Wished

Chapter 13

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.

He smiles when I reach up and quickly braid my curls into submission.

“You look well-rested,” I say, smoothing a stray curl behind my ear.

He nods. “It’s because I haven’t gone to bed.”

When he says “bed” in his deep, gravelly voice, my stomach gives a little fluttery jump and I taste the lingering smoothness of chocolate mousse.

“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to the mattress.

Do I mind? What? If he joins me in bed?

“If I sit,” he says, waiting for my answer.

“Oh. No. Of course.” I scoot over, tugging the warm sheets with me.

Max sits on the edge of the mattress, leaning toward me with an enthusiastic light in his eyes. “I spent the night thinking.”

“Okay?”

Max is a thinker. He’s always thinking. I already know this about him. It’s why he leaves stacks of books in nearly every room. He reads at least a dozen books at once—classics, nonfiction, economics, history. It’s why he works all hours and then watches crime dramas to puzzle through. It’s why he has a dozen projects spread across his desk, all going at once. His mind never rests. He’s a thinker.

“It was driving me mad, one of part of me disliking you and the other part liking you too much. One part wanting you gone and the other part wanting you to never leave. One part knowing everything about you and the other knowing nothing at all. Do you understand?”

He studies my face, and I feel almost naked with the way he’s gazing at me. The lace at the edge of my silk nightgown scratches my skin, and I tug at the material, lifting it higher on my breast.

He’s so close, only two feet away, and I can smell the cool, clean scent of the soap he used in the shower. His black hair is still damp and the ends curl at the nape of his neck.

“You’re conflicted,” I say, and he nods.

“Exactly. I was conflicted. Exactly. The part of me that remembers the past seven years with you was angry at how shabbily I was treating you. And the part of me that knows it wasn’t real was angry at myself for feeling how I feel. But I’ve never been one to stay angry for long, because it never does any good. Anger isn’t logical and it’s rarely useful unless it spurs action. But once you’ve acted, then you have to dismiss it. So,”—he runs a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead—“I have all these feelings, all these memories, and I want to know how much is real.”

“How much of your memories are real?”

He traces his finger over the tiny stitches on the fold of the cream-colored sheet. “I mean, I know the woman in my mind. I want to know how much of her is real.”

He glances back at me, and a low heat curls around me and then pulses at the intimacy in his eyes. The sky has transitioned from pale gray to soft gold, and the light catches the small gold flecks in the dark brown of his irises.

“For instance,” he asks, “do you really like to cook? And when you cook, do you always listen to the Supremes? And do you always sing off-key?”

I grin at his unexpected question, my bright smile clashing with the pulsing heat pooling in my middle. “I love to cook,” I say, “and I love to listen to Motown. The Supremes are my favorite. But I also love the Temptations and the Four Tops and lots more.” I pause and then lift my chin. “But trust me, I never sing out of key.”

An excited energy crackles around him. “I don’t believe you. Sing for me.”

“No! You’ll have to trust me. I have a perfect ear.”

He shakes his head but doesn’t press further. “What’s your favorite meal to cook? I’m asking because ...” He taps his temple with his pointer finger.

I think about all the dishes I love to make and all the things I love to eat.

“I cook lots,” I say. “I love French onion soup with freshly made bread and gruyere. Sometimes I use wine in the stock, and sometimes I use whiskey.”

He nods. It’s clear he remembers tasting both. “Go on. What else?”

I smile, a warmth building in me. “Sometimes I make Coq au Vin because I love the smell of chicken braised in wine sauce and bacon and those beautiful pearl onions. It’s so decadent, yet homey and cozy-warm. It’s perfect for a fall day.”

“Yes,” Max says, his eyes becoming more intent on my face. “You always cook it on the first day of autumn because you say its mood matches the yellows and golds of the trees reflecting on the lake.”

I smile at Max. “How did you know that?”

“Because you told me. It’s real then?”

I nod. “My dad made the tradition back when I was a kid. His was a simple roast chicken guy. I modified it and kept it going.”

Max stills, tilting his head. A lock of hair falls over his brow. “Your dad died when you were a kid.”

I clutch the edge of the sheet in my hand. “Yes. When I was eleven.”

Max watches me, a somber expression on his face. “You miss him.”

“Sometimes. Other times I miss the future I thought could’ve happened. Does that make sense?”

“It makes perfect sense.” Max scoots closer on the bed and leans against the headboard, folding one knee up. His hand rests on the comforter between us.

I look down at his open palm and the soft curve of his fingers.

We’re separated by six inches. The warm bubble of the bed, the soft sheets and the cushy down comforter, folds around us. Outside the sun has peaked over the lake and the wood thrush are calling out their morning song. Their notes fill the silence.

“You’re from Detroit,” Max says, and I nod even though he doesn’t look at me. He continues, his face turned toward the curtained window and the stream of light warming the room. “Your mom lives in the city, and you have a little sister named Emme. You like people and you’re always doing things for others. You love art museums for people-watching more than the art. You like exploring medieval villages and getting lost on purpose. You’ll read anything you can get your hands on, and you’ll try anything once. You’re honest to a fault. You love Paris, wine from small, unknown chateaus, and chocolate. How am I doing?”

He looks toward me then, and the bed shifts at his movement, tilting me closer to him. The warmth of the bed and the coolness of the air brushing over my skin creates a peculiar sensation.

I nod. “That’s all true, except ...”

“What?”

“I’ve never been to Paris.”

Max’s shoulders fall and he leans back again into the bed frame, dropping his head against the wood. He stares up at the ceiling. His neck is long and lean, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Right,” he says. “I took you there for the first time.”

He took me there seven years ago, and apparently, we liked it so much we got married right away.

“You didn’t try to steal the necklace, did you?”

I look over at Max, but he’s still staring at the ceiling.

“I only ask because in my memories of you, you’re honest to an appalling degree.”

I smile. “That’s what my mom says too.”

He turns toward me when he hears the laughter in my voice.

“She says I have an inconvenient penchant for honesty.”

He grins at my admission, a quick flash of white teeth. I’m more awake now. In fact, my whole body has woken up, and I’m glowy and warm and tingly like the vibrant, shimmery reflection of the sunrise on the golden lake.

“I know exactly what she means,” Max says.

We lean toward each other—a smile in his eyes; a smile on my lips.

“I didn’t steal it,” I say, just to make sure he knows. “I don’t know how the box opened, and I don’t know how it ended up in my pocket.”

“I believe you.”

His warm breath, tinged with mint, tickles my upper lip. I blink. How did we get this close? An inch more and our lips will be touching. Neither of us lean back. Neither of us move.

“I did make the wish though,” I say. “I’m sorry. I truly am. I took it back right away. Clearly, that didn’t work.”

Max reaches up, takes a strand of my hair, and tucks it behind my ear. His fingers drift over the sensitive shell of my ear and then down along my jaw.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says, his fingers resting on my cheek.

I turn my face into his hand until my lips connect with the tips of his fingers.

He draws in a breath, his chest expanding. “Anna.”

I look up. His eyes are closed.

“What?”

He takes another pained breath. “I’m trying very hard not to find out if all my memories are true.”

The corners of my mouth tug down. “What do you mean?—?”

He clears his throat.

I notice the stiffness of his shoulders; the tightness in his muscles. I look down, noticing the hard line of him visible through his jeans.

“Oh. Ohhhh.”

He opens his eyes and looks directly at me. “Exactly.”

My heart does a slow flip in my chest and then a rapid beat, responding to the heat in his eyes.

My skin is hot, flushed, and I have the sudden wild urge to lift my nightie free and let Max recreate anything he wants. Everything he wants.

“I never wanted passion,” he says, pulling his hand from my cheek. “I never wanted that kind of relationship.”

I try to catch up with what he’s saying, but it’s like trying to do long division after drinking a bottle of wine.

“The kind in my memory,” he clarifies. “I’ve always said passion isn’t what I’m looking for. But apparently, it’s what we have. Had. However you want to say it.”

We have a lot of sex. That’s what Max is saying. He remembers us having lots and lots of sex. Very good sex, if the tautness of his shoulders is anything to go by.

“Come to Paris with me.”

I shake my head, snapped out of my chocolate-mousse, lust-filled imaginings. “Sorry. What?”

Is he asking me to Paris to recreate our first week together? Does he want a no-museum, sex-filled weeklong wrist-bound orgy trip?

He smiles, and that eager, happy-the-day-has-begun look is back in place. “Like I said, I spent the night thinking. It appears I know you. It seems I like you. I think I can trust you.” He lifts a shoulder in a small shrug. “We’ll figure this out together. You made a mistake when you made that wish. Neither of us want this.” He gestures between us. “I have an idea to fix it. All we have to do is fly to Paris.”

“Paris?”

He smiles. “Paris.”

I say yes. He’s very convincing.