Reality Blurred

by Aven Ellis

  “You mean the movie? Have you never seen it? It’s stop-motion animation, and it’s a holiday classic.”

  “A holiday movie with an Abominable Snowman? Sounds very cheerful,” Maxime teases.

  “No, it’s about misfits fitting in. I can’t believe you don’t know about the Island of Misfit Toys! You have to see it, Maxime.”

  “I never realized my American holiday experience was lacking until now.”

  “It’s messed up. I feel sad for you.”

  As soon as our eyes meet, we both crack up.

  “Are you hungry?” Maxime asks.

  “I guess I lost track of time,” I say. “But, yes, I could use a snack.”

  “Me, too. But I should get going.”

  My heart drops as Maxime sits up. I quickly think of a way to spend more time with him. I could offer to make him a snack as a thank you.

  Except all I have is oatmeal and a can of Funfetti frosting.

  While I think oatmeal topped with a dab of Funfetti frosting is an amazing snack, I doubt Maxime would.

  Kicking myself for not fully stocking my kitchen, I sit up, too.

  Maxime rises, and I reluctantly do the same, knowing it’s time for him to take me back to his place to get my car.

  So I can leave.

  Ugh. I don’t want to leave him, not when I’m just starting to get to know him.

  There are no plans on the horizon to see him again, either.

  “I should take you back to get your car,” he says.

  I nod, although my instinct is to shake my head no.

  Which is ridiculous.

  Isn’t it?

  “Can you wait that long to eat? Do we need to stop and get something first?”

  “No, I think I can survive the trip to your house and back.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Well, I could bring my can of Funfetti frosting and a spoon, but I’ll refrain.”

  “I’ve seen that on your blog,” Maxime says.

  “I know you must be dying to try it.”

  He begins to laugh. “Yes. I’m waiting for the right moment to break out the Funfetti.” Maxime slips into his cashmere overcoat once again, and I love how sophisticated it looks on him. He takes a moment to tug on his gloves, and then he pauses before picking up his keys. “Give me a few moments to warm up the car for you.”

  “Maxime, you don’t have to do that,” I say, shaking my head.

  “I want to. You shouldn’t be cold. Come down in a few minutes,” he says.

  Then he heads out the door.

  As soon as it’s shut behind him, I exhale, my breath shaky. I like him.

  I like him, I like him, I like him.

  But isn’t this how it always starts? With Tom, it was the same. A first conversation, a first time flirting, then a first date. Okay, so my first date with Tom was with me and five other girls, but still.

  Tom seemed amazing and brilliant at first, too.

  Except he turned out to be a complete wanker.

  I wrap my arms around myself and frown.

  But Maxime isn’t Tom, I think. He’s more of a man than Tom could ever dream of being.

  Despite what my gut is saying, I barely know Maxime. I made myself a promise, and I need to be careful. My gut couldn’t have been more wrong about Tom, and even though my insides are screaming that Maxime is different, I need to use caution.

  “Oh my God, I need to shut up!” I cry aloud.

  Great. Now I’m yelling at myself.

  I’m losing it.

  I’ll blame the fact that I’m starving. I get cranky and absolutely nutters when I’m hungry.

  That has to be it.

  I bundle back up and head outside. The snow is continuing to fall, and I wonder how many inches will be on the ground by tonight.

  I find Maxime waiting in his Jaguar SUV for me. I open the passenger door and slip inside, the warmth of the heated air once again wrapping around me.

  We don’t talk much on the ride back, but it’s not a weird silence. I find myself gazing out the window at the Rockies, wondering what is happening between us. We’re becoming friends. Will we become more? We’ve both been hurt badly by people we loved. While I don’t know his story with Juliette, I can tell she is the one who hurt him, like Tom was the one who hurt me.

  Can we take a chance on each other?

  I feel the chemistry between us. I want to explore it, and I have a feeling Maxime does, too.

  The drive back seems faster than the drive to Pearl Street, and before I know it, Maxime is pulling up in his circular drive. He puts his vehicle in park and clears his throat.

  “Here we are,” he says.

  “Thanks for today. I had fun,” I say, smiling at him.

  “Me, too. It was a nice way to spend the day,” Maxime says.

  I wait for him to add more, and when he doesn’t, I add, “Well, I should get going.”

  I open the car door, and Maxime follows suit.

  “Do you want to let it warm up first?” he asks. “You can wait inside.”

  I walk over to my car and flash him a smile, despite my disappointment that our time has come to an end. “I’ll wait in it while it warms up. Your warming service is going to spoil me. Thank you again for everything. I’ll, uh, see you soon.”

  Maxime stands still, staring at me as I put the key in the lock. I study the fresh layer of snow on my car. I know I need to scrape off the windshield, but all I want to do is drive off, with my disappointment as a parting gift, and go home.

  I slip inside the frigid car, turn the key in the ignition, and let it start running. My teeth are chattering as I reach for the ice scraper, which is on the passenger side floorboard. I retrieve it and get back out, and I find Maxime is still standing in the driveway. The snow is drifting down over him, but instead of moving toward the house, he comes toward me.

  My heart begins to pound as Maxime stops a few inches from me. The snow is swirling between us, dusting his gorgeous cheekbones and long, dark eyelashes, and I forget how to breathe.

  “While I was waiting for you to come down from your apartment, I found on my mobile there’s a New Mexican restaurant about twenty minutes from here,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Small. Seems like the kind of place you’d like.”

  Now I’m shaking, and it has nothing to do with being cold. I stare up at him, happiness bubbling through every inch of me as I wait for him to speak again.

  “Skye, I never thought I’d be asking you this, but I am. I want to spend more time with you. I feel as if I have been granted a second chance today. That rarely happens, and I want to make the most of it.

  “Tomorrow night is Valentine’s Day,” he continues. “I was wondering if you would have dinner with me.”

  Chapter Eight

  I’m going out with Maxime on Valentine’s Day.

  I AM GOING OUT WITH MAXIME ON VALENTINE’S DAY!

  Yes, I’m shouting at myself in my head, but this is a shout-worthy sentence, even if I have to do it mentally.

  I run up the stairs to my apartment, my body humming with excitement about Maxime’s invitation. He’s going to pick me up tomorrow night around seven. I make a plan as I thrust the key into the lock and enter my apartment. I need to find a date-appropriate outfit. Do I have anything suitable? I haven’t been on a date since Is It Love? last spring.

  A date.

  I’m going on a date.

  On Valentine’s Day.

  With Maxime Laurent.

  I close the door behind me and exhale.

  I can’t decide if this is a sign. I first laid eyes on a man on the other side of the Atlantic, and he has now re-entered my life. Does that mean this is meant to be? Or have I learned nothing from Is It Love? Am I setting myself up for another romance that might end with my heart being ripped apart and scattered into the winds?

  I doff my winter gear, setting my boots beside the door and hanging up my coat in the closet. I move over to the sofa, drop down to the floor,
and find my sweet kittens huddled together, staring back at me with wide eyes.

  “Hi, sweethearts,” I say gently, smiling at them. “Mommy is home for the night. Remember Maxime? He asked me to be his date on Valentine’s Day. I’m so happy I could yell, but that would scare you, wouldn’t it?”

  I spy the bag of treats Maxime was using and dump some out on the floor. Natasha immediately moves closer, ready to partake in my equalizer, but Boris is not having it.

  “You’re a smart one, Boris,” I say, pushing a treat toward him. “You don’t trust easily, do you?”

  Maybe Boris is here as my reminder to be careful with Maxime, I think. Have dinner. Have fun. But don’t go full-on thinking romance and potential for love after one date.

  Or five dates.

  Or even the twentieth date.

  I need to be guarded until my judgment is clear. Like Boris, I’ll approach Maxime with caution. Once I feel safe, I’ll make decisions about where things should go, if we go anywhere after this first date.

  I will, however, allow myself to be excited. Nobody was ever hurt by looking forward to an evening out.

  Especially if that evening includes eating New Mexican food with a sexy, sophisticated, European hockey player.

  I have to share this news with someone other than the kittens. I get back up and grab my phone. I know JoJo is at work—and most likely in a development lab working on a new recipe—but even if she can’t respond right away, I have to tell her.

  I’ll message her and Sierra in our Connectivity group chat.

  I open up the chat box where the three of us talk almost daily. I sink down on the sofa and begin typing:

  Me: Okay, stand back. Brace yourselves. I’m going out with Maxime tomorrow. He saw my pics online yesterday, we began chatting, and we met up for a cup of coffee. Then he asked me to go to dinner. I said yes, but don’t worry, I’m going to be very cautious. It’s dinner. JUST DINNER.

  Then I hit send.

  Within seconds, my phone goes off.

  JoJo: WHAT?!?!?

  Sierra: OMG BEST NEWS EVER!

  Me: Aren’t you two supposed to be working?

  JoJo: AHHH! I am so excited! Maxime is a GREAT GUY!

  I burst out laughing, as JoJo has inserted a GIF from The Golden Girls into our conversation that shows Bea Arthur saying, “I can dig it.”

  Sierra: I can multitask while writing a report. So can JoJo. BUT I AM DYING!

  Sierra: We need ALL the details.

  JoJo: ALL OF THEM. Come to Denver on Friday night for drinks and dinner. Mandatory girls’ night out!!!

  I’m grinning as I read the comments. I message back:

  Me: Girls’ night out, yes. But don’t expect me to have much to report. We are having DINNER. That’s it.

  I chew the inside of my lower lip.

  I wonder if Maxime will try to kiss me.

  No. He won’t.

  We’re both cautious people, and I have a feeling he’s been as burned by his past as I have. It would make more sense if he didn’t kiss me.

  But what if he does kiss me?

  I might self-combust.

  JoJo: Maxime never asks ANYONE out. I’ve been with Cade since September. Not one girl has been on the scene. In fact, no girl has been on the scene since he’s been with the team, and that is going on three years now.

  I’m fixated on JoJo’s comment. Not one girl? Nobody?

  Maxime has held back, just like I have. I needed someone exceptional to even think about dating; apparently, it’s been the same for him, too.

  Sierra: Except for you, Skye. That night you were at our apartment, the second he walked in and recognized you, nobody else existed. Now you’re in the same town, and he’s going for it AAAHHHH! It’s like one of those second chance romances I love! Except it’s REALITY!

  JoJo: I know you’re being cautious, and if anyone gets that, it’s me. However, Skye, I promise you, without a doubt, Maxime is a GOOD man. There’s a reason he was named one of the alternate captains this year. He’s respected by his teammates. He’s steady. He leads on and off the ice. He is worth taking a chance on.

  I read JoJo’s words over and over, taking them to heart. JoJo has had her heart broken in the past, just like I did, and she was hesitant to follow her heart with Cade.

  But JoJo did follow her heart and found love as a result.

  I finish up our conversation, teasing them to get back to work and to come up with something fabulous for me to taste test.

  I draw a deep breath of air.

  Maybe something wonderful will happen between chips and salsa and dessert.

  I exhale. I need to do something other than sit around and feel like an eager teen waiting for her crush to show up for their date tomorrow night. I check my emails, noting one from Charlotte, who chided me for looking like a desperate mess who was seeking solace in donuts and cats instead of America’s Sweetheart yesterday in public. For good measure, she attached several tabloid pictures of my embarrassing moment.

  Anger flickers over me as I read her words. I begin to type back that I’m far from desperate. I’m a real-life woman who doesn’t always want to wear makeup. I can eat the occasional donut and wear sweatpants if I want. If she doesn’t want to represent a real woman, she doesn’t have to.

  I abruptly stop typing. My mom would tell me to sit on it for twenty-four hours. I click out of the email, sighing deeply, and sink back against my white sofa cushions as I click through the rest of my messages. I stop when I see another one from Charlotte, this time regarding the book opportunity:

  To: SkyeReeve@flashmail.net

  From: CStone@stoneclarkandwhite.org

  Date: February 13th

  Subject: Book proposal

  Skye, you need to make a decision on this. I’ve held the publisher off as long as I can. I think we can come up with a way to make everyone happy. I know you refuse to write a tell-all book, and I respect your sweet, not-wanting-to-upset-anyone nature, but surely you can find a way to talk about your time on the show in a way that is comfortable to you yet entertaining for the public. You’re already helping so many women like yourself, those who have been dealt the cruel blow of a broken heart. Think of how many more we can reach with a book. I propose a life guide, with just a few, tiny personal stories thrown in.

  Skye, you also need to think like a businesswoman. This will bring you not only an advance, but I’ll negotiate a top-rate for royalties. Plus, we can discuss an audiobook, international rights, a book tour, and speaking engagements. This can catapult you out of Colorado and into a reporting career in a big market. Don’t let sweetness stand in your way. You can find a way to be both.

  Best,

  Charlotte

  I put my phone down and think for a moment. I know she’s right about this being a tremendous opportunity, but I’m wrestling with it. I know the publishing house is going to want the stories from Is It Love?—the juicier the better—and I refuse to do that. I’m not going to talk bad about the other girls in the house or Tom, even though he is a wanker. I’m not going to dive into the details of our relationship for the masses to read, even if our romance played out on TV and my silence now screams of hypocrisy.

  I’m not a hypocrite if I refuse to gossip and provide details that nobody else needs to know, I think stubbornly.

  The idea of writing a book does appeal to me, though. I could share some things I’ve learned and maybe help people. A book would give me far greater reach than my blog. I could talk about transitioning from a university student to a reality TV star to a working woman. I can share what it’s like to show your real self to the world after being on an unreal TV experience.

  It might be worth it.

  But I’m starting this new TV job on Monday, so when will I have time to write a book? When will I learn how to write a book? On top of that, I still have my Instagram and blog and responsibilities as a social influencer.

  My mom’s twenty-four-hour rule comes to mind. I’ll answer C
harlotte tomorrow after I’ve had a chance to think about it. I know my dad, the TV executive, would tell me to seize every opportunity that comes my way. He would insist that you never say no in this business and the fact that there is still an interest in me after my repeated no’s is nothing short of a miracle.

  However, there is one thing that has come my way and caught my interest, and that is one thing I do want to think about right now.

  Maxime Laurent.

  Our date tomorrow night cannot come fast enough.

  Chapter Nine

  Celebrate Life with Sprinkles—The Blog

  Happy Valentine’s Day

  I pull out a tube of mascara and carefully begin applying it to my lashes. I remember how the Is It Love? team always put fake ones on because the producer said my natural blonde ones were non-existent. I pause as I study my reflection, thinking of how I look now, as opposed to when I had a team of makeup artists working on me.

  Watching endless hours of makeup tutorials on YouTube has paid off, as I know how to use brushes and sponges now to create a dewy, luminous finish on my gold-tinted skin. I create a sun-kissed glow, much lighter than the heavy makeup I wear on TV. I dusted my cheekbones with some bronzer and followed with a highlighter cream on the top for some shimmer. My eye makeup is a neutral palette, with champagne as the color near the brow bone and a cappuccino color for the lid that I’ve blended with my brush. I selected a dark chocolate brown to smudge into the corners and a similar color to line close to my lashes, which I winged out just a touch for emphasis.

  I finish applying mascara and stare back at my reflection.

  I’m ready to go out with Maxime.

  I put down the mascara and realize the last time I got ready for a date was on my final day with Tom. I remember the excitement I felt while getting ready. I was eager for the rest of my life to begin with the man I loved. When Tom broke my heart, I was convinced I would never want another man to touch me ever again. There would be Tom, or there would be no one. I would never want to take a chance on love, as obviously I had no clue what it was. I didn’t know how to tell real intentions from a bunch of promises whispered in my ear before kisses landed on my lips.