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I’m in my uniform, a gray and navy unisex collared shirt tucked into baggy polyester pants. It’s possibly the ugliest outfit I’ve ever worn. My curly hair is tied into a bun and tucked under a handkerchief I put on when unloading the truck earlier. I don’t know if he’ll recognize me. He didn’t when I spoke.
My hand trembles, and I still my fingers on the cardboard.
I close my eyes and brace myself.Don’t react. Don’t smile. Don’t ...
I don’t even have to look at him.
I don’t have to look up.
I once said that looking at Max was like looking at something so beautiful it hurt. I think if I looked at him now it would break me. I’m not sure I could look him in the eye without giving away everything I feel.
He’s waiting. Standing next to me, waiting for me to respond.
I can feel his gaze on me, moving over me with a peculiar intensity.
I shake my head, taking a shaky breath at the hot, burning feel of his nearness.
“I’m looking for baking chocolate. I’m told it’s essential for the perfect cake. May I have—?” He holds out his hand, pointing to the shelf I’m stocking.
He leaves his final sentence as a question.
He has no idea who I am.
None.
He expects me to take one of the packages of chocolate and place it in his hand.
I drop my chin, angling my face away from him. Even though the market is chilly at best, a drop of sweat slides down the back of my neck. My heart races and I fight the urge to turn around, jump in his arms, and kiss him. Or beg him to kiss me.
That would be a disaster.
Slowly, as if I’m in a dream, I reach out and grip the cold paper packaging wrapped around the chocolate square. I take it in my hand, my heart thumping, and reach out to drop it in his open palm.
My earbuds hang free, and from them the magnified sound of Diana Ross’s singing crackles in the air.
There’s a bright, thrumming feel coalescing around us. It’s a stream of sunlight slipping through the ether, a river of stars pouring into a deep indigo lake; it’s a chain of broken sapphires reflecting the light of a thousand suns.
I drop the chocolate into his hand. My fingers brush over his skin and I jolt at the awareness that streaks through me. I drag in a sharp breath and yank my hand back as if I’ve been burned.
But before I can turn away, Max reaches out and grabs my wrist.
His grip is tight, his hand warm and firm.
My heart races, my pulse pounding against his hand.
He’s tense, and all his attention is focused on me. I can feel the heat of his gaze raking over me. The spot where his hand captures me throbs with heat until there’s a pulse drifting up my arm, through my veins, and into my core, where it settles in a bright white heat.
It burns.
His grip tightens, and I remember the last time he held me like this. Then, his mouth was on me.
He’s waiting.
He won’t let me go until I look up at him. I know this.
So I gather all my courage and all my defenses, and I look at Max.
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