Wished

Chapter 11

11

The door to the safe is wide-open, the oil painting on the wall swung aside. The library is quiet, with the scent of books and leather shifting between us. Nothing in the library has changed. It’s the same as it was yesterday, and likely the same as it was decades ago.

Max and I stand facing each other behind the wooden desk. The metal safe is built into the wall and its mouth gapes wide. There are other items inside. Documents. Jewelry. A few stacks of crisp bills in multiple denominations and currencies.

Max holds the sapphire necklace in his hand. The mid-morning sunlight stretches across the library and hits the stones so they shine like a cascading waterfall.

“Do it,” Max says. “Reverse your wish.”

I tilt my head, stare up into his eyes. I wonder what he remembers about the past seven years. I wonder if he’ll remember any of it when we go back to the way we were.

It doesn’t matter. It’s not real.

I lift my hand and press my fingers into the cool surface of the sapphires. “I wish,” I say, my voice shaking, “Max and I weren’t married.”

I stare at Max, and he stares back at me. We look into each other’s eyes, breath held, waiting.

After ten seconds of nothing, Max lets out a long exhale. “Try again.”

Okay. I bounce on my toes. I roll my shoulders. I drag in a breath and?—

“What are you doing?”

“Getting into the moment. Building up to it. Letting the emotion rise.”

He gives me a flat look. “No buildup is necessary. Just do it.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I pity any women who goes to bed with you. Just do it. No build up necessary. ”

Max’s shoulders stiffen. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

Ha.

“Just because no one complains doesn’t mean you’re doing it right. Maybe they felt sorry for you. Or maybe you were too arrogant to notice no buildup left all the ladies unsatisfied.”

Max leans toward me. The air crackles and his lips nearly touch mine. “Do you remember our fake marriage?”

I swallow, disconcerted by the rough edge to his voice. “No, but?—”

“I remember it. There were no complaints.”

My mouth tingles as I lean closer. I can feel the heat of him on my lips. I can almost taste him. “There’s only one problem with your claim.”

“What?” he asks.

I lean back, pulling my mouth away. “It was all fake. Your legendary prowess is all in your head.” I thrust my hand onto the necklace. “I wish that everything was back to normal. I wish I never married Max. I wish Max never married me. I wish Max never saw me. I wish ...” I pause, then I add, just to be sure, “I wish Max didn’t love me.”

I close my eyes and will the wish to work. Come on. Come on.

When I open my eyes again Max is staring at me, a strange look on his face.

“What? Did it work? Are we unmarried?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t love you.”

Oh.

“Good,” I say, my voice stupidly high-pitched. “I was just being careful. You never know. I’m very lovable.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“I am though. My mom loves me.”

“Poor judgment.”

“My sister.”

“Poor judgment runs in the family.”

I scoff. “Dorene loves me.”

Max shoots me an incredulous glance. “The woman who fired you in my foyer? She loves you?”

“Yes?”

Okay, I can see how I’m not making a very good case. But at least he’s distracted from my wish. I wave my hand. “It doesn’t matter. Regardless, last time I made a wish, reality didn’t flip until the next morning.”

Max nods. “Fine.” He holds the necklace up to the light, letting the sunlight stream through the gems. “Just in case, I’m going to wish too.”

He glances at me and I give an encouraging smile.

“Good idea.”

He closes his eyes. His shoulders relax and he lets out a long breath.

I study the line of his jaw, the little bump on the bridge of his nose, the deep richness of his skin, the sweeping of his eyelashes against his cheeks. His face is just as hard and austere as it was years ago, but it’s more familiar now. I have the strongest urge to reach out and brush my fingers along his jaw and smooth my hands over his cheeks. I’d like to touch his lower lip and see if his mouth is as hard as it looks, or if it’s actually soft and gentle.

He grips the necklace tightly, and as he’s backlit by sunlight, standing with his eyes closed, surrounded by hundreds of books, in the library I’ve cleaned for years, he says with fervent conviction, “I wish I didn’t forget this necklace on my desk yesterday morning. I wish Anna and I never spoke. I wish we never married. I wish we never met.”

His words drop from his lips and fall like boulders from a great height, crashing to the floor of the canyon where I’m lying, crushed, beneath his wish.