Wished

Chapter 12

12

I sit across from Max at the long, formal dining-room table. The candlelight casts a warm yellow glow over the room, glinting off the gleaming wood and reflecting off the burgundy walls. The chandelier throws sparks of light off the fine china, the silver, and the crystal wineglasses. The antique cut of the crystal glasses throws prisms of light around the room. It’s as if we’re inside a jewelry box surrounded by diamonds and rubies and flickering gold.

This room didn’t exist yesterday. Well, it did, but yesterday the walls were a dirty beige and the table and chairs were covered by a long canvas cloth. It had the air of a dusty, closed-up attic even though I swept away the dust every week. But now the room glitters and shines and romances.

Which is entirely the point.

It’s our anniversary dinner. A night of romance .

Max closed himself in his office for the day while I wandered the library, explored the vastly altered interior of the chateau, and spent entirely too long in the biggest walk-in closet I’ve ever seen.

When Max came out, hungry, growly, with a hunted expression in his eyes, he was accosted by Madame Blinken. She informed him dinner would be ready in thirty minutes, per his request.

“I don’t want dinner,” he’d snapped.

“You don’t want to celebrate your beloved wife? You don’t want the dinner we have spent weeks preparing?” she’d asked, puffing out her chest like a general preparing for battle.

I’d glided around the corner in my new silver silk dress. It hit mid-thigh and was cut simply, with narrow spaghetti straps. I’d settled on it because most of the other clothes in my closet were elaborate, brightly colored, or drew way too much attention to my assets. In fact, I never knew my breasts were so round until I tried on some of the dresses with their built-in bustiers. I never knew my legs were so long until I pulled on a few of the short skirts. It was a revelation. But in the end, instead of pulling on one of the alluring, low-cut dresses, I settled on the simple, classic, unadorned silk.

When Max saw me, his eyelids drooped and his mouth softened. A small puff of air left him as if my appearance had kicked him in the gut. Then his hunted look returned even stronger. I ignored it.

“It’s just dinner. You have to eat,” I’d whispered.

I’m not hungry, his expression said.

I raised my eyebrows. I didn’t say you were hungry .

He pointedly avoided looking below my neck.

“Fine,” he’d said.

So now we’re seated in a jewelry box with candlelight, wine, and the soft sounds of classic French jazz drifting across the dining room.

It’s a seduction scene if I’ve ever seen one.

The table is set with the most delicious dishes.

Terrine de Foie Gras, marinated in sweet sauternes and freshly grated black truffle. The savory, meaty scent is overlaid with the earthy, mouthwatering allure found in every bite of truffle.

Grilled stuffed oysters, full of lemon and fennel, of course—because there can’t be seduction without the flesh of oysters coyly winking from their shells.

Filet Mignon, tender and luxurious, perfectly cooked so that it melts on your tongue.

Souffle Au Fromage, a cheese soufflé so light and airy that when you wrap your lips around the fork, you can’t help but smile at the blend of parmesan and gruyere dancing with nutmeg.

There are also platters of honey-glazed carrots, potatoes dauphinoise thick with cream, gruyere, and a hint of thyme, and a loaf of herby bread with pats of hand-churned herb butter shaped like hearts.

I get a lick of satisfaction when I smear the butter across my crusty piece of bread, obliterating the heart.

I glance at Max, feeling mellow from the food and the wine. We haven’t spoken for the past fifteen minutes. The chef and Madame Blinken set the table, delivered the dishes, and then disappeared back toward the kitchen. Since they left, the only noises have been our silverware scraping against the plates, an awkwardly cleared throat, and the soft crooning of the jazz music.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” I ask.

“Yes,” Max says, spearing a cut of filet mignon with his fork.

I take a bite of the bread, savoring the rosemary and thyme flavor of the butter. “I have to get it off my chest.”

The candlelight glints off his fork as he takes another bite of his steak. “You don’t, actually. You could leave it there.” He looks up at me. “I’ve left things on my chest for years.”

I drop my bread to my plate and wipe my hands on my cloth napkin. “Doesn’t it get heavy?”

“Not really.” He reaches for his wineglass and runs his hand over the stem.

I stare at his long fingers, at the half-moons of his fingernails and the gold signet ring on his right hand. I find I’m becoming oddly obsessed with his hands. Or, more likely, I can’t stop replaying the scenes I saw in my mind, when his hands were tracing over my bare skin or gripping my thighs or holding my wrists above my head. His hands did all sorts of wonderfully creative things.

I have to ask.

“I’m going to ask.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“How much do you remember of our marriage? How well do you like me? Do we get along? How did we meet?”

He lifts his wineglass, casually holding it in front of him. The ruby liquid sloshes around the glass as he slowly circles the stem in his hands. “You don’t want to know.”

I lean forward. “I really do.”

He sets his wineglass back on the table without taking a sip. “I called my best friend today.”

I lean back, settling onto the cushioned red velvet. My dress slips over my thighs as I shift, the silk fabric cool. It feels similar to a soft exhale rushing over my skin, and I shiver in response.

“Do you know what she said?” Max asks, watching me.

“No.”

“She said, ‘Max who?’” He gives me a hard-eyed look. “A few months ago I asked her to marry me. I’ve loved her for years. Today she had no idea who I was. I apologized for calling. Told her I’d made a mistake. Your wish did that.”

He’s talking about Fiona Abry. There’s a pinching in my chest and a pressure at the backs of my eyes. I suppose I didn’t realize how badly Max was still hung up on Fiona.

“You still love her? Even though she married someone else?” I ask, looking down at the remnants of my filet and the dark, peppery wine reduction.

“I’ll always love her,” he says. “That isn’t a question. Even if I live in this ... world.” He gestures around the room set for seduction. It seems garish now instead of romantic.

“Even if she doesn’t love you?” I ask, curious and surprised he’s actually talking to me. But more, I want to know, is Max like me? Loving someone who doesn’t love him back.

“She does love me,” he says. Then, considering the plate of oysters resting on slowly melting ice, he adds, “Or she did.”

Apparently, he’s not like me at all. He loves Fiona, and she loves him.

I frown. “If she loved you, why did she turn you down? Why would anyone turn you down?”

He grins at me—a smile tinged with irony. “Because we didn’t have that magic spark. Or, I suppose, a magic necklace.”

“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.