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“I’m—”
“As Head of Design, he’s not allowed to break his fingers or hand,” Ben cuts in.
“You didn’t say you headed up the design team,” I lead, hoping he’ll share more about his work. “No wonder you don’t want to lose your job for lack of productivity.”
Ben laughs so hard it makes me jump. All I can do is watch the gleeful laughter settle out of him, a hand clasped to his stomach until it does. When he finally quits chuckling, he turns to Max and says, “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages. Seriously.” Then he turns to me and smiles a happy, genuine smile.
“What’s so funny?” Josie asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply, hoping Ben or Max will fill me in, but Max’s phone rings and, after checking the screen, he answers it, moving away from our group.
Now I know I shouldn’t read anything into it—we’ve all been on our phones at some stage over the weekend, texting family, calling our children (only Jenny needs to worry about that), but I am intrigued as to who Max talks to. In the minibus, he was busy on his phone, composing emails or messages, having quick conversations that I couldn’t hear.
I know German. I studied it for four years at school, so I know Dutch when I hear it. And Max is speaking Dutch. Fluently. With ease, he throws out words, the sounds guttural, the vowel sounds longer. His whole demeanour seems to change as he converses in a language I cannot hope to understand—not even a single word. And it might just be a function of the language, but Max sounds authoritative and commanding.
Aware I’m watching him, he winks, gifting me one of those tender, warm smiles I love so much. All the same, I’m embarrassed at being caught, whilst simultaneously trying to dispel the questions that are forming in the back of my head.
I was lost in Amsterdam.
I was found in the Netherlands.
The man I’m getting familiar with speaks fluent Dutch.
Are there any conclusions I should be drawing from this? What else don’t I know?
Lost to my reveries, I don’t realise Max has finished his conversation until he stands in front of me to cradle my jaw, his eyes bleeding warmth and tenderness.
“Running girl. Where have your thoughts drifted?”
Leaning in, he kisses me without asking, without checking. Without wondering if I’m at all disturbed by what I overheard, or if it raises doubts or fears, or worse—memories—from the captivity of my messed up mind.
CHAPTERNINE
AVA
The weatherfinally cashes in its threat during the taxi ride back.
“Shit! It’s not meant to snow yet,” Jen grumbles, fiddling with her bottle red fringe, a nervous gesture of hers.
Preoccupied with other things going on this weekend, I’ve completely failed at checking the forecast every three hours. Still, I like the dusting of white that covers our front porch as the minibus pulls up outside our cabin.
“See you in ten,” Max murmurs as we part ways.
The cabin is cold at this time of night—or morning—as we get ready for bed and make final plans for tomorrow. Josie and I will drop the other two off at the train station, but we want to stay the night, buying extra groceries in case we get snowed in. And the decision Josie needs to make is playing on her mind. She’s not ready to face it, or Kyle, and another night here sounds ideal.
“Bathroom’s free!” Josie yells through my door.
“Thanks!”
Looking out of my bedroom window, the view consisting of bare-limbed trees and heavy snowfall, I get lost to internal monologues and thoughts about the evening. About what I’m doing with Max. Outside of my trauma, this is a normal pace for me and a new guy. This feels perfectly acceptable, so I’m ready to launch right into whatever this is. And there have been many moments today that seem important, that collectively might amount to something tangible and evidential. So perhaps sharing a bed with Max is a good idea for that reason too. But on the other hand, because of my recent past, I have obvious reservations.
Knowing he’s grabbing a shower and coming back for me, I close the curtains, grab my pyjamas and head for the bathroom. After a super quick shower, I return to my room to find Max sitting on my bed, the bedside lamp casting him in yellow-gold light.
Wearing loose tartan sleep trousers, his chest is exposed and right there for the ogling. So I do, because he has a great body, and because it stirs something that’s been asleep for a very long time.
He’s holding my eye mask, one that’s velvety soft and filled with dried lavender. It’s meant to help me sleep.
“Now I know why you smell like the best fucking meal.”
