“And what about you?”
“No exes,” I dismiss quickly.
It’s Maxim’s turn to pause over his food, but instead of a raised eyebrow it’s a knowing smirk.
I wave my fork in the general direction of his face. “What’s that look about? You know of an ex I’m omitting?”
“Only the shattered hearts of a dozen patrons of my club,” he says, and puts a bite of chicken in his mouth.
“Yes, well I wouldn’t call drunk hookups exes.”
“You were never drunk,” Maxim notes, and I still. Noticing my pause, he leans across the table and lowers his voice.
I imagine we look like two lovers, leaning close to converse over our candlelit dinner, not two practical strangers who now share the same last name. His eyes drop to my lips and back up with a challenge. I force a closed-lip smile.
“It was never about the drinks for you. I don’t know what kept you coming back to my club—I don’t flatter myself that it was the ambiance—but in all of your time there, you never drank anything but water.”
He nods at the empty wine glass, a punctuation to his observation.
“So why did you pick my club?”
I look away, uncertain or unwilling to answer. At first, I went to his club because of the distance. It was a good place simply because no Morelli or Donovann clan members were there to see me. But then it was something different, that I struggled to admit even to myself. It was Maxim.
He was never a discreet observer of me, standing on his perch of the second story staring into the crowd. I never triedto convince myself that he was looking at someone else, I could feel his eyes on me, and a part of me craved that attention. He never looked at me with knowing condolences or concern for my health and well-being.
He looked at me like I was interesting, not dangerous.
That’s what kept me going to that club instead of to another fight night; his eyes, and the promise of a meaningless hookup at the end of the night.
“Good DJs,” I lie. “I never went home with anyone more than once, so you have nothing to worry about. No one would fight you for my attention.”
Maxim leans back in his chair and gives me a long look, so long that I fold and take a sip of water to look away from him.
“You don’t know,” he says. “Do you?”
My skin prickles, unsure what he means and not liking the feeling of being seen in ways I don’t see myself. It makes me uneasy.
“What?”
Maxim smiles, shakes his head. “I should have been paying you commission, Marianna. You took those guests, first timers some of them, and with one dance, one kiss, one night alone with you, you made them regulars. They came back, mooning eyes looking for you, distraught to see you with someone else. There is no shortage of women and men in Boston who would loathe me to know it’s my ring on your finger.”
I blink at the image he painted, strangers lusting after me, pining for more than one night. I know he’s wrong.
I am a catch, sure, but no one would want me for more than a hookup unless there was something in it for them. The promise of a child, in Maxim’s case.
“You’re lying,” I say.
Maxim’s face is serious, but there is still a glint to his eyes, like he knows a secret. His dark hair is slicked back, per usual,but some strands have fallen loose over his forehead. At his temples, a slight dusting of gray hair mixes with the black. He is striking.
This time, I don’t look away.
“For someone as perceptive as you, you sure don’t realize how people perceiveyou.”
I do, though. They’ve always made it very clear; I am frightening, off-putting, surly, rude, brash, short, nightmare fuel for small children and nerdy math teachers. I am not approachable, nor particularly polished, not like my sisters. I am the youngest daughter, the runt, the one who’s never beenquite right.
“Well at your club, I was always just pretending,” I say. “Nobody would covet me as a wife.”
His face turns to shock and then concern, and he’s about to say something else, something that will make me feel completely naked before him, and I don’t want to hear it, so I stand abruptly.
