“It’s exquisite,” Maxim says.
“I know you already have one?—”
“This one is better,” he says immediately. He sits on the side of the bed, still looking at the gift. “It reminds me of my grandfather—my mother’s father.”
Stopping my fidgeting, I sit next to him and hold out my hand for him to pass back the box. He does, and I pull out the watch. He takes his old one off while I do, and offers his wrist for me to secure the new one there.
“What was he like?” I ask.
“He was kind. Hated my father more than I did. He had a leather and gold watch with my grandmother’s name inscribed on the back. He wore it until he died.”
I can’t help but smirk in surprise at the description. Pausing before I can wrap the band around his wrist, I turn it over and let him look at what I had engraved there.
Per cent’anni
A reminder that for better or worse, he’s stuck with me.
For a hundred years
His thumb rubs over the engraving before he offers his arm for me to secure the watch on him. I do, and his skin is warmbeneath my fingers. When it’s on, I stare down at it, both of my hands holding one of his.
He can’t see the tiny tracker installed within. I won’t tell him about it, won’t tell him that I felt completely out of control when Cillian took my sister last year, and can’t stomach the thought of feeling that way again. About him this time.
“Thank you, Marianna,” Maxim says.
“Your present was more thoughtful.” I roll my eyes with a smile. “You gave me something to remember home. This is just to keep you on time.”
“I love it,” he says and his serious tone makes my throat dry. I swallow and squeeze his hand again.
22
MARY
Sunday,I sleep in. It’s the damn black out curtains, they lull my body into thinking it’s eternally 2 AM and if I don’t set an alarm, I can sleep forever. When I finally wake up, it’s past ten and I’m sprawled in the middle of the bed, my head on Maxim’s pillow instead of my own and the cat asleep on my stomach.
We had a pet cat when we were young, a huge orange cat fondly known as Tiny Devil or Tiny for short. Greta is much more cuddly than Tiny was, but I try not to let it go to my head. I’m just a warm body for her to sleep next to when Maxim is doing God knows what.
Maxim, of course, is nowhere to be found. He doesn’t sleep past seven, even when he can.
I open my mouth a few times, dry from the sleep, and displace the cat (she meows in protest but resettles in the warm space I leave) before I drain the rest of the water Maxim left in a cup on his nightstand last night.
There’s chattering of some kind downstairs; sounds like Sasha being noisy, and a woman’s voice that I don’t recognize. I take as quick a shower as I can manage before getting ready. I’ll train tonight.
It’s a cold morning; I can tell because the apartment is extra cozy. I pull down a thick knit sweater of Maxim’s that hangs like a dress halfway down my thighs.
I could buy my own oversized clothes, or have my sister do it for me, but conveniently I share a closet with a massive man who wears suits most days and likely won’t miss a black cable knit for a day.
When I get downstairs, Maxim is leaning on the tall bar counter, listening to Sasha who is talking with his mouth full of what looks like soup. The kitchen smells delicious, savory aromatics bubbling from a big pot on the stove, and from the pantry bustles out the source of the female voice I heard in the form of a woman. I’ve never seen her before; she’s got soft blonde hair (the kind that doesn’t require anti-frizz cream) pulled back and a light pink apron. She’s smiling at the story Sasha is prattling on about but jumps when she sees me standing like a ghost at the base of the stairs.
“Oh!” she says, and Maxim and Sasha both turn to look at me. I clear my throat and pad the rest of the way into the kitchen, stopping next to Maxim, who gives me his usual morning appraisal, his gaze making my neck heat.
“You must be Mary,” the girl says. Well, woman. She looks around Vanessa’s age, and a good four or five inches taller than me. She holds out a hand and I offer mine, letting her shake it in hers. She gives me a smile that’s way too warm and kind for this early in the morning, but I try to reciprocate in my way. “I’m Elise.”
Ah, the chef.
“Right,” I say. “Nice to meet you. The food you make is really good.”
Elise’s smile grows bigger, and her front two teeth have a slight gap that makes her impossibly sweeter to look at. Her voice is light and oh-so cheerful.
