Wished

Chapter 8

8

I step carefully into 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.

Everything is dark and cold—except his eyes.

At first his expression is as forbidding as the rest of him, but then, as he takes in my bare feet, his white shirt hitting my thighs, and his trench coat cinched around my waist, his gaze turns less icy and more ... heated.

It’s a quick change, like a block of ice unexpectedly bursting into flames. For a moment I stop breathing. It’s too difficult to pull in a breath with Max watching me as if he’s imagining stripping me out of his shirt, pushing me down to the thick wool carpet, and thrusting inside of me, quick and hard.

His cheeks turn red, his pupils dilate, the black swallowing the brown, and his chest expands in a rapid rise and fall. A prickly, electric awareness trips over my nerves and I’m caught in the dark deeds flashing through his eyes.

Max may dislike me in this reality, but he also wants me. He sees me and he wants me. His lips part. There’s a faraway look in his eyes and a needy tension in his shoulders that makes a long, delicious clench roll through me.

The awareness—the overwhelming, burning heat—nearly scorches my lungs as I draw in a slow, shaky breath. I think I have about a fifty-fifty chance of Max and I making love in the next fifteen seconds.

I take another look at his expression. Make that ninety-ten.

I have to admit, my body sways toward him. My skin is electrified from the inside out, and all I want to do is step forward and press my lips to his.

Would he mind it?

Would he welcome it?

That’s what my body is scrambling for, rushing over itself in a gurgling stream. But my heart? That’s telling me none of this is real, and even if it appears that Max wants me and loves me, he doesn’t really.

Still, he’s the only person in this world who can help me. And by helping me, he’ll help himself. In no time at all he can go back to who he was. A man who thought I was a thief and a liar. And who never, ever looked at me like he wanted to bend me over and make love to me like his life depended on it.

And that’s what I want, isn’t it? Max the way he was. My mom and sister back in Geneva. Dorene remembering me.

Right?

So I slowly step forward, lifting my hand toward him. I ignore the tingles running over my skin and the full ache rising in my core, and I say, “Max?”

What does he think of me? What will he say?

His attention snaps to my face and his eyes lose that soft-focus, burning heat.

Then he asks the one thing I didn’t anticipate.

“Who are you?”

His voice is cold and hard-edged. I flinch and drop my hand.

Who am I?

All that tingly warmth and glowy heat vanishes in a flash of cold. I snap back to the dark interior of the office, the cold draft running over my bare skin, and the oppressive smell of tobacco.

Max doesn’t recognize me?

He doesn’t know me?

Every single person in this world recognizes me as Mrs. Barone.

Does that mean he’s the only one who wasn’t affected by this wish?

I narrow my eyes on his hard, accusing gaze. Even if he wasn’t affected, he’s seen me cleaning his house for the past three years. He kicked me out of his home and threatened me with the police less than twenty-four hours ago.

Who am I?

“Well?” he asks.

Yes, all that soft, spreading warmth is definitely gone. I take another step forward and tilt my chin, lifting my face to the one dim stream of sunlight that found its way through the heavily curtained window. Perhaps he can’t see me well because this room is oppressively dark. Or maybe in this reality he’s terribly near-sighted and he forgot his glasses today.

“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.”