Page 32 of Wished

Along with these thoughts comes another more important thought. We aren’t married! Not really! Why am I worrying about the state of a nonexistent marriage and whether or not my husband likes me?

I want to see Max—need to see Max—to figure out what is going on. I need to see him so I can ask to see the necklace again. So I can reverse what has happened.

Whether or not he likes me, loves me, or hates me, none of that makes a difference.

Yes, I know I wished that he loved me. But I took it back.

While the marriage end came through, I’m not sure the love bit did. Especially when I hear Max’s grim-faced assistant hiss, “I wouldn’t have come to the wedding if I’d known you’d treat her this shabbily. I have a mind to quit.”

She covers the receiver with her hand, leans toward me, and gives me a woman-to-woman “men are idiots” look. “I apologize, Mrs. Barone. He says he won’t see you.”

I can tell by her expressionexactlywhat she thinks about that.

I give her a reassuring smile. I don’t know why Max said he won’t see me. It doesn’t matter. I have to see him. “Please tell him it’s urgent.”

She nods, then her brow wrinkles as Max says something more.

“Excuse me?” she asks, and then, “Of course I did. So did all the employees. So did half this city. What of it, if you aren’t going to see your own wife on your anniversary? I wouldn’t have bought you those fancy silver salt and pepper shakers. I would’ve bought cheap pewter ones if I’d known you’d turn away your own wife. Shameful.”

I bite the side of my cheek. I love how this woman is taking Max Barone to task over some salt and pepper shakers.

“He asked if I’m feeling all right,” she says, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling.

“Maybe I’ll just go in,” I say, nodding toward the door, “since it’s our anniversary.”

“I’m feeling better than you will be. I put your anniversary in your calendar, didn’t I? Not that I should need to,” she says to Max.

She gives another snort, rolls her eyes heavenward for patience, then bangs the phone down. “He said to send you in.” She casts a censorious gaze toward the tall wooden doors. “I worked for his father. Never once have I thought he’s anything like the senior Barone. Not once. Until now.”

“Umm . . .” I look between the door and the gray-haired woman. “Well. Thank you.”

She waves and then pats down her hair, plops a pair of bifocals back on her nose, and turns back to her computer. The keys click under her punching at the keys.

I take a deep breath, step toward the doors, and slowly turn the brass handle.

8

I step carefullyinto Max’s office, closing the heavy door behind me. The wood whispers shut over the thick burgundy-and-navy rugs. The wool is soft under my abused feet, and I nearly sigh with relief. The office isn’t at all what I expect. Unlike the light-strewn showroom, Max’s office is dimly lit and bathed in the dark shades of rich wood, gilt molding, and leather club chairs. It has an oppressive, intimidating vibe, overlaid with the scent of tobacco and liquor.

Never in my life would I have pictured the man who eats hazelnut ice cream by the pint, binges on British crime dramas featuring sweet granny sleuths, and falls asleep to Dickens, having such a dark and forbidding office.

Well, maybe the Dickens bit was a clue. And his estate too. The closed-up, cloth-draped rooms have the same feel as this office. But the rooms Max uses, they always have a light, soothing, happy feel. Which is why I expected his office to be the same.

A reflection of him. At least the him I always thought he was.

But let’s face it, watching someone from the outside for three years doesn’t exactly let you know them from the inside out. You just know them from the outside out, which isn’t really knowing them at all.

I pull to a stop just on the other side of the wooden door, my feet sinking into the soft wool. A cold draft drifts over my skin and I pull the overcoat tighter. The tobacco smell percolates the air. Max doesn’t smoke, but maybe in this reality he does.

While before I knew his outside, in this reality I don’t know him at all.

Case in point, he’s standing in the center of his office, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders stiff, muscles tight, as if he’s a ferocious, hungry wolf about to lunge for the kill.

He’s cast in the shadows of the room, his black hair darker than night, his expression calculating and cold, and his mouth a hard line. When I see him a shiver runs through me. This isn’t the stance of a man greeting his beloved wife. This isn’t the expression of a married man in love. This definitely isn’t the look you give your wife on your seventh anniversary.

In fact, this is the look I expected to receive if he found me back in his house, shoving that sapphire necklace in my pocket after he warned me off. Not that I ever would have gone back. Not that I ever wanted that necklace.

Still, the fact remains. This is not a man in love. This isn’t even a man in like.

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