That night in Morocco wasn’t a fluke. We really do get on freakily well. I’ve told him a lot about myself, and he’s shared things, too. I now know more of what happened with Yasmin, the girlfriend who took her own life. He knows that my father is in prison, though not what for. I still like to keep that part of myself, well, to myself.
Maddox is one of the most emotionally intelligent people I’ve ever met, and I know he wouldn’t judge, but also I know that he’d no longer see me as just Ellie, his friend, but as Ellie who had that awful thing happen to her when she was just a kid.
And that’s another reason we should probably remain friends and nothing more. Maddox isn’t the kind of guy I could keep secrets from if I was sharing the rest of my life with him. It would feel disingenuous, and he is the opposite of that. This I tell myself to make me feel better aboutnotbeing more than friends, which I very much want, even if it’s a little scary.
I think we’re both still keeping secrets, but that’s okay. We all have our secrets, don’t we? Very few people know the full truth about my life, and there’s a reason for that. Once people find outwhat happened to me, they tend to look at me differently. They pity me. Or see me as damaged.
I am not damaged, though. Maybe a little cracked, but who isn’t? Maddox gets that. I think he’s the same. He’s a paradox of innocence and wisdom, always searching for beauty in a world that he knows first-hand can be ugly. He’s told me about his dark days, about the drugs and the drinking. The rows with his dad. The way he stormed away from this family. His grief for his mom, and the way that developed into a deep-seated rage that almost ruined his whole life.
It’s hard to imagine him in a rage now. He’s a gentle soul, despite his size and the sheer brute strength of him. He never judges. Never raises his voice. He’s kind and sweet and generous, making time for everyone around him. He’s on first name terms with some of the local homeless people, offering them food when they need it, paying for nights in emergency shelters when that’s what they want. Tells them about meetings he attends in case they want to join.
He’s thoughtful. He thinks before he speaks. He treats people with the kind of respect that you rarely see in the modern world—the kind of respect that only people who have hit rock bottom themselves can give.He’s also still the best-looking man I have ever seen in real life.I sigh into my drink as I spot him running towards the café.
No, scratch that, he’s the best-looking man on the planet, including on TV, in movies. Even compared to the heroes in my books.
He’s wearing gray sweats and white sneakers, pounding along the sidewalk with a file tucked beneath his arm and a scarf streaming out behind him.
Gray sweats on a hot man. The goddess’s gift to women, to make up for periods and the agony of childbirth. I try not to stare at the very obvious man parts bouncing around in there. He’smy friend. My pal. My buddy. I need to start thinking of him as sexless, like a Ken doll. Which is difficult, because Maddox obviously has a monster dick.
Fuck.What is wrong with me?
He bursts into the café in a cloud of sweat, attracting the attention of every single woman in here, as well as a few men. It’s the beginning of April, and spring is doing its thing. As is traditional this time of year, I’m starting to worry about what I’m going to wear in the office during the height of summer. Sure, we have air conditioning, but I still have to ride the subway and walk from the station. Summer in New York is way stuffier than Chicago, and that kind of heat can be difficult for us curvy gals.
“What are you thinking about?” he says, stopping at the table and taking his scarf off. He looks healthy, fit, and edible. “And I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Uh, I was thinking about potential thigh chafing,” I say honestly, shrugging. That’s not sexy, is it? And that’s okay, because Maddox is my friend. I don’t need to be sexy around him. “Hot weather, full thighs.”
He looks distracted as he sits across from me and sips the green tea that’s already waiting for him. “Cycle shorts?” he suggests. “Maybe some tea tree oil mixed in with almond, massaged in?”
I nod, suddenly desperate to change the subject. Because now I’m imagining my thighs being massaged by his big hands, the oil getting rubbed into my skin, his breath warm against my flesh.
“So. Where have you been?” I ask. “And why are you carrying papers?”
He places the files on the table and grins at me. He looks sheepish but also excited.
“It’s research. For a business plan. And yes, printing everything out isn’t great, but sometimes I just want to hold something in my hand, you know?”
Dear mother.Yes. Back to his hands again…hang on. Rewind. “A business plan?”
He nods. Sally brings us a platter of hummus, falafel, and carrot sticks, along with a much-needed basket of warm pita triangles. “Go on,” he says, smiling at the look on my face. “You’ll just be distracted if you’re staring at that bread the whole time. Eat, Ellie.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I’ve often felt self-conscious eating around other people, especially men. The whole experience with Owen wasn’t unusual. People assume that if you carry extra weight, you are greedy and lazy and have no self-discipline. In reality some of us are just made this way, that’s simply our natural body shape. It can make you feel a little embarrassed as you tuck in, knowing that people might be looking at you and thinking what a glutton you are. I don’t feel that with Maddox, though. We both love food, and we enjoy eating out together. I dip the delicious freshly baked goodness into the hummus, amazed as ever that something as dull as chickpeas can taste so decadent.
“Good?” he asks.
I finish my mouthful. “Not as good as yours.”
Maddox’s homemade hummus is to die for. Almost as orgasm-inducing as the man himself. Because yes, he is partly responsible for all my orgasms lately. Even when I try not to think about him, he turns up anyway in my fantasies. His thick fingers and his sinful lips especially.
He’s looking pleased with himself, and I wonder for a horrifying moment if he can read my mind. Then he reaches out with a napkin to dab some stray food from the side of my mouth. His fingers graze against my skin, and just like that,I’m imagining him touching me again in other, far less innocent places.
Does he notice the way my body reacts when he touches me? If he does, he very carefully ignores it. He is celibate. We are just friends. Nothing will ever come of it, other than a whole lot of yearning on my part, and some feverish dreams that leave me restless and embarrassingly damp in my lady parts.
“Business plan,” I say, distracting myself. “Spill.”
“I want to buy this place,” he says simply. He’s calm on the surface, as ever, but I can tell he’s also excited—and maybe a little nervous?
I gape at him playfully, a carrot stick in my hand. Then I waggle it at him. “What? You want your own restaurant?”
