by Aven Ellis
Yet here I am.
I’ve taken extra time to do my makeup. My hair is in beachy waves that cascade down my back. I’ve dug through my wardrobe moving boxes to find a cream, velvet camisole top; a long, thick charcoal duster cardigan; my distressed Paige jeans; and my suede, over-the-knee black boots.
As opposed to the pink tones the show put on my face, to give me that sweet, innocent look, my appearance now reflects the golden, California girl I am inside. I’m not dressed in the trendy short skirts and crop tops the show had me wear to emphasize my body. Instead, I wear the clothing I like, such as this cozy sweater and cami that feel good next to my skin. I love texture, I love feeling warm, and I love clothing that makes me feel wrapped and secure.
This is me.
This is the woman I want Maxime to get to know tonight.
I flip off the light and walk back into the living room, where I get down on my knees so I can peek at my fur babies underneath the sofa. I heard them come out last night; the sound of chewing kibble gave them away and made my heart melt. They came out to eat canned cat food this morning, but then they retreated under the sofa. I keep giving them treats and talking to them so they get used to my voice.
“I’m going out as soon as Maxime gets here, so please feel free to explore,” I say.
Natasha stretches, and I think she is going to be the brave one. My little Dora the Explorer, I think, remembering the cartoon my cousin’s daughter, Violet, loves so much.
But Boris—he’s going to be much more cautious.
“You’re my reminder,” I say softly, turning my attention to Boris. “I’ll take my time getting to know Maxime, just like you will with me.”
Ding!
Oh! He’s here! I stand up, and nerves and excitement fight for control as I head for the door.
I put my hand on the doorknob and press my eye to the peephole.
Oh, I’m in serious trouble.
Because through the peephole, I see Maxime is holding a beautiful bouquet of bright red poppies.
He brought me flowers.
On Valentine’s Day.
I turn the lock and open the door, drinking him in as I do. I take in the stunning brown hair with blond streaks, the piercing blue-green eyes, the sculpted cheekbones and full lips.
Maxime does the same, taking me in from my face down to my boots before quickly bringing his eyes back up to meet my gaze.
“Tu es superbe,” Maxime says.
I can’t breathe from hearing those beautiful words escape his lips.
He just told me I’m gorgeous in his native language.
“Merci, tu es aussi très beau,” I say, thanking Maxime and telling him that he looks handsome, too.
A huge smile lights up his face. “I like that you can speak my native language.”
I put out my hand to stop him. “Don’t get too excited. I’m not an expert in French by any means.”
“I think you’re underestimating your French,” he says. Maxime then extends the bouquet to me. “These are for you.”
I take the poppies from him, and the second our fingertips brush, I feel a delicious warmth fill me inside like I’ve never experienced before. It’s a feeling of excitement and anticipation mixed with comfort from the brief contact with his skin.
Comfort.
Like the clothes I’m wearing, I feel as if those hands would protect me. Comfort me. Make me feel adored and safe.
With a jolt, I look back into his eyes and see something so genuine it nearly takes my breath away.
“These are beautiful,” I say, wondering how I can feel all these things for one man, a man I barely know. “Please, come in.”
Maxime walks past me, and for a brief second, I can smell that wonderful, warm cologne that is lingering on his skin. I wish I could get more of that lush bourbon-vanilla scent, but the second he steps away from me, the scent is gone. It’s obvious you have to get up close to him to breathe it in.
Heat fills me from that thought.
“They reminded me of you,” Maxime says, turning around and flashing me a smile.
“Huh?”
“Um, the flowers. They reminded me of you.”
GET IT TOGETHER SKYE, I think, mentally slapping myself upside the head.
Before you ask Maxime if you can lick his neck to see if he tastes as divine as he smells.
I clear my throat as a reset. “How so?” I ask, moving into the kitchen to find something to put them in.
“Bright. Cheerful,” Maxime says. “Beautiful.”
Oh, this Belgian’s sweet words make it difficult to be pragmatic.
But I have to try.
“Thank you,” I say, rummaging through my half-filled cabinets and retrieving a glass. I’ll need to cut the stems to make them fit, but it’s the best I can do for now. “They are lovely. I’m curious, though. What made you select poppies?”
“It’s the national flower of Belgium, where we should have met, but didn’t.”
My heart flutters rapidly.
The flowers are more than a gesture.
They have meaning.
“I love that,” I say, carefully untying the string around the cellophane wrapping and mentally deciding that if we start dating, and months and months later we fall in love, poppies will forever be our flower.
Of course, that’s a totally unrealistic thought, and since I’m being pragmatic and taking my time, there’s no need to think of poppies in my future.
At least that is what the rational, mature, learn-from-the-past side of my brain informs me.
However, the other half of my brain, the one connected to my heart that tends to override my rational side, is feeling all the THINGS. I feel butterflies and goosebumps and eagerness inside, and a gut feeling that I crossed Maxime’s path in Belgium, and again in Denver, for a reason.
A reason of the heart.
I carefully lift the flowers out and reach for my scissors, which are still laying on the countertop from earlier. I glance up, and Maxime has moved back to the sofa and is down on the floor talking to Boris and Natasha.
“They’re sleeping,” Maxime reports back. “I bet they will come out and explore while you are out.”
I cut the stems of the bouquet, and Maxime continues to talk to the kittens.
“I’m eager to hold them and play with them,” I say. “I can’t wait for them to feel at home, but I understand they need to take their time. They are afraid of trusting me right now.”
Maxime rolls over on his side, and his sweater creeps up. I get a flash of the most chiseled six-pack I have ever seen, with a trail of dark hair leading down to the waistband of his jeans. I feel my jaw drop as I stare at his definition.
I quickly shift my focus back to arranging the flowers in the glass.
“You’ll earn their trust quickly. They will know they are safe here, and then you won’t be able to keep them off you.”
“There is nothing better than puppy kisses or kitten snuggles,” I say. I pick up the glass filled with the vibrant poppies and smile. “I’m going to put these on my nightstand and shut the bedroom door, just in case Boris and Natasha get really brave and decide to enjoy eating some flowers.”
Maxime nods, and I steal another look at his glorious abs, which are still exposed. “I’ll Google if poppies are toxic to cats. I should have thought of that before bringing them to you.”
“Maxime, don’t even say that. They are gorgeous, and I love them.”
He pushes himself upright, and my view of his amazing stomach is gone.
Dammit.
“I still want to know if they are toxic.” He stands up and retrieves his phone from his coat pocket.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I head into my bedroom and place the flowers beside my bed, smiling as I know I’ll love seeing them when I come home tonight.
I exit my room and shut the door behind me, making sure it’s securely closed before leaving.
“Skye, come
here,” Maxime says.
I move back down the hall and find Maxime staring at his iPhone in the living room. I move next to him, feeling small against his towering frame, and glance down at his phone.
“I brought poison into your home,” Maxime says seriously.
I read what he has pulled up, and sure enough, poppies can cause an excited or euphoric state in cats.
“You’re trying to get my babies high,” I tease.
“No, no, I’m not,” Maxime says, laughing as he shakes his head. “I would have brought roses if I knew poppies were toxic to them.”
“You brought drugs into my home,” I continue. “What kind of man are you?”
Maxime slips his phone into his pocket and stares down at me. “Apparently, I’m a dangerous man, introducing you and your fur babies to fringe elements and leading them down a dark path of no return.”
My heart flutters as I see the teasing glint in his beautiful blue-green eyes.
“I need to watch out for you, Maxime Laurent.”
Oh, do I ever need to watch out for him, my head reminds me. I could fall fast for him, which is the one thing I cannot do.
No matter how sweet and mature and sexy he is.
“Are you ready?” Maxime asks. “We don’t want to be late.”
“I’m starving, so no, we can’t be,” I say, retrieving my coat and slipping into it. “I hope they have great chips and salsa. Really spicy salsa. With warm, freshly fried chips that are liberally salted.”
Maxime stares at me. “Have you ever thought about doing one of those food shows where you travel around and eat at different places?”
“No, I haven’t.”
I pick up my purse and keys, and we move out into the hallway. I put the key into the lock, and as soon as it clicks, we begin our walk to the stairs.
“You should,” Maxime continues. “You have a way of describing food that makes me want to eat it. I could see you doing that.”
An idea flashes through my head. “I can suggest that for Boulder Live,” I say as my thoughts come together. “Maybe I could do a roving reporter thing around Boulder where I try different restaurants and discuss the food with the chef, try it on-air, etc.”
“Yeah, I can see you doing that,” he says as we walk down the stairs.
“I love to eat, so this speaks to me. When I start work on Monday and get my assignments, I’ll bring this up. In the shows I’ve watched, they’ll have chefs come in and do a cooking segment, but I haven’t seen a reporter out on the town going to restaurants on a regular basis.”
“You’d be good at it. You make me want to eat spicy food, and I’m usually not a huge fan,” Maxime admits.
I stop walking. “Maxime, you realize you are taking me out for New Mexican food, stuff like enchiladas and green chile stew. It’s hot. Why are we going here if you don’t like spicy food?”
Maxime stops next to me, and I gaze up at him.
“Because it’s something you love,” he says simply. “You brought up stacked enchiladas and a hole-in-the-wall restaurant and a margarita. I can make that happen. Why wouldn’t I give you this meal if that’s what you want?”
I find joy surging through me.
You’re exceptional, Maxime, I think, and I don’t think you have any idea of how amazing you are.
“Come on,” Maxime says, and we continue to walk down the steps and out into the winter wonderland around us. It has stopped snowing. The sky is a beautiful inky black, and the air is crisp and frozen.
“Hmm, if I were to return the favor, where would I take you to dinner? What would be your ideal date meal?” I ask as we walk toward his car.
Maxime laughs. “You couldn’t find it here.”
“Here as in Colorado?”
Maxime opens the passenger door toward for me. “No, as in not in America. I mean, maybe you could, but it’s best at home.”
I climb into the car, my teeth chattering.
I think I’m going to be a block of ice for the rest of my life.
Like Elsa from Frozen.
Until love saved her.
Jeez, I’m the queen of overanalyzing. I think that shall be my new title instead of America’s Reality Show Sweetheart.
Maxime gets in beside me and interrupts my thoughts. “I’m sorry I didn’t start the car. I figured we weren’t upstairs that long.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “So, what would your ideal meal be?”
“I miss vol-au-vent,” Maxime says as he puts his seat belt on, and I follow suit. “It’s this round puff pastry, and the center is cut out and filled with meat and a cream sauce. My mom makes the best vol-au-vent. My favorite is one filled with chicken, leeks, and mushrooms. It’s the first meal I want when I go home after the season. She serves it with fries on the side.”
I picture this dish in my head. “Anything with puff pastry has to be good. What else do you miss from Belgium?”
Maxime eases into the stream of traffic. “Beef stew with fries.”
I furrow my brow as I begin to defrost, thanks to Maxime’s heated car seats. “Beef stew with fries?”
“And mayonnaise.”
“Wait, you eat beef stew with mayonnaise?” I ask, cringing.
Maxime laughs. “No, no, with the fries.”
“What? Mayo with fries?”
“It’s the only way to eat fries. You dip them in mayonnaise.”
“Ew, no, no, no, you have to have ketchup,” I declare. “Mayo sounds wrong.”
“Ketchup is wrong.”
“You might need to take me home, Maxime,” I tease. “Because I hate mayo.”
“Hate is a strong word.”
“I have strong negative feelings toward mayo, so it’s appropriate.”
“How can you hate mayo?”
“It grosses me out. It’s gloppy and smells weird. Blech.”
Maxime stops at a red light and turns to me. “I’ve never been with a woman who hates mayonnaise.”
I see his mouth curve up in a sexy smile, and my heart flutters in response.
I raise my eyebrow. “I’ve never been with a man who can’t handle the heat.”
A devilish grin passes over his face, and I realize what I said sounds totally different from what I meant to imply, which was spicy food.
“I can handle the heat. In fact, sometimes heat is good, don’t you think?”
Hello, we are not talking about enchiladas here.
“Yes, heat can be good, like seat warmers,” I say, winking at him.
We haven’t even arrived at the restaurant, and we’re already off to a great start. We are laughing and flirting, and the conversation is natural.
This first date is going to be different from any other because of this man. Maxime is different. Our chemistry is different. It’s exciting, and we’re connecting, and there’s something unique about our interactions. I didn’t have this with Tom; that is becoming more apparent with every second I spend with Maxime.
This is wonderful.
It’s real.
I have a reason to be excited.
And I can’t wait to see how the rest of the evening unfolds.
Chapter Ten
I take a moment to slip out of my puffy parka and drape it across the back of my red plastic chair. Before sitting down at the small table for two, I pause to take a good look at the restaurant I’ve found myself in tonight.
It’s textbook hole-in-the-wall, tucked inside an old brick building that looks like it used to be a gas station, judging by the ancient gas pump that greets you outside the door. The restaurant is narrow, with tables squeezed close together to get maximum seating. The décor on the walls is an eclectic mix of old road maps and vintage travel prints from both New Mexico and Colorado. Holiday lights are strung every which way across the ceiling. The kitchen is open to the restaurant, and the staff is hustling to bring dishes to customers. There are metal napkin dispensers on each table, along with a tiny vase with a single fake plastic rosebud in it. Pla
stic-coated menus are parked between these items.
Delight fills me.
It’s fantastic.
“You said you wanted a dive,” Maxime says, interrupting my thoughts.
I sit down in my chair, grinning happily at Maxime. “It’s exactly what I wanted it. You couldn’t have picked a better restaurant. This is me.”
Maxime removes his knit cap, which reveals that gloriously thick hair of his. He takes a moment to rake his hand through it.
Oh, he’s beautiful. He looks more like a model than a hockey player.
Hockey player.
I keep forgetting that fact about him.
Because to me, he’s Maxime—the sensitive soul from the coffee house in Brussels.
He shoves his hat into his coat pocket and removes it before taking a seat. Once he’s settled, he studies me for a moment before speaking.
“You are an incredibly genuine woman,” he says.
“That’s a wonderful compliment,” I say.
“You’re very grounded. Not what I expected when I found out you were on Is It Love? I’ll be honest, I thought you would be different.”
I retrieve the menus and slide one across the table to Maxime. “Did you think I’d be Hollywood fake?”
Maxime exhales. “Yes. But as I talked to you that night at JoJo and Sierra’s apartment, you didn’t seem that way at all. You were so kind. But I’ve read women wrong in the past, and I wondered if I was repeating the same mistake in trying to figure you out without knowing you.”
He misjudged Juliette, my instincts tell me as I think of his previous girlfriend. Somehow, like I did with Tom, he fell for a woman who wasn’t what she seemed.
“What made you change your mind?” I ask.
“I started reading your blog. Your emotions were in all those posts, and you can’t fake that. You put your heart in those words. You’re real.”
“I’m glad you believe that this is me.”
“I don’t just believe it.” Maxime hesitates a moment, and to my surprise, he lifts his hand and reaches across the table, placing his large hand over mine and squeezing it gently. “I know it.”
Every nerve I have leaps alive the second I feel his skin. His hand covers mine, and it’s both warm and rough at the same time. I don’t want him to remove it. Maxime slowly turns my hand over and entwines his fingers with mine, sending ripples of delight down my spine as our hands link together.
