by Aven Ellis
Maxime wrinkles his brow in thought. “So you didn’t want to be on the show?”
“No. I was appalled at the idea. I didn’t want to springboard because I was on a dating show. I wanted to land a job due to my skills and hard work and the enthusiasm I put into my features. Charlotte told me there were millions of girls like me trying to land one of the extremely limited jobs available in TV. She said I would need more than a good demo to make it, unless I wanted to toil for years in small markets and move all across America to get what I wanted. Which I was willing to do.”
“Why didn’t you?” Maxime asks.
I pause to take a sip of my latte. I place the cup back down and sigh. “She gave me the statistics for girls that appeared on Is It Love?, and it was hard to negate them. A lot of them come away with huge social media followings and become influencers on Connectivity and Instagram. They host podcasts and write books,” I say, thinking of the proposal that is in my Inbox. “Some are doing what I want to do. She said I would be wasting a tremendous opportunity, and it was hard to argue with her after thinking about it.”
I study Maxime’s face to see if he disapproves. His expression remains one of interest, not disapproval.
Yet.
I pause for a moment. “I let her handle everything, and that’s when things started to get out of control. Charlotte made up my backstory by saying that my life’s dream was to open a cupcake shop.”
I see nothing but confusion on Maxime’s face. “What? That was made up?”
My face grows hot as shame surges through me. “I’m done presenting an alternate reality. Yes. It was completely made up. I like cupcakes, but I’m a horrible baker. I don’t know how to bake. It’s a crapshoot if I can get a box mix to come out right. When I found out that was my casting description, I was livid. Charlotte told me to quit being overly dramatic. She said everyone embellishes to get ahead, and since I like cupcakes, it’s not a total lie, just a tweak. I’m not proud to say I went along with it. I regret it, but Charlotte represents a lot of successful TV personalities, and I was right out of college. What did I know? I didn’t trust my gut enough to say no to someone who was known to make dreams come true.”
“So you became Skye the cupcake baker,” Maxime says.
“More like Skye the cupcake faker,” I blurt out.
Maxime begins laughing, and I can’t help but join him.
“How does one be a cupcake faker?” Maxime asks.
I smile, relieved he’s taking my past so well. “Well, I talked about the joy cupcakes bring.”
“And?”
“How they have to have the perfect ratio of frosting—not too much—and of course, a generous amount of sprinkles. Because sprinkles make everything better.”
Maxime is smiling at me, and I feel the weight of my past fall away.
“Sprinkles are everything, I once heard,” Maxime teases.
I laugh. “Anyway, I go on the show,” I say, taking another sip of my coffee and setting the cup back down, “and they asked me what I needed to make cupcakes in the house kitchen for all the girls. That was written into the script. Luckily, I was able to talk them out of that idea, which would have been a disaster.”
“Script? I thought it was reality, outside of the cupcake fakery,” he says.
Then he winks at me.
“Silly Maxime, there is no such thing as reality TV,” I say, winking back at him for good measure.
A smile lights up his face.
Oh, he’s gorgeous.
I continue. “In fact, I’d say it’s a blurred reality.”
“You talked about that on your blog.”
My heart holds still. “You’ve read my blog?”
“Yes.”
Ooh!
“Well, thank you for reading it,” I say.
“You’re a good writer. You have an ability to draw a person into your world.”
“Really?” I ask.
Maxime nods. “Yes. I read a lot. Not only do you have that ability, but you do it with every post. That’s a gift.”
“Thank you,” I say, flattered by his compliment.
“Sorry, I drew you offsides,” Maxime says. “Go back to the show.”
“Right. Well, it’s not like you are given a script per se, but producers suggest things to you,” I say. “You are prompted in your ITMs—in the moment interviews—which, by the way, are not in the moment but often re-created later. They make you wear the same clothing and re-style your hair the same way to re-create the moment. Then they suggest things to you. They might say, ‘Tom should hear how you feel. You don’t want him to doubt that.’ So I would think, oh, I need to tell Tom how I feel so he’s confident in us. All prompted by the script they wanted us to act out.”
Maxime’s face turns to one of disgust. “Is anything real?”
“My actions, outside of being a cupcake faker, were,” I declare. “I’m a happy, upbeat person. That is why I want to be a lifestyle correspondent or host. I like bringing good stories to the forefront, things that entertain people or brighten their day. That is who I am. That part of me on the show—interacting with the other girls in the house and having fun on the group dates—was real.”
Maxime is silent for a moment. “Were your feelings for Tom real?”
“Yes. I never went on the show thinking I would find love, but I did. Tom was charming and very romantic. I found myself having feelings I never felt before. He was my first love, but I was just a game to him. I went on magical dates: a romantic dinner on a pink sand beach in Seychelles and a yacht trip off the coast of Monaco. I fell hard and fast, and the things he said to me, well, I believed all of them. I had no idea he was saying the same beautiful words to Miley.”
Maxime flinches. “I’m so sorry.”
“At that point, all that mattered was Tom,” I say, continuing. “I lost sight of everything else. I envisioned having my career and Tom at the end. I needed him. I couldn’t imagine a life without him. In private, in the time we had when the cameras were off, he told me his feelings were the same. So we shot the finale, and I’m standing there before him in my designer gown, thinking my future is about to begin and all Tom had to say was, ‘Skye, this is love,’ but he didn’t. That’s when everything fell apart.”
Maxime is studying me, and I see empathy in his eyes as if he understands the feeling.
“I knew what I was getting into when I went on the show,” I say slowly. “I was opening myself up for heartache. To be criticized on social media. To have photographers follow me. To have to watch the show back and see what really happened between Tom and the other girls. It destroyed a part of me,” I admit, something I have never said to another person. “I lost weight. My hair started falling out from stress. People criticized my weight, my hair, my cupcake dream. They said I was fake and that I was using the show to build a career. That one cut to my core because they were right. So I fled. I bought a book on traveling through Europe, flipped open to the map, shut my eyes and picked a spot. That’s how I ended up in Brussels. I needed to be alone, to figure myself out, to learn how to cope with the insanity that I brought on myself.
“You really don’t know what you are going to be in for until it all ends,” I say, continuing. “I don’t think I deserved death threats for being on a dating show.”
“What? People wished you would die?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“That’s an absolute rubbish thing to wish on anyone. Social media can bring out the worst in humanity.”
“It can, but I also have met a lot of lovely people because of it, people who were Team Skye and who want to see me happy and moving on with my life. Moving to Boulder is a start. While Is It Love? will always be a part of me, I won’t let it define me anymore.”
“What about your feelings for Tom?” Maxime asks softly. “Have you moved on from him, too?”
I smile. “My feelings ended after the show did. I realized I didn’t know him. I thought I did, but I didn’t. I didn�
�t even know how he took his coffee.”
“Did you know if he liked sprinkles?” Maxime asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Swoon.
“No, I never asked him about sprinkles. Obviously, it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Obviously,” Maxime says.
Maxime rises and so do his dogs, their tails eagerly swishing.
“You are going to get your kittens this afternoon, right?” he says, picking up his cup and going over to his coffee machine.
“Yes,” I say. “It was a complete surprise that I found them, but I’m finding out surprises can be exactly what you need.”
Like your invitation to come here, I think as I watch him.
“Would you like some help?” Maxime asks, pouring himself another cup of coffee and, this time, putting it into a portable tumbler. “I could drive you over, help you get your supplies and the kittens, and help you get them acclimated if you want.”
Excitement surges through me. There is nothing I want more than to spend more time with Maxime, and now I have it.
“I would love that,” I say, rising and bringing my plate and mug to the sink.
“Do you want me to make you a latte to go?”
“Please, that would be wonderful,” I say. “I’ll go get my coat on while you do that.”
Maxime nods, and I cut through the living room on my way to the hall closet. A book laying out on his sofa catches my eye.
I stop dead in my tracks.
I’ve seen that book before.
My memory quickly flashes to Brussels. The café. The antique Lord of the Rings book and the man with the baseball hat sitting at the table in front of me …
I go over to the book and pick it up, holding it with a shaking hand.
The guy with the antique book was Maxime.
A huge smile lights up my face.
I remember him.
I remember our beginning.
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 cas
cading 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.”
