Wished

Chapter 24

24

I wake to bright mid-morning light shining over the bed, once again tapping insistently at my eyelids. I’m floating in a blissful state of half-sleep, half-waking and I squeeze my eyes tighter, burying my face against the soft pillow.

The plush bed is warm and cozy, the sheets wrapped around my legs. There’s the sound of a dove outside, cooing to the morning. I smile at the familiar scent of Max on the sheets, mixed with our night of lovemaking and ...

I open my eyes.

The white silk canopy is above me.

I’m still in Paris. In Max’s bed.

This isn’t where I’m supposed to be. I thought I’d be back in Geneva.

I sit up in bed, yanking the white sheets over my naked breasts. My hair falls over my shoulder and goose bumps rise on my skin at the slight chill in the air. Outside the window the sky is the deep cerulean blue of late May, shining over the elegantly curved roofs of the stone townhomes across the street. The soft coo of the mourning dove sounds again above the noises of a neighborhood waking. But inside Max’s home it’s quiet.

I shiver and slowly glance around the bedroom.

There are plenty of things I didn’t notice last night in the heady blur of lovemaking. The large bed sits in the center of the bedroom, the wood frame a rich walnut, ornately carved. The walls are dove-gray with plaster panels and thick crown molding, with beautiful plasterwork on the ceiling. There’s an antique crystal chandelier, of course. Glossy wood floors—again, of course. The thick, luxurious silk rug Max dropped to his knees on last night and pulled me to his mouth. Matching nightstands, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and tasteful oil paintings of the idyllic French countryside.

Then my eyes are drawn away from the furnishings to the door.

It’s Max. He strides into the bedroom, a small smile curving the corner of his lips.

I can’t deny it.

My heart gallops like a racehorse after the starting shot. I didn’t know how scared I was about this moment, how fearful I was that he’d have forgotten what we did, or that he’d hate me again, until this very moment.

The flood of relief knocks me flat and I sag back against the headboard, my hold on the warm sheet wrapped around my breasts flagging.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice rich and melodic, tinged with a smile.

He’s dressed already. His black hair is wet and glistening from the shower, the thickness smoothed back. He’s in casual clothing, barefoot, a day’s worth of stubble darkening his jaw. He has a breakfast tray in his hands. There’s a plate of tartine smothered in butter and glossy, jewel-red jam, and a French press full of steamy black coffee next to two white mugs.

I stare at Max, at the tray of food, my heart thumping wildly in my chest.

It’s the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m breakfast. Like last night wasn’t enough and he’s very, very glad we’re still here together and not back in Geneva.

He remembers me.

He still likes me.

“Morning,” I say. It comes out as a squeak, and I blink at him, scooting back on the bed.

He grins at the noise I make and then lifts an eyebrow at how I’m still clutching the sheet to my chest.

He slides the tray onto the nightstand and settles on the bed next to me. The scent of coffee and cherry jam swirls around us, sweet and pungent. The bed tilts as he moves close, and the sheets scrape over my bare skin, drawing out more goose bumps.

“Why are you blushing?” Max asks with a smile. “Was last night ...?” He trails off, his eyes going sleepy and happy. Then he threads his hands through my messy morning hair, tugs me close, and brushes his warm lips over mine.

I’m sore and achy, and there are places on my body that I didn’t even know could be sore—yet at the heat of his mouth on mine there’s a sudden hard, demanding throb. My eyelashes flutter and I lose my grip on the sheets, baring myself to Max.

He makes a hungry noise and scrapes his hands over my nipples, covering my breasts with his palms. That steady shimmer I’m already addicted to spreads over my skin.

“Did I mention how much I love you?” Max asks, trailing his mouth down my throat to my collarbone. His stubble scrapes over me, and I shiver when he rolls a nipple between his pointer finger and thumb.

But then his words sink in.

Love.

Max just said he loves me.

I said it first. And this morning he said it too.

I grip his shoulders as he pulls me onto his lap. The fabric of his clothing scrapes against my thighs as he tugs me close, settling me against his hard length.

“You ...” I gasp when my nipples scrape against his shirt. “You love me.”

It’s a statement, but also a question.

But then I look into his eyes and I can’t deny it. Max brings his mouth back to mine, nibbling at my lips. He tastes like café au lait, demerara sugar, and cherry jam, as if while making our breakfast he tasted the coffee and stuck his finger in the jam jar, licking it clean.

He’s kissing me like he loves me. But even more, when he pulls back, leaving my mouth wet and buzzing, he’s looking at me like he loves me.

No. Like he adores me.

Like I’m his Venus. His one true love.

Like he would die for me.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” he asks, tilting me back on the cloudlike bed, laying me bare on the mattress.

He settles over me, his legs cradling mine, his hands busy working magic.

“But—” I gasp when he manages to flick me just right . Then I say, “But ... we’re still here. Are we ...?” I gasp again, losing my train of thought for a moment when Max moves his finger in a lazy circle, causing a heat to spread through my abdomen and then lower.

“Of course we’re still here,” he says, giving me a conspiratorial grin. His eyes are clear, happy, and intent on pleasure.

“But ...” I close my eyes. “Are we ...? Did our wish work? Are we still married?”

Max makes a noise in the back of his throat and sinks on top of me, pressing me into the cushiony bed. He smells so good. The soap he used reminds me of what we did in the shower last night. I drag in a deep breath. Outside the dove coos again and the morning light shines a bit brighter.

“We’re still married?” I ask again, gazing up at him.

He presses a gentle kiss to my mouth.

“I hope so,” he says, gruff laughter in his voice. He takes my wrists in his hands, binds them in his grip, and holds them over my head as he starts to rock into me. “This next bit might be awkward if you weren’t my wife.”

He grins down at me as if he’s planning very, very wicked things.

And—

I freeze.

Beneath the warmth of Max’s body, in the heat of his bed, with the sun spreading over me, I go cold.

All the fuzzy, floaty, blissful orgasmic ecstasy that I woke up to disappears in a sudden, unexpected pop. That shimmery heat running through me? Now it’s ice. It’s prickly and cold, and I’m frozen.

When Max and I wished on the parure I believed that when we woke up we wouldn’t be married anymore. I thought we’d be sent back to Geneva, back to how we were. I even worried Max might not remember our time together and he might hate me again.

I wished for us to not be married. Max wished for everything to be set right.

Is this setting things right?

Was his wish granted?

Or is this the second half of my wish?

I wished Max and I were married. I wished Max loved me.

Max stills. His hips stop rolling and his hands loosen on my wrists. He looks down at me, a line forming between his eyebrows.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his expression searching, his deep brown eyes concerned. “Anna, love? What is it?”

Oh no.

No.

Max looks like he’d happily take a sword to the chest to make whatever is upsetting me go away. He looks like his only wish in this life and the next is to love me and make me blissfully happy.

“You love me?”

“Always.” He smiles happily, his dark brown eyes warming. “Forever.”

“Oh no.”

He laughs. “Oh yes.”

“Oh no!”

He’s in love. In love in love.

Not a normal “will you marry me?” kind of love, but a love potion, drugged, obsessed, want-you, need-you in love kind of love.

He lowers his head and tries to brush another sweet kiss over my mouth. I turn my head and his lips run over my cheek.

“We’re married,” I say, staring at the photograph on the nightstand—the one from the night before. It’s me in a wedding dress, Max at my side.

“The best seven years of my life,” Max says into my neck, nuzzling at the frantic beat of my pulse. “Marrying you was the best thing I’ve ever done. Happy seven-year anniversary, darling.”

Oh no. What have we done? “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

He laughs. “No. You’ve always been the best part of my life. Why would I joke about that?”

“Max.”

He’s still over me, pressing me into the bed, his hips settling over mine. I tug at my wrists, still held in his firm grip. He lets go and I put my hands to his chest, pressing at his warm, solid muscles.

“Anna.”

I shake my head.

“Do you remember your other life? The one where we aren’t married. The one where I cleaned your house.”

He gives me an incredulous look. “What?”

A knot forms in my belly, twisting my insides into a queasy ball.

He doesn’t remember.

He’s lost who he used to be.

He’s lost seven years of his life.

Somehow the wish we made yesterday didn’t make things better; it made them drastically, horribly worse.

“I love your sense of humor,” he says, grinning down at me.

Before, Max was unique. While everyone else believed he and I had been married for seven years, Max remembered both the new reality and the old.

Now I’m the only one who remembers that none of this is real.

I’ve lost him.

“Max. I’m not joking.”

He nods and then drags his fingers over my cheek. “Okay. Breakfast first, and then we’ll do what you asked. We’ll get busy making our baby.”

And that is when I shove as hard as I can, pushing Max off me and out of the marriage bed.