Page 54 of Wished

“I love weeping willows,” I say, staring at the giant tree.

Max nods. “All right. I can get you there.”

He tugs me across the Pont Neuf and then halfway across the bridge, near the entrance to the Place Dauphine and a statue of King Henri IV, he takes us down a set of steps leading toward the Seine.

Under the shade of the hanging branches of the weeping willow we find a spot on the stone. I hang my legs over the sloped stone wall and bask in the sun streaming in long golden ribbons through the curtains of the weeping willow.

The Seine flows below us, a blue-brown full of currents and ripples that churns from the motoring of boats and eddies. A crisp breeze blows off the water and tickles my bare legs. Max settles next to me and pulls the dishes free from the take-out bag.

The butternut soup is a beautiful golden orange. The terrine is pretty with its spring-green pistachios. The frites are perfectly puffed potato purses. In a moment that shows his absolute brilliance, Max pulls two bottles of sparkling water from the bag and a ramekin of crème brulée.

We eat in silence, enjoying the savory flavors and the sun and wind on our cheeks. We take turns dipping our spoons into the soup container. Our fingers tangle when we reach for the frites soufflés.

Across the river and through the leaves, I can make out the façade of the Louvre and a line of buildings that are so Parisian in their architecture I can’t help but smile.

“This has been the perfect day,” I say, scraping my spoon across the crème brulée dish. “Thank you for getting lost with me.”

Max smiles over at me, setting his spoon down. “Maybe you were lost, but I knew where I was the entire time.”

“Oh.”

His eyes light and he leans close. “I was with you.”

I give a surprised smile. “You know, you can be surprisingly charming. I never pegged you for a charmer.”

“Of course I’m charming,” Max says. “I’m a Barone. Everyone in my family, even the worst of us, is charming. It’s in our DNA.”

He says this almost as if he sometimes wishes he could be something else.

“Then say something not charming. Go ahead.” I wave my hand, giving him permission. “Dare to be unexpected. Be un-charming.”

He stares at me, his gaze catching on my lips. “I want to kiss you.”

I shake my head. “That’s still charming.”

“Anna.”

“Max?”

“I’m not being charming.”

I blink. The sun filters across us. A tour boat glides past, tourists snapping photos of the weeping willow and the low bridges. A pigeon pecks at the stones nearby. A woman laughs, sharing a moment with her lover.

The cool breeze teases my skin and a warm ripple flows over me until my lips are tingling and I’m leaning closer to Max.

He watches me, his eyes burning with a yearning that makes my stomach flip and my heart flutter wildly.

I grip his shoulders, clasping the leather of his jacket in my hands.

“If you knew what I was thinking . . .” he says as if it will scare me off.

“Do your worst. Surprise me.”

He spreads his fingers over my cheeks, tilts my face toward the sun, and then takes my mouth as if I’ve given him permission to conquer the world.

17

I thinkI finally understand why Max avoids passion. He’s an unlit powder keg, and one stray spark will cause a massive, city-destroying explosion.

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