by Ellie Hall
“The heavy snow from the storm must’ve knocked out a transformer or something.” I lift and lower a fraction as Maxwell shrugs.
Then our gazes meet. I can’t tell the shade of his eyes in the dim light filtering through the window. But his eyes are bright, practically sparkling. My body relaxes in his grip as if I feel safe here.
Do I?
His shoulders are powerful. His neck muscles flex. But it isn’t like he’s straining at all. Not even breaking a sweat. I could stay here all night.
Maxwell smells like refinement. A man who can take care of himself...and the woman he loves. It’s soap and sweets and the spice of aftershave. I stop short of nuzzling against his chest.
Wake up, Hazel. Your heart is not safe in this man’s hands.
I shake myself out of my stupor. What am I thinking? No way can I let myself get comfortable. To be tempted by his tasty treats. I have a copy of Catherine’s grandmother’s cookie recipe for goodness’ sake. I don’t need his delicious bakes.
After a forced clearing of my throat, I say, “Um, you’re still holding me.”
Maxwell blinks a few times. “Oh. Right.”
My legs are wobbly when I stand again and my core temperature drops a few degrees without the warmth of his touch.
Simmer down, Hazel.
He flips his phone’s flashlight on. His eyes are the lightest shade of brown possible without being another color. But what color? Something all their own. I sigh.
I said simmer down.
I follow the bob of Maxwell’s phone as we walk down the hallway. The lingering aroma of cookies baking contrasts to the stainless steel in the kitchen as I take a peek in passing. Maxwell’s apartment is the epitome of modern masculinity with moody grays and cold angles.
We reach the large floor to ceiling windows facing the street and the park below. Whereas my apartment captures the shabby chic of old-world Manhattan in all its restored glory—complete with tin ceilings, a clawfoot tub, and subway tile—his is contemporary and edgy. It’s like he doesn’t want to let himself get too comfortable.
I get it. I do.
Yet, I have the faint thought that I could be comfortable with him...and vice versa.
“What kind of investment banker bakes?” I belatedly realize I’ve said this out loud.
“The best one in the world, that’s who.” A snicker escapes Maxwell’s lips.
I raise my eyebrows. Cocky too. I admit I like it. You know how they say opposites attract. That’s not what’s happening here. We are not opposites. More like cut from the same cloth and I don’t mind. Not a bit. But how would this work? We certainly don’t repel each other.
Whoa, girl. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Best rein it in. Pronto.
One by one, the surrounding building lights go out like dominos falling. Me too. While I was still in my apartment, I accidentally knocked the end-piece over and have watched the slow slide of each rectangular piece, one knocking into the next, until I found myself in Maxwell Davis’s capable arms.
“My turn,” he says, drawing me from my very odd and introspective thoughts.
Hey, it’s what I do and the reason behind why I’m so successful that I can afford an apartment like this. Catherine has no idea the cost of the rent. Her “half” is more like a quarter. But for me, it’s money well spent because she reconnected with her one true love. Mission accomplished.
“Your turn what?” I ask Maxwell, recalling he’d asked me a question.
Without all the light pollution, the clouds in the night sky come into focus. Behind them are the stars which would be a rare sight in the city if the sky was clear. But right now they seem somehow closer. Right here in this room with us.
Once more our eyes meet and this time he delays in coming up with a reply.
We’re standing shoulder to shoulder as if ignoring the fact the power outage brought us in here. Instead, we’re speaking in soft voices as if we’re trading secrets.
My heart beats rapidly.
“The game you were playing earlier at the Galentine’s Day party—wasn’t it some version of truth or dare?”
My stomach plunges as I remember whose name I wanted to fill in the blank with in response to the question: When I think about ______ I get all mushy inside. Yeah, he’s standing right in front of me. And of course, he saw his contact page on my phone. He put it there, but that was days ago. He knows that there’s no chance it would still be open unless I’d opened it.
I go still. Is this karma or whatever for basically forcing Catherine to date? Did she hex me? In reality, I don’t believe in stuff like that, but I reserve the right to ask questions.
Finally, I manage to speak. “Oh, that. My friends are on an endless quest to embarrass me. It was nothing.” I wave my hand dismissively.
“Did it have something to do with that dating dare? What was the deal with that?”
Relief whooshes through me like the snow swirling out the window. I thought he was going to push for me to fill in the blank. That’s a no go. Or maybe he’s simply sparing us an awkward moment. Yep. That’s the one. The guy knows exactly what he’s doing. Smooth as silk.
Maxwell leans casually against the wall next to the window. An amused smile plays on his lips as if he’s not letting me off the hook. A powerful businessman like him didn’t get to a place in his career where he can afford an apartment like this by being unobservant. Nope. He was paying attention and when I least expect it, he’ll spring the question about the fill in the blank.
But like I said, we’re a lot alike. This isn’t a game of dominos. This is a chess game, and I’m the queen.
I’ll play all my pieces before I allow him to enter checkmate. Yes, my ego is that huge and that guarded.
“Here’s the deal. Catherine had experienced a nearly decade long dry spell. No dates, boyfriends, or kissing since college. Every now and again, I’d try to set her up with someone, but it didn’t work out. She’d reduced her dating life to book boyfriends. When we moved in together, something had to change. I had to do something drastic. The girl was unhappy and lonely. Her idea of a fun night was reading.”
“You don’t like to read?” he asks incredulously.
“Actually, it’s in my top five favorite activities, but she preferred fictional men to real-life relationships. You know, paper princes. Anyway, I dared Catherine to live a little more. A New Year’s resolution of sorts. The dare went like this: she had to go out with the first five guys she saw the following morning and pick one to be her Valentine’s Day date.”
“And I was one of them?”
“Yes, but by then I knew who her one true love was so I couldn’t very well have her go on a date with you, but I also couldn’t let her realize I knew. She’s stubborn.”
Maxwell nods as if a clearer understanding of our couples’ yoga night dawns.
I will not think about his tight hamstrings (occupational hazard) or his cut arm muscles (another kind of hazard altogether). I will not.
“There was you. Then there was a bum, but I gave her a pass on him—he was leaning heavily on a shopping cart and I didn’t want to be responsible if he fell over and crushed her. Catherine is tiny. Plus, hygiene standards and all that.”
Maxwell chuckles.
“Anyway, then there was the Man-bun-barista, a total fail. A personal trainer, the Gym Stud where I teach yoga, was next. Omar turned out to be entering seminary so that didn’t work out. But because I got a Ph.D. in theology, we’ve become good friends, so that’s an upside. Then there was the Bookstore Boyfriend. He was an absolute lying, stealing toad.” I pause. “The lying, stealing part. He’s not actually an amphibian. Though I suppose in this city, you can never be too careful.”
I’m rambling, but Maxwell leans in slightly as if what I’m saying fascinates him and not because he wants a second date or a kiss at the end of the night. Though I’d be a lying, stealing toad if I said I wouldn’t like that.
Hazel, that little voice warns.
> “And then there was her OTP,” he says.
I snap my fingers. “You’ve kept up. Yup. The one. The only. The OTP.” I go on to tell him how Kellan was Catherine’s high school crush and some of what came since, landing them in Italy on Valentine’s Day.
“Sounds like an unexpected love story.” The softness in his voice when he speaks settles my shoulders, loosens knots in my neck. A breath comes from the depths of my chest.
“A love story,” I repeat. “Very much so.”
Once more, I lose myself in Maxwell’s eyes.
He says, “So Catherine prefers to spend her Saturday nights reading, but you didn’t earn a Ph.D. by going out every Saturday night.”
He’s a master chess player. “True.” I suddenly feel I’m on the stage under a spotlight. I forgot my lines. I’m supposed to be the easy-breezy-don’t call me tomorrow or next week girl. I’m not a tend and befriend type.
I study the snow as the wind carries it in spirals and irregular shapes as though it’s not sure where it’s going. Me neither.
My head rests against the window frame. My pulse quickens at the thought that I could snowgaze with Maxwell every night. What is happening to me?
His just barely brown eyes meet mine in the low light.
This is where I’m supposed to flutter my lashes flirtatiously and say something to direct the conversation where I want it to go. But you know what? A quote my mother used to say trickles into my mind. “Don’t push the river, it flows by itself.” In other words, don’t force anything. Go with the flow.
Maxwell looks at me like I’m the only girl in the room. It’s relatively dark in here, but I’m pretty sure I am. This is different though. It doesn’t feel like he’s thinking about someone else or enjoying the view because this is a onetime deal—a take a photo so you’ll never forget kind of situation. That flow of time, of ease, seems to stretch and stretch. Forever. ‘Til death do us part.
I shiver.
The idea of forever? That’s a long time. It terrifies me. What-ifs amounting to everything that can go wrong between now and forever cram my mind.
“Cold?” Maxwell asks.
Before I answer his arm is over my shoulder.
I use every ounce of focus not to shiver again—this time with delight.
Nope. Not cold. Not at all. Hot. Very hot. Hot all over. An inferno. Burning up. “I should go check on my cat.” I leave off the part before you have to call the fire department to douse the flames.
What is this man doing to me? If Catherine put a hex on me, maybe he’s an evil sorcerer. I shake my head because I’m wrapped snuggly under his arm and it’s so perfect there’s no way his intentions are ill.
The snowflakes dance in the night sky. A few land on the window as though begging to come inside. I press my hand to the glass. “Snow showers at night have always seemed more magical to me. Like the stars are raining down. When I was a little girl, I once got in trouble for opening the window after I was supposed to be asleep, holding out my hand, and catching the snow in my palm. It always felt like a magical moment.” I sigh a sleepy sigh.
I glance over at Maxwell. “This feels like a magical moment.” His voice is low, rough.
My body is tired but not my mind. It’s wired and whirring with thoughts. I didn’t expect him to say that.
Amusement plays on his lips. I could kiss him. Then, according to my set of rules, I’m supposed to walk away. Never to be seen again. But we’re neighbors and this is...this is something else.
“I should head home,” I force out.
“Take a few cookies,” he says.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I do everything in my power not to race down the hall.
He passes me a few cookies wrapped in a napkin.
Our fingers brush.
My pulse stops.
His gaze flits to mine.
“Goodnight,” I croak and exit.
In four long strides, I reach my door, ready to crawl into bed and throw the covers over my head because I have no idea what’s happening, but the knob doesn’t budge. I push on it. Nothing. I jiggle the handle.
Panic seizes me. I’m locked out. I slowly turn to see Maxwell leaning in his doorway. I press my lips together and nod. “It was an accident. I swear.”
He hooks his finger, summoning me back.
Hazelnut
Maxwell
I’m not going to analyze what’s going on. Or what I’m doing. Why I’m doing it. Or if I’ve gone mad. Madmax. Nope. None of that.
Instead, I grab my heaviest parka and pass it to Hazel along with a hat, scarf, and gloves. She seemed especially chilly earlier when she shivered so I don’t want her to be uncomfortable. Putting my arm around her was instinct. One that came from some unexplored part of me. I’m a gentleman through and through, but not the kind of guy for gestures like that—ones that force proximity and suggest a deeper kind of care for her welfare. I could’ve gotten her a sweater or blanket. I gave her my warmth.
I dam up the stream of thought because I told myself not to analyze whatever is going on.
Donning another winter jacket, I lead her into the hall, and to the stairwell to the roof. When we get to the top, I push open the door and we step into the storm.
There’s probably an analogy here, something about the storm within, the one taking out the electrical currents I wired to protect my circuitry. Now, I’m forced to go by instinct, candlelight—it illuminates parts of myself previously kept in the dark.
Do. Not. Analyze.
Instead, I look at Hazel, an angel in the snow. She’s drop-dead gorgeous with lovely cheekbones, full lips, silky dark hair, and sapphire blue eyes under eyebrows that can slay a man with even the slightest lift. She’s sweet and fierce, and I’ve never met a woman like her.
Realizing my intention for bringing her up here, she holds out her hand as the snow dances down. Somewhere hidden under the blanket of snow is a jacuzzi in the section of the roof that came with my condo. That’ll have to be for another time.
Hazel laughs as she twirls slowly. She’s so graceful. I could sit with her, talk with her, spend hours, days, months...forever with her?
A plow truck rumbles by below, snapping me back to reality. I have regular business trips that take me all over the country and abroad. There is also the potential for a very unusual event planned in a few weeks. I don’t have time for romantic dalliances or long-term commitments. I’m not that kind of guy.
I’m not husband material. That’s my brother.
I’m not planning to be a parent. That’s my sister.
I’m the fun guy, the uncle, the one to spoil the kids, and travel whenever I want to. To do whatever I want to. But what do I want? The horizon of my life suddenly feels bleak, empty, and lonely without someone to share it with.
My eyes land on Hazel. Mirth fills her smile. She laughs as she flurries over to me and takes me by the hands. Like the swirling snowflakes, we spin in a circle before landing on our backs in the foot of fluff piled on the roof.
Hazel sighs as she gazes up. Even though this is silly and it’s cold, I settle, relax. Then she takes my hand and we wave them up and down across the surface of the snow.
“Move your legs too to make snow angels.”
She’s so fun. So playful. So perfect.
“Yours is a little wonky,” she says, pointing at the lopsided wing.
“Hey, be nice,” I say, joking. Then I crouch, scoop up a handful of snow, and ball it up.
Her eyes widen in recognition and she does the same.
I lob my snowball toward her arm.
She whirls and tosses, missing me as a smile lights up her face. She takes shelter behind a pile of outdoor furniture.
I duck behind a piece of the building’s machinery on the roof and scoop up more of the snow, pat it into a ball, and watch for her to make a move.
With a mock-battle cry, she emerges from behind her hideout and tosses a snowball at me. Misses again. I realize now, that was a
distraction. It’s too late as I try to remain undercover as she charges forward—a Nordic warrior princess. From her other hand, she lobs a snowball squarely at my chest, nailing her target.
I’m done for. Sunk. A man down.
No, not because of the snow but this woman. She’s melted me inside and out.
I follow her laughter as I make chase, picking up snow as I go, hastily shaping balls, and letting them fly. She must’ve made a stash by the outdoor lounge chairs because she slides behind them and more snow sails through the air.
Once more, she clobbers me with three perfectly aimed snowballs. But I wage a sneak attack and get her in the leg, backside, and arm.
She races to her furniture fort but slips and her arms windmill as she tries to get her footing. Forget this snowball fight, I have to save my woman. It’s too late for me to catch her on her feet, but I rush forward, sliding in the snow like a baseball player into home plate. My goal is to cushion her fall.
Hazel lands on me in a soft, slow-motion drop.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I didn’t hear any bones cracking or cries of pain.
“I think so.” She pats herself and then my chest.
We’re tangled up in a warped yoga pose with Hazel on her side. I’m on my back. Thanks to the snow on the roof and our heavy winter gear, we both have all parts intact.
On second thought, I’m not so sure that’s true.
Hazel lets out a long, cold breath that clouds the air. As has happened so many times this evening, our eyes meet. It’s like neither one of us can ask the questions, say the words, convey how we feel. Maybe it’s because we’re not sure. This is uncertain ground.
With an extended hand, I help Hazel to her feet.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say, lobbing another snowball in her direction.
“You just broke my fall as a tactic to fire at close range,” she says and scoops up more snow.
We laugh and hoot, tossing snow at each other until our fingers lose feeling despite the gloves.
Hazel shivers. I want to put my arm around her again. Instead, I take her hand and lead her back inside. Warmth rushes through me at her touch. Her grip is firm, telling me she welcomes my hand in hers.