Postcards From… Collection. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
“I signed up for some classes, but I never got there,” she admitted.
“So what were you planning on doing with the chicken?”
“Something.”
He looked so damned familiar, sitting there with his eyes alight with laughter as he teased her. Her old Max, the friend she’d instinctively turned to in her most desperate hour. Which only made it even more confusing that five minutes ago she’d been ready to jump his bones.
“Tell you what. Why don’t I take care of dinner? In the interests of it being edible,” he said.
She stared at him, utterly bewildered. Why was she suddenly having these feelings for him, after all these years?
“Fine. I’ll buy some wine,” she said.
She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. Out in the street, she blinked and wrapped her arms around her body.
She had to get a grip. Stop thinking about Max in any terms other than as a friend, and start thinking like a normal person.
A normal, really, really cold person. She shivered and hugged herself tighter. It was damned frigid, and she was too used to the blue skies and searing heat of home.
A normal person would go buy herself a coat rather than stand freezing in the street. A coat, some shoes and maybe some jeans. And, while she was at it, some underwear and toiletries.
She kept herself occupied with a mental shopping list as she walked along the cobblestone street and out into the main thoroughfare. Traffic whizzed past as she looked left, then right. She shrugged. It didn’t matter where she went. She was just getting away from Max. She knew Paris well enough to know that she would find good shopping no matter which direction she headed.
Within an hour she was bundled in a full-length black wool coat, a long, brightly striped scarf and a stylish scarlet wool cap that covered her ears and reflected some color onto her pale face. She found jeans, a pair of low-heeled black ankle boots she could wear with pants or a skirt, underwear and various other essentials at the huge BHV department store on Rue de Rivoli. Twice she forced herself to put down small items that caught her eye for Max. A scarf the exact color of his eyes. A pair of gloves made from the softest calfskin. Today was not a day to buy gifts for Max.
After she was satisfied that she had enough to survive a week or two, she rode the escalators to the top floor and sat in a corner of the vast cafeteria nursing a cup of watery, burned-tasting coffee.
She didn’t want to go home yet. She stared out over Paris, her mind zigzagging between worrying over her inappropriate attraction to Max and speculating about her appointment with Dr. Rambeau. He had to give her hope. He had to have a magic rabbit to pull out of his hat. If he didn’t…She couldn’t let herself go there.
She left the department store and struck out aimlessly into the winding streets of the third arrondissement. Her shopping bags banged her calves as she meandered blindly past colorful window displays.
She was about to seek refuge from the cold in a bistro when the passionate, hip-swinging beat of Latin music met her ears. She followed the music down a busy side street and beneath an archway into a cobbled courtyard. A tall, whitewashed building surrounded her on three sides, the ground floor of which was open to the world thanks to large floor-to-ceiling windows. She stared into a wooden-floored dance studio, filled with brightly clad women in various interpretations of Spanish flamenco costumes. Frills and lace and full skirts, petticoats, fishnet stockings—one woman even had a mantilla in her hair. A teacher stood in front of them, demonstrating a move.
Maddy watched with a smile as they all began to dance, feet stomping, fingers clicking and curling and gesticulating, skirts swirling as they spun. They weren’t all good. Some were very bad, in fact. But that was beside the point. They felt the music. They were having fun.
She’d always loved Latin. When she’d first started out as a professional dancer, she and her friends would seek out the small Latin-American nightclubs in Sydney’s inner city and spend the night dancing for fun instead of perfection and achievement. Max used to come with them, she remembered. She’d loved matching her moves to his to the demanding beat of a rumba or samba. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced for fun, until she was sweaty and laughing and exhausted. Too long. Even before her injury her life had become so defined by her career and her position within the company that her world had shrunk to rehearsal, performance and more rehearsal.
A particularly bitter gust of wind reminded her that it was too cold to be standing around. She returned to the street, but the rhythm of the music stayed with her. For some reason, she felt calmer, more settled. Ready to go face Max and put the craziness of the past few days behind her.
If she hadn’t heard the music and seen the dancers, she probably would have walked right past the dress. She wasn’t shopping for frivolities, after all. The vibrant red of roses on a black silk background caught her eye first, then the style of the dress, with its tiny spaghetti straps and buttoned bodice. It had an old-fashioned full skirt, and she could imagine spinning in it, the fabric floating around her. Even though she had nowhere to wear it, she added it to her purchases. It would be a souvenir of her time in Paris.
She stopped at a wine shop then ducked into the fromagerie to buy some of the thick, oozing Camembert she knew Max adored.
She was feeling considerably lighter of heart by the time she turned her key in the front door. Time away from Max had given her the perspective she needed. This morning’s confusion had assumed its rightful place as a momentary aberration. She was under stress. She’d had an unexpected, explicit glimpse into another side of Max’s life yesterday. Combined, the two things had made her silly for a few hours. Nothing more.
He was lounging full-length along the couch reading the newspaper when she entered.
“You’re back. I was starting to think I’d have to send out a Saint Bernard.”
“I bought some things,” she said, holding her bags high to illustrate her point.
“Ah. Silly me. I thought five hours was far too long for any one person to spend looking at shoes.”
“Hey! I only bought one pair. And I found a dance school.” She dumped her bags beside the coffee table and sank into the armchair. “In this funny little courtyard. There was a flamenco class on. Remember when we used to go to Carmen’s and The Latin Bar and dance all night?”
She eased off her shoes and wiggled her toes to relieve the ever-present ache in her feet.
“God, yes. What a pack of show-offs.”
It was true. Wherever they went, they’d dominated the dance floor, reveling in their superior skill and flair. She laughed, remembering some of their worst moments.
“We were all so desperate to be onstage. But you’re right, in hindsight we must have been pretty obnoxious.”
“And the rest.”
She reached into her shopping bags and slid the wine and cheese onto the coffee table.
“My contribution, humble as it is,” she said.
Max leaned across to inspect the cheese.
“My favorite,” he said.
“I know.”
He looked surprised, then pleased. She told herself the warm pleasure she felt was just happiness at making him happy. Nothing more.
“I’ve made us coq au vin for dinner,” he said, swinging his legs off the arm of the couch.
“Delicious. I’m starving.”
Technically, she needed to be vigilant about what she ate. But it had been cold out, and it wasn’t as though she was going to pig out on the cheese alongside Max.
He served the chicken with fresh green beans and baby carrots. She had two glasses of wine and was feeling mellow and sated by the time he