Reality Blurred

by Aven Ellis

  In this moment, I know I’m in trouble.

  Because suddenly this is so much more than coffee.

  And I don’t know if I can even try to fight it.

  Chapter Four

  I find myself unable to look away from his sparkling eyes and beautiful smile

  I never considered a cup of coffee to be a perilous situation until now.

  If Maxime is even a tenth as charming in person as he was in his messages, I don’t know how I will be able leave here without developing a full-blown crush on him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says in his heavily accented English, “I should have greeted you in English.”

  “Je parle un peu de français,” I reply, telling him I speak a little bit of French.

  “Very good,” Maxime says, his smile widening at my French. “Please, come in.”

  “Thank you,” I say, stepping into his foyer. As I move past him, I get a hint of a scent lingering on his skin. I detect vanilla and bourbon and a hint of smoke. It’s one of those colognes you know would be amazing up close.

  While I have never smelled anything like it, and I don’t know what it is, there’s absolutely one thing I can confirm.

  It’s super sexy.

  The sound of the door closing behind me jars me from my thoughts.

  “Please, let me take your coat,” Maxime says, moving behind me.

  The butterflies go crazy. I’m aware of his masculine presence, his height, his scent, everything about this mysterious man who has re-entered my life.

  I place my purse on his sleek black entry table, which I notice is immaculate. I tug off my gloves and place them on top of my bag, nervous energy coursing through every inch of me. I reach under my blanket scarf and unzip my puffy coat, and Maxime helps me slip out of it as his big, black, furry dogs circle around us.

  “Merci bien,” I say.

  I turn around, and Maxime smiles at me, a smile so genuine my heart leaps.

  “You’re welcome,” he says, opening his hall closet and retrieving a hanger.

  As Maxime hangs up my coat, I glance down at the dogs, who are sniffing my jeans.

  “What are their names?” I ask.

  “Amè and Henri,” he says, closing the door. “Siblings from the same litter.”

  “Just like my kittens,” I say, thinking of Boris and Natasha.

  “They are friendly; you can pet them if you like,” Maxime says, bending down and ruffling the fur of one of them. “Aren’t you, Henri? You’re a good boy.”

  I let Amè sniff my hand, and then I bend down and affectionately stroke her between the ears, which sends her tail swishing happily.

  “They are loves,” I say as I continue to stroke Amè’s luxurious fur.

  “Thank you,” Maxime says. “Are you a dog lover? Or a cat person?”

  I stand up. “I’m an animal person. I’ve loved them since I was little. I had no intention of adopting kittens yesterday, but when I saw them, I knew they were meant to be mine.”

  “That’s how I felt about Amè and Henri,” he says, patting Henri before standing back upright. “I knew they were going to be my family here in America. Isn’t that right, Henri?”

  Henri barks, and I smile.

  “He agrees,” I say.

  “No, he wants treats,” Maxime says, smiling back at me. “Come on, let’s have some good coffee.”

  “As an American, I feel compelled to defend our coffee,” I say as I follow him into the living room. I’m about to finish my thought, but I’m distracted by what I see. The home has been updated inside and features an open floor plan. The living room is huge, with vaulted ceilings and pale gray walls. A large stone fireplace dominates one wall. I step across the grayish hardwood floors and stare out the back windows, which show a postcard picture of a lake surrounded by towering trees dusted with snow.

  “Are you trying to figure out a way to defend American coffee?”

  I blink. I was so distracted by his house that I forgot to finish my thought.

  “I do love my American coffee,” I say slowly, “but I have to admit the coffee in Brussels was fantastic.”

  “I’ll win you over,” Maxime says.

  I don’t think I can breathe.

  I think you’re already in the process of doing that, Maxime Laurent.

  “As you can see, the kitchen is here,” Maxime says, leading me into the open space, which has also been updated with beautiful gray cabinets and white marble countertops. A glossy white, subway-tile backsplash pulls it all together, along with stunning pendant drop lighting and stainless-steel appliances.

  I watch as Maxime reaches for a canister on the counter, and both dogs begin barking excitedly.

  “I take it that’s not the coffee container?” I tease.

  Maxime grins. “No, it’s not, but my coffee is worth getting that excited for,” he says, feeding a treat to both dogs. He speaks to them in French. Of course, he would; that is his native language after all.

  “Would you like something to eat with your coffee?” Maxime asks as he washes his hands. “Do you like sweets?”

  I can’t help but notice how huge his hands are as he dries them on a towel, but I force myself to stay on point with the conversation. “I love anything with sugar. Sprinkles are everything.”

  Maxime places the towel down and moves over to his coffee machine. I notice it’s not a one-cup machine like mine but something that an upscale coffeehouse would have. It can make espresso and drip coffee, and I think new tires for my car would be cheaper than this luxury coffee maker.

  “That is a serious machine you have there, Maxime,” I say.

  “I take my coffee very seriously,” he says, “as I do with all the things I’m passionate about.”

  His eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and pure electricity shoots down my spine.

  Do I want to be something he’s passionate about, too?

  I reach for my hair and run my fingers over the ends, anxious about how easily, way too easily, that thought entered my head.

  “Would you like a latte?” Maxime asks.

  “Oh, that would be lovely, thank you,” I say.

  Maxime nods and reaches for a ceramic container. “I need to go back to what you said a moment ago. Why are sprinkles everything?”

  I watch as he works like a barista, freshly grinding the beans for brewing. I wait until he’s finished, and then I answer his question.

  “I have loved sprinkles since I was a little girl,” I explain. “To me, they are a magical topping. You can’t help but smile when you see them. They are sweet, colorful, and whimsical. Tiny rays of sunshine. I adore them, and I think they make everything infinitely better.”

  Maxime nods and moves to his stainless-steel refrigerator. I can’t help but peek as he opens it, searching for another glimpse into his personality. The shelves are neat and organized. I can tell everything has a place, and he likes it that way. I spy bottles of water, food in glass containers, plain yogurts, and loads of produce.

  He likes order, I think as he shuts the door. He’s health conscious, too.

  “I bet you don’t like sprinkles,” I say.

  Maxime sets a gallon of organic milk on the countertop, a questioning look passing over his handsome face. “Why do you say that?”

  “The reporter in me noticed your refrigerator contents. You’re extremely healthy. I’m thinking sprinkled foods are not a part of your rotation.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  “Oh, so my reporter deduction is all wrong?” I ask. “You like sprinkles?”

  “I have the best sprinkles in my pantry.”

  He has sprinkles.

  My heart skips at this news.

  Then my brain reminds me my heart is stupid.

  I watch as Maxime moves to his pantry and opens the door to step inside. I bet that is organized as well. In my head, I see rows of healthy food stored in air-tight glass containers.

  As opposed to my cabinet, where boxes of confett
i cake mix are thrown haphazardly in with oatmeal and canned soup, squeezed around a pyramid of canned frostings that I eat with a spoon by myself.

  Because, you know, frosting with Funfetti is everything.

  Maxime returns, holding something in his hand. Instead of a shaker of sprinkles like I was expecting, it’s a box.

  “These are Dutch chocolate sprinkles from Holland,” Maxime says, handing the box to me. “I promise you they are the best sprinkles you’ll ever have.”

  I give him an odd look. “A chocolate sprinkle is a chocolate sprinkle, and they aren’t nearly as fun as colored sprinkles.”

  Maxime studies me. “I’ll have you rethinking this,” he says seriously. “I’m going to introduce them to you the way they were introduced to me: on buttered bread for breakfast.”

  “You’re going somewhere if you are endorsing sprinkles for breakfast,” I tease.

  “Let me finish the coffee first,” Maxime says, going back to his expensive machine and frothing the milk.

  I watch as Maxime serves me a latte in a large white mug.

  “Sorry, I can’t do the art,” he says, smiling at me.

  Skip, skip, skip goes my heart at the sight of that smile.

  “I didn’t come here for the art,” I say. “I came here for coffee with a Belgian.”

  “I hope the coffee, and the company, doesn’t disappoint you.”

  Now my heart is racing.

  “I’m not too worried about that,” I say.

  Maxime studies me for a moment. “I hope not,” he says softly. “Sometimes I’m not what people expect, once they get to know me.”

  The conversation has turned serious. What does that comment mean? I’m about to follow up when Maxime turns away, busying himself with a loaf of bread.

  “The team nutritionist wouldn’t like this,” Maxime says, switching the subject as he opens a cabinet and retrieves a loaf of bread. “But I eat this every day with my coffee as part of my morning. We’ll enjoy it as an afternoon snack today.”

  “Is this a Belgian thing?” I ask, letting the serious comment go for now. I pause and take a sip of my coffee, and the rich, bold flavor practically slaps me upside the head. “Maxime! This is just like that café in Brussels! It’s so good!”

  “That is because your coffee might as well be water,” Maxime says as he slices the bread. “You need to drink six cups of your stuff to get any kind of caffeine hit.”

  “Okay, I’m a believer,” I say.

  Maxime smiles. “You’ll be a believer about the sprinkles on bread, too. I grew up eating this.”

  I watch as he butters a slice of bread for me. He adds a thick layer of chocolate sprinkles and passes me a plate.

  “Let’s sit at the kitchen table,” he says. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

  I nod and take my plate to the table at the other end of the kitchen. His dogs drop down near my feet, and I smile, thinking they must be Maxime’s companions when he’s home.

  Maxime joins me and slips into the chair across the table.

  “Go ahead,” he encourages.

  I stare at the bread, hardly believing this is breakfast food. I guess compared to all the sugar-loaded cereals out there, it’s not that unusual.

  I lift my bread and take a bite of the buttery brioche. The taste of milk chocolate is rich and decadent and completely different from any chocolate sprinkle I have ever eaten. Combined with the rich butter and wonderful bread—oh my, I’m a believer.

  I put my slice down and wipe my lips with a napkin.

  “Maxime, this is a game-changer!”

  A smile lights up his face. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Life-changingly good! I could eat this every day.”

  “I do when I’m home,” Maxime says, pausing to take a bite.

  “These sprinkles are like eating little bits of high-quality chocolate,” I say, picking up my bread and taking another bite.

  “They are completely different.”

  “Mmm, in the best way,” I say, going in for another bite.

  Maxime clears his throat.

  “So, congratulations on the new job,” Maxime says, putting down his bread and picking up his coffee.

  “Thank you,” I say. “It’s my first TV job. I’m nervous but excited.”

  “Why are you nervous? You’ve been on TV before.”

  I freeze. He’s talking about Is It Love?, and that’s the last thing I want Maxime to think of when he sees me. I put down my bread and reach for my hair and absently begin braiding it.

  “I’m sorry,” Maxime says quickly.

  “What? What for?”

  “Your expression changed when I brought up the show. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean that you have experience being on camera.”

  “You’re insightful, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “Like you are?”

  “Trust me, I’m not insightful. If I were, I wouldn’t have been in the mess I was on that stupid show.”

  Maxime’s gaze holds steady, but I don’t see judgment in his eyes. What I do see, however, is interest.

  “I wouldn’t say that. Circumstances can cloud your decisions. I know I’ve been guilty of that.”

  “You seem way too even-keeled to make mistakes like the ones I did.”

  “What mistakes have you made that are so unforgivable?” he asks, a perplexed look crossing his face. “Take the TV show out of the equation. You dated a guy, and it didn’t work out. How does that make you different from most human beings?”

  I swallow hard and find every inch of bravery I have to ask my next question.

  “Have you seen the show? It’s okay to be honest.”

  Maxime shakes his head no, and inside, I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  I reach for my hair again. “Maxime, I’m glad you haven’t. I made many mistakes. Editing made me look worse. If I could do it all over again, I would never have put myself in such a vulnerable position. Nor would I want anyone to see it.”

  “Do you want to tell me your version of what happened?”

  I cringe, ashamed to tell him the reality of the situation, but before I can answer, Maxime’s expression shifts to one of regret, and I don’t understand why.

  “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that,” Maxime says, shaking his head. “You just told me you were glad I didn’t see it. Please forgive me for asking, Skye.”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” I say.

  “It’s not,” Maxime says firmly, running his hand through his thick, two-toned hair. “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

  “It’s a fair question,” I say, wanting to reassure him.

  “It’s none of my business. I’m sorry.”

  I hold still for a moment. “I promise I’m okay with you asking.”

  Maxime begins drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

  “It’s not a first coffee question,” he says.

  “What is a ‘first coffee question?’ There are no rules here. I don’t mind answering if it’s something you want to know.”

  Maxime stops drumming his fingers. “I have a habit of being too serious.”

  “Liar.”

  Maxime’s eyebrows shoot straight up in surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “You own sprinkles. You can’t be too serious.”

  Maxime’s expression relaxes, and I get a laugh out of him. I clear my throat before addressing him.

  “It’s not that I mind you asking,” I say gently, “but I’m embarrassed as to what you will think when I’m done with my story. I don’t want you to think badly of me. I have a lot of regrets, Maxime. Too many.”

  I feel heat fan across my neck as the shame of my past rises to the surface. I lower my gaze to my latte cup, running my finger around the rim, preparing to tell him the whole story if he wants to hear it.

  “I have regrets, too.”

  I lift my eyes to find him staring intently at me.

  “One of the biggest ones I’m correcting today,” he say
s.

  “What is that?” I manage to ask.

  “I should have talked to you in Brussels. I watched you. I saw how upset you were, and I wanted to know what could make you so sad. But it was more than that, Skye. If you were happy, I still would have wanted to know you and find out what was making you smile. I let that opportunity slip through my fingers.”

  Oh!

  “When I saw you were moving to Boulder, I knew I had another chance,” he continues, “to have the coffee with you I should have had in Brussels. Now is that time. I want to know about your time on the show because it’s a part of who you are. But only in your words, if you want to tell me.”

  I stare at him in shock. Maxime has been thinking about me in the same way I have been thinking about him.

  We have another chance, I realize, to have the moment we should have had in Brussels.

  While I never imagined coming here and sharing this part of my life, looking at Maxime’s genuine concern for me, I know what I’m going to do.

  “I think this is another chance, too,” I say quietly over the pounding of my heart.

  “You do?”

  “I do. And Maxime?”

  “Yes?”

  “I will tell you everything.”

  Chapter Five

  Maxime’s blue-green eyes stay locked on mine. “You don’t have to. I understand the need to keep something like that to yourself.”

  As I stare back at him, I see sincerity in his expression. I also see a man who guards his own privacy fiercely. How will he ever understand? How can I begin to tell him this story without him losing respect for me?

  I sit up straighter as a realization hits me. This story is a part of my life. Whatever happens between Maxime and me, either as friends or something more, he has to accept it if he’s going to accept me.

  “I went on Is It Love? because of my agent,” I say, wrapping my hands around the large ceramic mug and feeling immediate warmth. “My goal has always been to be on TV, not in a reality capacity but as a lifestyle TV host. I planned to start out as a correspondent. My parents work in the industry out in Los Angeles, and they helped me get some great internships. I worked my ass off, doing internships year-round while juggling my classes at UCLA. Thanks to my dad, I got agent meetings. I landed one: Charlotte. She’s the one who had contacts at Is It Love? and said she could get me cast.”