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“Let me get this straight,” he says, his mouth tugging down. “I tell you I’ve had a wonderful time today, that I want to make love to you until you’re senseless, and you tell me you think you should be someone you’re not?”
His voice comes out in a rough growl, and I swallow at the hard cast of his jaw and the intensity in his gaze. I try to say something, but the only thing that comes out is a short, surprised puff of air.
“If it wasn’t clear before,” he says, “I like you. You’re not a damn petunia. You’re a woman.”
The way he says the last word almost sounds as if he’s saying “you’re my woman.”
“But ...” I pause, licking my lips at the dryness in my mouth. “You don’t want me. Notreally. Tomorrow?—”
“Maybe I won’t want you tomorrow,” Max says sharply, gripping my hand tighter. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll go back to being lonely and regretful and wishing I could find a woman who fits me as comfortably as your hand in mine. Who the hell knows what will happen tomorrow? Maybe I’ll forget you and you’ll forget this. You’re right—I didn’t want you before. But you can’t stand there and tell me I don’t want you now.”
Max and I stare at each other underneath the soft shade of the chestnut tree, dozens of people passing by on the path beside us. Yet we’re captured in the shade and the light, breathing heavily, a battle going on between us.
“I know you want me,” I say, and when I do, his eyes flare. “I want you too,” I admit in a whisper, “but I don’t know that it’s real. So tonight ...”
When I trail off, Max steps closer, the heat of him pressing against me. “I know my own mind,” he says. “I may be experiencing more feelings since you walked into my office than I have in years, but I know my own mind. I know what’s real and what isn’t. This is real.” He holds my gaze for a long moment. “This is real.”
Then he drops his mouth to mine, brushing his lips over me. His mouth is featherlight, as gentle as the breeze whispering across a petal in the afternoon light. “Tomorrow,” he says against my lips, “this may not be real.”
He presses another kiss to me, his tongue tasting the seam of my mouth, his lips drifting over mine like an ancient mariner exploring the seas, guided only by his instinct and the stars. “But it’s real today and I’ve always thought the best way to live, is in the moment.”
I sink into his mouth, gripping his jacket. The hard line of the jewelry box knocks against my knuckles. The necklace. The reason for all this.
“You won’t regret it?” I ask. “Tomorrow?”
“Let’s promise each other that whatever happens, neither of us will regret anything.”
I look up at him, my breath shaking. The shadow of the chestnut tree falls over him, painting him dark and tempting.
I have to tell him. I can’t continue down this path without telling him. I can’t promise I won’t regret tonight if I don’t.
I’ve been afraid, worried what he’ll say or think, but the fear of regret is stronger than either of those worries.
“Max. The reason ...” I pause, and he presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I ...”
He traces his mouth over my lips, tasting me.
“The reason I wished on the necklace is because three years ago ...” I pull my mouth from his, setting my hand on his chest.
“Three years ago?” The edge of his mouth lifts.
My cheeks heat and a prickly-hot flush tickles my skin. Behind us, on the path toward the Arc de Triomphe a woman laughs loudly and a group of teenagers shout, shoving each other teasingly. I drop my hand from his chest.
“I met you,” I say finally.
He nods. “Yes. By the way, was it you who left me soups and dinners on occasion? In my refrigerator, with a note on how to reheat?”
I swallow, my heart thudding along painfully. “Yes.”
“Mmm. I always thought it was your partner?—”
“Dorene.”
“Right. Dorene. I like your onion soup. Wine or?—”
“Whiskey,” I say.
He nods. “And the books in the library. Sometimes the one I was reading—I always laid them flat, pages spread—I’d come back and they’d have a slip of paper bookmarking the page instead. It would be cut with crinkle edges.”
