Page 9 of Wished

That yanked me out of my tingly, love-infused delusion. “Sorry. Yes. Sorry.”

I dragged my vacuum across the wood floor and stumbled backward out of his office. Max didn’t watch me go.

Since then, for three years, if we ever cross paths, he’ll say, “Madame,” and I’ll say, “Bonjour, monsieur.”

And that is the extent of our interactions.

But for Dorene to say he isn’t appealing?

“That’s not true,” I say, not able to deny that even though I squelched any tingly feelings, I still admire the man.

I know him even more than I did the first time I saw him. I’ve heard him on business calls—direct, fair, intelligent. He’s serious on those calls, never smiling, always firm. But then I’ve heard him on the phone to Fiona Abry, the woman he actually loves, and his voice always has an intimate, happy quality that hints at the warm sunlight he keeps hidden behind tall stone walls.

I even saw, months ago, an engagement ring on his nightstand. It was beautiful, and I knew right away he’d designed it himself. And I suppose it’s okay to admit that when I saw it, there was a hollow, empty feeling in my stomach that even a dozen chocolate mocha truffles from my favorite chocolatier didn’t fill. Nothing could.

So. I guess that insta-love isn’t completely insta-gone.

Dorene smirks at me and slaps my pair of pink rubber gloves into my hands. I scoff and shove them into my pocket.

“Why don’t you ask him on a date?” she asks.

According to Dorene, in her day she had thirty-six marriage proposals, most of them after a first date. She never remarried after her first husband, but that didn’t mean men didn’t try. She says marriage proposals are as easy to get as well-wishes on a Sunday.

She’s well aware I’ve had two boyfriends, no marriage proposals, and no weddings.

“Why would I do that?” I busy myself checking my inventory. I’m cleaning the rugs in the library today.

“Because you’re young. Because you’d like to have unforgettable sex before you die. Because he’s nice to look at. I don’t know. Choose one.”

“How about I chose none?” I say, lifting my bucket and grabbing the vacuum with my other hand. I start toward the front door.

I hear the van doors slam behind me and a hard thwack on the door.

Dorene hurries after me, her steps crunching on the gravel. “I’m only saying, I see that glint in your eye every time we pull up. You can’t fool me. It’s not a craving for coffee. It’s a craving for a certain man.”

Ugh.She watches too many romantic movies. “I’m confiscating your television.”

She snorts, then continues. “You depress me. Twenty-five years old and all you do is work, take care of your sister, read that boring Charles Dickens, and go to bed too early. No drinking. No smoking. No sex. You are tragic.”

“And you are the nosiest neighbor I’ve ever had.”

Also, yes. After I saw Max read Dickens, I boughtNicholas Nickleby. It’s not my fault I was hooked.

“Ask him on a date.”

I punch our code into the front door. It’s exactly 6:30 a.m. The security system records our arrival, all our entries and exits. The bolt unlocks and I swing the door open.

“No,” I say. “Didn’t you know he’s in love with Fiona Abry?”

“She married someone else.”

I stop in the threshold. Turn to look at Dorene. She’s fluttering her eyelashes innocently. It’s not a look that works for her.

“Didn’t you hear?” she asks.

I shake my head. My gut clenches and a funny feeling trips through my insides. “Why? Who?”

Dorene shrugs.

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