Chapter Six
“Do you like Tolkien?”
I turn around, and Maxime is holding two tumblers of coffee as he cuts through the living room.
I’m shaking as I hold the book. “I remember you.”
Maxime shoots me a smile as he stops in front of me. “I should hope that would be the reason you came over for coffee this morning.”
“No, Maxime, I remember you. In Brussels,” I say, my words coming out in an excited rush. “You were wearing a baseball cap and reading this book. I can see you now. I can see the table you were sitting at, never lifting your eyes from the pages of your book.”
“You’re wrong.”
“What?” I say, confused. “I know this was your book; I remember that it was an antique copy. It had to be you.”
“No, it was me, but I lifted my eyes from the book, more than you know.”
He extends the tumbler toward me, and I hold his book to my chest as my free hand meets his. His fingertips lightly graze mine, the brief touch of his skin sending a shiver down my spine.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the cup from him. “What do you mean by that?”
Maxime stares down at me. “I didn’t read a word. I couldn’t stop watching you. I wondered what was making you sad and what your story was. You seemed so alone, and for reasons I can’t explain, I didn’t want you to be.”
My heart pounds at his words. Maxime knew, without any words being exchanged between us, the depths of my sadness. The isolation and loneliness.
He wanted to help me.
“I looked down whenever you turned my way,” Maxime says, continuing. “I didn’t want you to catch me staring at you. After you left, I wished I had asked if you were okay. I didn’t want you to be alone, feeling that way.”
I feel tears well up. Maxime cared more about me as a complete stranger than Tom ever did while dating me.
“I can’t believe you read me so well,” I say. “You saw all the things I was feeling inside.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. I still regret that.”
I shake my head. “Please stop apologizing for that. I was a stranger. Why would you have talked to me?”
“I knew I should have. I can’t explain it,” Maxime says. “My instinct was to go to you. I talked myself out of it because I thought you would think I was making a move on you. Or that I was some creepy guy stalking you.” He pauses for a moment. “I also have a history of very bad judgment when it comes to women. I thought there could be a chance I was reading you wrong, like I have in the past with other women, so I shoved it aside. But when you left, my gut knew I had been right. I felt awful that you went through whatever was bothering you alone.”
My head is sorting through his words, touched by his kindness.
I consider his telling comment about his judgment regarding women.
Has Maxime been hurt by misjudging someone, too?
“I think you’ve more than made up for that by reaching out to me today,” I say gently.
“I hope I have, Skye,” he says in his heavily accented voice.
I don’t know what is happening here, but I feel a connection to Maxime unlike anything I’ve known before. I thought I knew what fate had in store for me when I met Tom, but I was wrong. I feel like fate is at work again now, but this time, it is different.
It makes zero sense, but I know, without a doubt, I’m meant to be here. With Maxime, in his house, sharing my story with him. I feel this magnetic pull toward him. I know I promised never to blindly trust fate again, but I can’t deny we were seated on that patio in Brussels for a reason.
Now might be the time to find out what that reason is.
I clear my throat. “Are you ready to help me with some kittens?”
Maxime flashes me a beautiful smile. “Let’s go.”
I place the book down on the sofa and park my tumbler on the coffee table. We slip into winter gear, and when Maxime tugs on a gray knit cap, a lock of his wavy blond-brown hair escapes and sweeps across his forehead. I have to resist the urge to touch it, to brush my fingertips along his forehead and see what his wavy locks feel like against my fingertips.
“I can drive if you want,” Maxime offers, interrupting my thoughts.
Heat sears my cheeks. I hope he can’t read what is going on in my head and see that I’m daydreaming about touching him.
“Yes, if you don’t mind, that would be great. I can get my car when we get back.”
“Why don’t you wait here for a few minutes?” Maxime says as he tugs on his black leather gloves. “I’ll go start the car and get the heat running so you won’t be cold.”
I nod, amazed at his thoughtfulness.
“This Southern California girl is very grateful to you for doing that,” I say, smiling at him. “Thank you.”
Maxime grins. “My pleasure.”
He heads out the front door, and I retrieve our coffee tumblers. I walk back across his living room and watch through the large back windows the snow fall onto his deck and pond. I can’t get over the peaceful feeling I have standing here. Compared to the noise of living with the girls in the Is It Love? house, or living in an apartment with friends at UCLA, this feels grounded. Real. Grown up.
This is a house for a mature man, I think. And judging by his home, I would guess he appreciates his solitude and values quiet and peace.
I can’t help but smile. Nice of me to play pretend analyst and determine all of this from his choice of home like I’m some kind of psychology expert.
Yet my instincts tell me I know Maxime.
The door opens, and Maxime steps back inside.
“I think I have the temperature of Los Angeles inside my vehicle if that suits you,” he says, flashing me a smile.
I think you might suit me, Maxime Laurent.
“Perfect,” I say, heading toward him with the coffee in my hands. Maxime takes his, and I regret that we both have gloves on so I can’t feel his fingertips against my skin. He opens the door for me to step outside first.
The snow is cascading faster from the sky, and I stop to take in the magical sight. Maxime’s home is nestled between snow-capped mountains and towering pines, and there’s nothing but stillness in the air.
“It’s beautiful here,” I think aloud.
Maxime moves next to me, and I’m aware of the scent of his cologne mingling with the frosty air.
“Better than California?” he asks, his voice breaking through the quiet that has blanketed us.
“There’s nothing like the Rockies,” I say, using all my willpower not to steal another glance at Maxime. “It’s breathtaking here.”
“I agree,” Maxime says. “I’ve been all across Europe to play hockey, and I had no idea what Colorado would be like when I was drafted by the Mountain Lions. I had only been to the United States a few times, and it was so vast and different everywhere I went. But when I stepped off the plane here, it felt like a new start.”
This time, I turn to look up at him. Maxime views Colorado the same way I do.
As a place to start over.
But what is Maxime starting over from?
I study him as he drinks in the view, the snow dusting his cap and the top of his luxurious cashmere overcoat, and I long to ask him what he left behind in Europe.
I want to know your story, Maxime, I think as I study his handsome profile. I want to know you.
“Come on, let’s go,” Maxime says, moving toward his car.
I stand still, watching him walk. My reporter skills tell me Maxime’s life is not an open book like mine is. I shared my intimate moments with millions of people on TV and my thoughts with thousands across social media channels. Maxime is quiet. While I’ve revealed everything, Maxime keeps his thoughts guarded.
Maybe, with time, he won’t with me.
I follow him to the car and slip into the passenger seat, the warm air enveloping me.
“Ah,” I say, sinking into the heated seat. “This feels nice. While the snow is beautiful, I can’t say I’m a fan of how cold I feel all the time.”
Maxime puts his coffee into the drink holder and reaches back for his seat belt. “Try going to Russia in the winter. I played some hockey tournaments there. That’s brutally cold.”
“You’ve been all over the world,” I say as he begins to drive.
I watch as a smile passes over his handsome face. “So have you. I’ve never taken a girl to Monaco or Seychelles for a date. You’ve had the more glamorous world travel.”
“Oh, please. That wanker didn’t take me there on his own accord,” I blurt out. “He was paid to date a bunch of women and declare his love for one at the end. The show planned and paid for all those trips. Tom would probably take a girl to a posh restaurant with tiny portions and beautiful people as waitstaff. He’s all about being seen with the famous people and eating chic food that leaves me starving.”
Maxime laughs, and I join him.
“So what’s your perfect date night food?” Maxime asks as he drives out of his neighborhood.
“I love good Mexican food, but if I’m being candid, I love New Mexican food.”
“As opposed to old Mexican food?”
I giggle. “No, New Mexico, as in the state of New Mexico. The food is ridiculously good. To me, the perfect date meal is not at some posh restaurant, but at some hole-in-the-wall place, where the people are nice and unpretentious. The kind of place where you can wear jeans and kick back over a plate of good chips and red-hot salsa. I want to be able to dig into a plate of stacked enchiladas—that’s where the enchiladas are flat and topped with red sauce and cheese—and eat until I’ve scooped up every bit of delicious chile sauce and cheese on my plate. Chased down with a margarita, of course. That is my idea of a great date.”
I steal a look at Maxime, who is driving down the winding roads, his windshield wipers rhythmically wiping the snow away. He’s smiling, ear to ear.
“You’re not what I expected,” Maxime says.
“How so?”
“You look—and I apologize in advance for the stereotyping—so chic and glamorous. I expected you to want more of the dates you had on Is It Love? Champagne at some trendy bar, then dinner at some see-and-be-seen kind of restaurant in Denver, followed by cocktails at a nightclub before Ubering home.”
“I’ll forgive you this one time for being so off-base,” I tease.
“I appreciate your graciousness in not making me a wanker for that.”
I laugh. “No, that doesn’t make you a wanker. It makes you off-base, but not a wanker. Anyway, that girl you described? Not me. Did I think having a date on a yacht was amazing? Of course, anyone would. But that’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. What I want are real experiences. I want Friday night traditions. I want conversation and chips and enchiladas. I want to watch Law & Order reruns on my couch with the guy I’m seeing. I want him to be okay with me wearing no makeup and changing into my cozy pajamas the second we settle in for the night. I want to play Monopoly and place bets on who will win, or share a pint of ice cream on the couch with two spoons. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I want after Tom. You can keep a picnic in Napa Valley or candlelit dinners on a beach. I want real.”
Maxime pulls up toward a red light. “I think both can be real.”
“You think going on a yacht date in Monaco is reality?”
He turns his attention to me, and for the millionth time, I’m caught off guard by just how beautiful Maxime is in person.
“If you are with the right man, it’s real. It’s not the location that matters. It’s the feeling you get when you are with that person. If it’s genuine, it’s real.”
My breath catches in my throat.
Tom never spoke words from his heart like this to me. Yes, he said pretty things, but they were never sincere.
I’ve been with Maxime for only an hour, and already he’s more of a man than Tom ever was on our dates.
This isn’t a date, I remind myself.
I comb my fingers through my hair as the light turns, and Maxime continues toward the Pearl Street Mall.
I know my judgment with men is crap.
I know I should be working on rebuilding myself.
I know I shouldn’t have butterflies.
But I do.
Maxime’s sincerity during today’s conversation tells me that if he were to ask me out, it wouldn’t be a case of reality blurred.
It would be real.