath and his hand loosens on my wrist. Even so, a second later I can feel the tension rocketing through the rest of him.

A white-hot flare of emotion sparks between us. It’s so overwhelming, so overpowering, that I’m surprised the circuits don’t break and plunge the market into darkness.

I stand, my legs unsteady. Only a few seconds have passed. I’m waiting, my stomach rolling, my heart pounding.

What does he want?

What could he possibly want?

It’s been three weeks. There was no letter. There was no wish. Yet the way he’s dragging his gaze over me strikes a match in every cell of my body, and I’m ready to combust.

But he’s not looking at me with love or happiness or relief or even confusion.

No—it’s anger. He’s angry.

“You.” His voice scrapes over me like fingers rubbing over bare skin. “You work here?Here?”

His question is accusing. His eyes are dark and his mouth is tight. And I realize this isn’t a reunion of love, or even a reunion of former employee and employer. This is a man unexpectedly finding a woman he dislikes in a place he frequents. It’s like finding a thumb in a can of beans. It’s revolting. You want to throw the can away and never eat beans again.

I yank my arm away and Max lets me go, his expression shifting from anger to surprise.

Then the little girl from earlier runs between us and tugs on Max’s arm.

“Max! Mummy says to tell you that if you can’t find chocolate, then?—”

I don’t wait to hear more.

As soon as Max looks down at the little girl I run down the aisle, turn the corner, run down another aisle, and then slam my way into the back room. My supervisor is there, scanning a new shipment of olive oil.

“I have to go,” I say, out of breath and trying very, very hard not to cry. “It’s an emergency. I’m sorry. I have to?—”

I don’t say anymore. I grab my purse out of my locker and hurry out the back door.

The door slams behind me as I rush into the back parking lot. The air is warmer than the market, humid and filled with the scent of warm concrete and the exhaust of delivery trucks.

The loading area is empty and the streetlights shine in dim pools over the pavement. I blindly turn to the left, walking toward a concrete retaining wall that runs along the parking lot until hitting the busy street at the front of the store.

I don’t have a destination in mind; I just have to escape. I need to get away from the overwhelming need to run back to Max and ask him to love me. I need to get away from the way he was looking at me—not with love, but with anger. I need to get away from how much it hurts.

I round the corner, hurrying toward the narrow alley between the retaining wall and the market. It’s dark. The setting sun is near the horizon and its rays can’t reach beyond the wall. Instead a long shadow encompasses the alley. I’m about to step out of the light when I hear my name.

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