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He doesn’t give me a chance to push him away or fight, either. Wrapping a strong arm around my shoulders, Maximus guides me into his side while he ushers me to a nearby restaurant and finds a couple of stools at the bar.
I can’t catch my breath to tell him to stop and leave me alone while he takes my backpack off me and orders drinks. It’s all so pathetic, and I hate myself for falling apart like this in front of a stranger. I’m better than this, and if Dad saw me right now, crying to a man I barely know, he’d give me a hard slap and tell me to quit whining.
“It’s going to be okay,” Maximus says, spinning my stool to face him. He takes the wine the bartender brings over and places it in my hand, while his feet rest on either side of mine on the footrest.
“Everything is falling apart,” I hiccup through the residue of my tears.
“For now, but we can put it all back together in no time.”
I shake my head, prompting him to grasp my jaw with one hand while he takes my glasses off for me with the other. His thumbs carefully stroke my cheeks, wiping my tears away.
“You don’t understand.”
I focus on the heat of his thighs sandwiching mine. The rough pads of his thumbs cause me to shiver when he trails them down my face to my chin, tipping my head back so that our eyes are level.
“Then, explain it to me.” He shrugs. “Or don’t. We can sit here and have our drinks in silence. We did it before and it wasn’t so bad.”
This trip wasn’t meant to pan out this way. It’s so stressful that Dad is a background thought to my plan when he’s supposed to be the only thought that matters. This was the trip we talked about for years. All I wanted was to give it to him before he was completely gone from me, but I couldn’t even do that.
Maximus releases my face, the loss of the contact hitting me harder than it should, and then takes a long gulp of his drink. The sweet scent of the alcohol warms my lungs and makes my mouth water when he blows out a soft sigh.
I don’t know what it is about him, or why he affects me so viscerally.
One minute I want to inflict grievous bodily harm on him—mostly on his too attractive face—and the next I’m hankering for him to come closer.
“Why Turkey?” Maximus pulls back and spins us both to face the bar.
Maybe he can tell that I can’t answer the question while I’m looking at him. My emotional state is too heightened to compartmentalise all the different triggers that have me falling to pieces.
“It’s on the bucket list my dad and I shared.” The past tense fists my heart, yanking it into my gut so that when I take a sip of my wine, everything burns. “Ever since I was a child, I’ve always wanted to ride in a hot air balloon. The physics around the whole process fascinated me before I understood the science. Then, one day, Dad and I saw this advert on the telly for Turkey. It had this beautiful clip of Cappadocia, with nothing but mountains, ruins, blue skies, and all these colourful hot air balloons floating in the sun.”
“Sounds beautiful.”
“It was.” I glance sideways at Maximus to find him sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, as if he’s trying to hold back his smile. “You’re smiling.”
“I like that you’re nerdy.” He tilts his head to the side as he watches his drink swirl around the glass in his hand.
“I wouldn’t say I’m nerdy, per se…”
“No? You just mentioned hot air balloon physics and understanding science.”
“Maybe I am. Just a little bit, though.”
“Yes, just a little bit,” he says, with humour brightening his whole face.
His demeanour is highly contagious, because the higher the corner of his mouth hitches and his eyes crinkle with amusement, I find myself mirroring him, even down to the savoured sip of my wine.
“Well, your elocution is so good that sometimes you lose the American accent.”
“My what?” His face falls.
“Your Ameri…” The words fade to silence as his frown morphs into a glower.
“My Canadian accent is rusty from the years I’ve spent in the United Kingdom.”
Oh dear. I cringe against my glass, worried I’ve offended him after he’s been so kind to me.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, hoping he’s not too pissed with me. “I’m not very good with accents.”
