Page 34 of Wished

“You don’t recognize me? You don’t know me?” I ask, giving him a clear view of my face.

“Should I?”

He sounds so condescending, drawing out the word as if I’m beneath even the slightest bit of notice, that I can’t help it, I lash out. “Max. You’ve known me for years?—”

“Years? Who the hell are you?” He looms over me, trying to intimidate me with his height.

I take another step forward, clench my fists, and say what everyone else in this ridiculous reality already knows. “I’m your wife. You arrogant prick.”

“My wife?”

He’s derisive at first, but then just as quickly he looks as if I’ve knocked him over the head with one of those heavy glass paperweights on his bookshelf. He sways and glances at his desk, back to me, then back at his desk.

I don’t know what’s important about that wooden monstrosity, but for some reason, on his third look, Max’s face drains of color. When he turns back to look at me, he says in a ragged, shocked voice, “You’re my wife.”

9

Max’s wordsstrike like a lightning bolt, electrifying the dark office. Energy crackles between us, a snap and a pull that flicks as vividly as the crack of static electricity.

You’re my wife.

The shock of the words snaps around the office like leaves tossing in a storm. It’s not a question. It’s an unequivocal statement.

The look on Max’s face, though, isn’t one of calm acceptance. It’s the exact opposite.

Sometimes when Dorene describes an angry client, she says they were “so furious their face was thunder and lightning.”

I’ve never understood. How can someone have a face of thunder and lightning?

Well. From now on, all I need to do is picture Max in this moment.

The clenched jaw, the hard eyes, the intensity of his emotions. His hands are balled in tight fists, and he takes a swift step forward. All my instincts scream at me, torun, run, run.

My pulse skitters in my neck, and I stumble back.

Max reaches out, lightning-quick, and catches my wrist in his grip.

When he touches me, his eyes narrow further and his lips flatten.

“I remember now.” He looks down at his fingers shackling me. “You’re the woman who tried to steal my necklace.”

His gaze drags over my features, catching on my mouth.

I tug at my wrist. He holds me firm. “You know, you have a bad habit of holding my wrist when I don’t want you to.”

At my words he blinks, shakes his head, and then his eyes widen.

“Why is it,” he asks, “that suddenly I have a slew of memories telling me youalwayslike it when I hold your wrists?”

Jeez.

By his gaze, I know exactly the types of moments he’s talking about. A picture flashes in my mind. Me lying naked on the curving marble stairs in Max’s home, the cool steps digging into my thighs and my bare back. Max holding my wrists above my head as he drives into me.

Me against the warm wood paneling of this office, my legs wrapped around Max’s middle. Max gripping my wrists as he thrusts into me, the books on the bookshelf shaking as he pounds away. Me in the cushy bed I woke up in this morning. Max holding my wrists tight against the soft sheets as he kisses my clit.

He sees it too.

I’m sure he does.

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