Page 42 of Wished

He smiles when I reach up and quickly braid my curls into submission.

“You look well-rested,” I say, smoothing a stray curl behind my ear.

He nods. “It’s because I haven’t gone to bed.”

When he says “bed” in his deep, gravelly voice, my stomach gives a little fluttery jump and I taste the lingering smoothness of chocolate mousse.

“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to the mattress.

Do I mind? What? If he joins me in bed?

“If I sit,” he says, waiting for my answer.

“Oh. No. Of course.” I scoot over, tugging the warm sheets with me.

Max sits on the edge of the mattress, leaning toward me with an enthusiastic light in his eyes. “I spent the night thinking.”

“Okay?”

Max is a thinker. He’s always thinking. I already know this about him. It’s why he leaves stacks of books in nearly every room. He reads at least a dozen books at once—classics, nonfiction, economics, history. It’s why he works all hours and then watches crime dramas to puzzle through. It’s why he has a dozen projects spread across his desk, all going at once. His mind never rests. He’s a thinker.

“It was driving me mad, one of part of me disliking you and the other part liking you too much. One part wanting you gone and the other part wanting you to never leave. One part knowing everything about you and the other knowing nothing at all. Do you understand?”

He studies my face, and I feel almost naked with the way he’s gazing at me. The lace at the edge of my silk nightgown scratches my skin, and I tug at the material, lifting it higher on my breast.

He’s so close, only two feet away, and I can smell the cool, clean scent of the soap he used in the shower. His black hair is still damp and the ends curl at the nape of his neck.

“You’re conflicted,” I say, and he nods.

“Exactly. I was conflicted.Exactly.The part of me that remembers the past seven years with you was angry at how shabbily I was treating you. And the part of me that knows it wasn’t real was angry at myself for feeling how I feel. But I’ve never been one to stay angry for long, because it never does any good. Anger isn’t logical and it’s rarely useful unless it spurs action. But once you’ve acted, then you have to dismiss it. So,”—he runs a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead—“I have all these feelings, all these memories, and I want to know how much is real.”

“How much of your memories are real?”

He traces his finger over the tiny stitches on the fold of the cream-colored sheet. “I mean, I know the woman in my mind. I want to know how much of her is real.”

He glances back at me, and a low heat curls around me and then pulses at the intimacy in his eyes. The sky has transitioned from pale gray to soft gold, and the light catches the small gold flecks in the dark brown of his irises.

“For instance,” he asks, “do you really like to cook? And when you cook, do you always listen to the Supremes? And do you always sing off-key?”

I grin at his unexpected question, my bright smile clashing with the pulsing heat pooling in my middle. “I love to cook,” I say, “and I love to listen to Motown. The Supremes are my favorite. But I also love the Temptations and the Four Tops and lots more.” I pause and then lift my chin. “But trust me, I never sing out of key.”

An excited energy crackles around him. “I don’t believe you. Sing for me.”

“No! You’ll have to trust me. I have a perfect ear.”

He shakes his head but doesn’t press further. “What’s your favorite meal to cook? I’m asking because ...” He taps his temple with his pointer finger.

I think about all the dishes I love to make and all the things I love to eat.

“I cook lots,” I say. “I love French onion soup with freshly made bread and gruyere. Sometimes I use wine in the stock, and sometimes I use whiskey.”

He nods. It’s clear he remembers tasting both. “Go on. What else?”

I smile, a warmth building in me. “Sometimes I make Coq au Vin because I love the smell of chicken braised in wine sauce and bacon and those beautiful pearl onions. It’s so decadent, yet homey and cozy-warm. It’s perfect for a fall day.”

“Yes,” Max says, his eyes becoming more intent on my face. “You always cook it on the first day of autumn because you say its mood matches the yellows and golds of the trees reflecting on the lake.”

I smile at Max. “How did you know that?”

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