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The walls are painted in historical hues chosen to complement the carpets, creating a jewel-like quality. Almost all the furniture is oversized to fit Max’s tall body, not my much shorter frame. Fortunately, his favorite armchair fits both of us, so we spend a lot of time with me nestled in his lap, much like my cats curl up in mine. I plop into the chair, throw my legs over the arm, and prop the laptop on my knees.
Max walks in carrying a tray with two cups, a plate of cookies, and a pot of tea. Lines crinkle around his cloudy gray eyes and the ghost of a smile hovers around lips, begging to be kissed. He’s changed into black sweatpants and a T-shirt sporting the GSU logo with multicolored lines of satellite stars shooting through their slogan.
Global Security Unlimited
All the security you need wherever you are.
Thick, blue-black hair is damp and unruly, with silver strands popping out everywhere. He needs a trim. As if my thoughts have broadcast themselves, he runs his free hand through it, tiny spikes forming as he pulls at the wet strands. “Think I’m due for a trim.”
“Me too. Maybe we should go together.”
“Hmm.” He puts down his cup and rubs his chin, before he kneels in front of the fireplace, and starts piling kindling and newspaper under the grate. Once he has the fire going, he grabs a couple of logs from the holder and throws them in. He swivels and a shiver runs through me at the frown marring the lips so good for kissing.
His next words astonish me. “Cress, you need to stay in Chicago instead of traveling with me to Europe. I’ve been getting notifications about possible terrorist activity whilst we’re traveling. Probably no problems in the Highlands, but substantial alerts for London, Paris, and Venice.”
I let out a breath of irritation. Terror alerts are a way of life these days.
The cats, who have been lying on top of me, jump down, jostling my cup. A few drops slosh into the saucer. Instead of looking at him, I glance through the arched doorway into the hall. Max’s messenger bag rests on the black-and-white tiles.
From his grim expression, I wonder if he knows more than he is saying. He hasn’t completely mastered his controlling, secretive side. Of course, I haven’t managed complete toleration either. Then momentary calmness fades and my face flushes. Heat rises from my neck to my cheeks as I struggle to control my flash of temper.
He knows me too well. I ignore him and go back to the question of the trip, my voice reaching an abnormally high register. “Excuse me. You propose to go to London, have your business meetings, and see your family. In meantime, I cower here, missing the awards ceremony and the conference in Venice.”
“Exactly. I don’t want you to risk traveling. It’s too dangerous.”
I force my voice lower. “Chicago had fifty-two threats between 9-11 and 2012. Remember the eighteen-year-old who tried to detonate a thousand-pound car bomb outside a crowded bar in the Loop in 2012? The FBI had already disarmed it, but what if they hadn’t? Either of us could have been in that bar or walking down the street.”
My chest aches to think we might never have reconnected. I gulp and, with my pointer fingers, lift the corners of my mouth into a smile.
Max doesn’t smile back. A grimace mars his gorgeous jaw. Steely gray eyes appear sunken, dark circles like bruises underneath. “Fuck, Cress. I bloody well know it’s dangerous everywhere.” His voice is hoarse with emotion. “But the high alerts in London and Paris have me concerned.” Max’s hands stretch out toward me.
“Are you proposing we move? Out to the wilderness? Where the survivalists live?” I narrow my eyes and glare. “Terrorists are everywhere, Max. Everywhere.” I pointedly focus on the book.
Unmoved, Max looms over me, trying to intimidate me with his size. His height affords him an unfair advantage. “You. Should. Stay. Home.” He taps me on the head with a finger to emphasize each word. His deep baritone grates, harsh and commanding. My skin prickles.
I stand to face him. It doesn’t take away the height advantage. He’d have to sit for that, but at least I’m not in a submissive position. My back is rigid, and my tense muscles twitch. The impulse to slap his face tempts me, but I can barely reach that high.
I want to say,“Who the hell do you think you are?”Or maybe leave it at“Fuck you”before I storm out of the room. But I don’t. Instead, I rub the goose bumps on my arms and try to be reasonable. The effort to rein in my inner hurt child makes my chest ache. I keep my voice soft as I answer. “No.”
My hand flat against his chest, I push him to sit down. When a sudden chill leaves me shaking, move toward the warmth of the fireplace. “If we give in, the terrorists win. I was in London in 2003 when the Tube attacks took place, but I was lucky.” He frowns and I roll my eyes. “I could be hit by a bus tomorrow.” Picking up his half-full teacup, I walk out of the room and turnout of foyer toward the kitchen. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation is over.
“Wait. Don’t just walk out.” When I turn, Max’s jaw is hard, his pupils dark. “I’m concerned for you. I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.” He’s back on his feet, pacing toward me.
“Please, Cress.” Max’s voice is low and soft, the tone pleading. “You don’t have to go to the awards ceremony. If you win, they will send you the trophy. And maybe you could send your paper for the conference, and they could find someone to read it for you.”
My fingers twist. “Is your meeting with the bankers canceled? You don’t need to go to London after all?“
His answer is curt, snappish. “Of course I still need to go to London. Besides, I want to be in Scotland for Dad’s birthday.”
“Without me,” I say, ice in my voice. “What kind of relationship is this? What makes travel less risky for you?”
He swallows. I gnaw at my lower lip, riveted to the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Can’t tear my eyes away from the sexy movement. My anger drains away as the silence goes on and on.
Unable to formulate a response, his head drops to his hands. I put down the cup and touch his hair, tangling my fingers into the short black and silver strands.
“What are you thinking, Cress?” Max’s voice is a soft rumble in my ear as he sits down and pulls me back into his lap.
“Adam’s apples,” I whisper into his chest.
