Page 97 of Mr. Wilde

The interior of the car is a cocoon of leather and luxurious silence. Max doesn’t start the engine immediately. He grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white, staring straight ahead through the windshield. The space between us is thick with tension.

I can feel Max looking at me without actually turning his head. It’s like a physical pull in my chest, making it hard to draw a full breath. I want to reach over and touch him, to ask him why he became so distant. But the words remain lodged in my throat.

Finally, he turns the key. The engine purrs to life, and we move. The drive is agonizingly quiet. Every time he shifts gears, his arm brushes against the edge of my seat, and I have to bite my lip to keep from shivering. I catch his profile in the glow of the dashboard, the hard line of his jaw, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He looks like he’s trying to solve a complex algorithm, and for once, I’m the variable he can’t account for.

“You’re quiet,” he says, his gaze flicking to me for a split second before returning to the road.

“I’m thinking,” I reply, my voice small.

“About?”

“About how much has changed.” I look out the window at the passing trees, their branches like arms swaying in the dark. “I’m not the girl who needs to hide in the club anymore, Max.”

“I know,” he rasps. “I’m so incredibly proud of you.”

When we pull up to the restaurant, my nervousness heightens. He moves with a frantic sort of chivalry, rushing to open my door, his hand catching mine to help me out. As we walk toward the entrance, his hand predictably slides to the small of my back. It’s light, barely there, but it feels like a brand. One I’ve missed.

We enter the restaurant, and the atmosphere shifts to one of understated elegance and clinking crystal. The scent of garlic and slow-simmered marinara hits me the second we step inside Luigi’s. This place is a warm, welcome contrast to the cool tension of the car.

Luigi’s is the kind of place that feels like a well-kept secret with red-checkered tablecloths, the low hum of laughter, and the clinking of heavy wine glasses. An older Italian man with a wide, toothy grin and eyes that crinkle with genuine warmth meets us at the door. He looks familiar. “Max! Good to see you, my friend. It has been too long.” He looks at me, his smile widening. “And who is your lovely lady?”

Max reaches out to shake the man’s hand, returning a delighted smile. Boy, Max knows everyone. “Hi, Luigi. This is Cassidy.” The pride emanating from Max is almost blinding. It’s honestly a bit disorienting. At the club, he was quite clear. It’s not like that with us. Here, in the golden light of a neighborhood Italian restaurant, he looks like a man who wants the whole world to see who he’s standing next to.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cassidy. Right this way,” Luigi says, extending his arm. He leads us away from the main dining room, through a set of heavy wooden doors toward a private area in the back.

I step inside and stop in my tracks. My hand flies to my throat. “Max,” I gasp.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft, flickering glow of dozens of candles. In the center sits a single table draped in white linen, but it’s the rest of the room that steals my breath. Every available surface, the sideboards, the windowsills, the floor surrounding the table, is overflowing with vases of bright, vibrant pink roses. Hundreds of them. The room is heavy with their sweet, floral perfume.

My mind reels, trying to find a logical explanation. Had they just held a massive bridal shower here? A milestone anniversary? An overindulged sweet sixteen? This couldn’t be for me. “Max?” I whisper, my voice echoing in the quiet room. I turn to look at him, my heart assuming that familiar frantic cadence it does when he’s near. “Did they... did they just have a party in here? I feel like we’re crashing someone’s event.”

Max doesn’t look at the room. He only looks at me, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “There was no party, Cass,” he answers softly.

“But...” I blink, looking back at the sea of pink. “There are so many.”

He takes a step closer, the candlelight reflecting in the deep blue of his eyes. “Because I wanted you to know that I see you.” He tugs at my blonde locks. “You,” he says simply.

My cheeks blush. “It’s beautiful,” I admit, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“Good.” His voice drops an octave. He nods to my hair. “I miss the pink.”

“Me too. I was trying to blend in.”

He lifts my hand to his mouth, placing a chaste kiss on the inside of my wrist. “You could never blend in.”

Max pulls out my chair, his hand lingering on the back of it as he waits for me to sit. The energy emanating from his hand causes that familiar yearning to churn in my belly. “I told Luigi I needed the room to look like cotton candy,” he adds. “He said he’d do his best.”

I giggle. “I’d say he nailed it.” As I sit down, I catch the way Max looks at me across the flickering candle. It’s a mix of hunger, regret, and an unspoken plea. For what, I’m not sure.

He leans forward, reaching across the table, his fingers inches from mine. “Thank you for joining me. I want to talk about why I’m here.”

My breath hitches. Room full of roses or not, I’m nervous this could all be a set up to work with him. My career is important to me. But let’s be clear, I want more than that with this man. It might actually be torture to continue working alongside Max, feeling this way. Clearly, I’m no Penelope Garcia. I can’t just have a work relationship with Max without pining for him. So I brace myself. “And why is that?”

“Because I’m working on the biggest project of my life.”

And there it is.

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