Page 41 of Wished

“It would’ve been handy,” I tell him, wishing I hadn’t revealed I didn’t think anyone could turn him down. “Just think, you had the means all along. Where your charm failed, the necklace would’ve been your ace in the hole.”

He scoffs and then finally lifts his glass and takes a long sip of wine. I follow suit, lifting my glass in a toast and then drinking in the sweet cherry notes and the peppery spice that blends so well with the rich anniversary meal.

“We met at the art museum,” he says, studying my expression.

I sit straight. “We did?”

He nods, his eyes cutting over my face and along the line of my shoulders. “You were there to see a photography exhibit. I don’t know which one—you didn’t make it past the front door. I saw you and . . .” He shakes his head, and a smile touches the edge of his lips. “I asked you to come to Paris with me to tour all the art museums there.”

I widen my eyes. “And I said yes?”

He shrugs. “I was very convincing.”

Oh my gosh.Max fell in love with me at first sight. In this world, the first time Max saw me, he fell in love. I wonder if I felt the same.

“And then what?”

“And then we saw exactly zero museums,” he says, his gaze daring me to contradict.

I laugh, and Max gives me a surprised look. “You’re different from the woman I have in here.” He taps his forehead meaningfully. “I don’t like having two realities floating in my head. I especially don’t like having feelings that aren’t mine.”

From the expression on his face, I know he means the tight, luminescent pull arching between us. He’s never felt that before, and now that he does, he doesn’t like it.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, pulling a small ramekin of crème brulée from the center of the table. “It’ll all be gone tomorrow. You can go back to disliking me—or better yet, never having to see me again.”

Then I take my dessert spoon and crack the caramelized sugar coating the crème brulée, breaking the perfect shell.

13

Well,there’s a word for optimistic naivety, and that word is tomorrow.

Tomorrow everything will be better.

Tomorrow the sun will come out.

Tomorrow everything will be back to rights.

Tomorrow didn’t come. Tomorrow never comes.

“You’re still here,” Max says, standing at the foot of the four-poster bed.

I squint up at him. My eyes are gritty, my head is muzzy, and the weak gray light of dawn is barely seeping through the curtains. I was half-in, half-out of a dream about eating chocolate mousse in bed while Max teasingly kissed his way up my bare legs when his voice pulled me fully awake.

I blink at him, bringing him into focus. He’s outlined by the morning light and backlit with a muted silver glow.

I push up on my elbows and the warm sheets slide free, letting the cool air hit my bare shoulders. I pull myself into wakefulness.

“We’re still married?” I ask, my voice raspy and low.

Max quirks an eyebrow at the husky sound, a slight smile slipping free.

He looks oddly refreshed and well-rested. He has an almost eager, happy-to-greet-the-day expression on his face. It’s a stark contrast to his mood last night when he said a curt “good night” and left me alone with my crème brulée.

“Still married.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. He puts his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

“Why are you so happy then?” I ask, sitting up in bed. The sheets fall to my thighs as I scoot back against the wooden headboard. I’m in a light pink silk nightie. It had the most coverage of all my pajamas, but it still drops in a low vee at my breasts.

It’s embarrassing. While Max is in jeans and a navy shirt, freshly shaved and showered, I’m in a tiny nightie, with bed hair and probably a pillow wrinkle on my cheek.

---