The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [50]
“Joyeux anniversaire,” he said and took a sip.
Fallon followed suit. The wine stung her tongue, dry and tart but unmistakably good. She tried to savor it, to record and preserve the memory of every drop. “This is by far the oldest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Try to keep it quiet,” Max said. “There are plenty of people who would have me drawn and quartered for opening this before the turn of the next century.” He smiled and took another sip. Their order was called, and he brought their steaming aluminum carryout trays back to the booth.
They spoke very little as they ate which suited Fallon just fine—he’d left her thoroughly speechless, anyhow. Across the table, dressed up and dust-free and treating her as a friend and not a scientific specimen, Fallon felt herself falling for Max a little bit. Perhaps a lot. As usual, she blamed the alcohol.
After they finished their dinners and tossed the trays, Max snatched the plastic cups off the table and they began the walk back to the studio. Overhead the sky had grown dusky and dark with rain clouds and the approaching night.
“Here,” Max said, and Fallon turned to find him holding out a half-filled cup for her.
“Thanks.”
“Happy birthday.”
She smiled and looked away. “You sure like birthdays.”
“I like you,” he said, point-blank.
“Oh.” She took a swallow to buy herself time. “Is this…is this a date?” she asked, as the thought occurred to her, perhaps naively, for the first time.
He shrugged. “This is whatever it is.”
Fat raindrops began to fall as a crisp breeze ruffled the grass on either side of the road. Fallon touched the silk at her waist. “I hope this doesn’t ruin the dress.” As she said it the drops came faster.
When she looked over at Max, he just grinned and took a drink, holding her gaze. Rain landed in the cups, darkened his white shirt and made Fallon’s dress cling to her legs. She gathered the skirt into a ball at her thigh to keep from tripping.
“I’m afraid I’m wrecking your shoes,” she said as the road turned mucky.
“They’re your shoes.” He took her by the elbow as the sky opened up, steering them under a tree to wait out the worst of it. Beneath the canopy he tipped his hat to sluice the water from the brim, then refreshed their cups. He stared at her with a very-hard-to-read expression.
“What?” Her heart sped in response to the intensity now blazing in his eyes.
Max cleared his throat. “You told me before never to kiss you ever again. I’m waiting now for you to tell me you’ve changed your mind.”
Ah ha.
“You can kiss me,” she said with a slow nod, her voice turning airy, eyes fixed on his lips.
He set the cups and bag on the grass and came close, so close his chest brushed Fallon’s breasts. He tipped his hat to the back of his head and kissed her. His eyes shut before hers did, and his mouth burned hot and wet and tasted of very, very fine wine. She felt his thumbs pressing into her cheeks, his rough fingertips cradling her jaw, and she parted her lips to invite a deeper exploration. He angled his mouth as his tongue slid to dance with hers, stoking the fire. His possessive hands held her head, making it seem as though he were consuming her, and each time they came up for air she wanted more. She wanted him deeper, and rougher, and more raw. She circled her arms around his neck, surrendering to whatever it was he had in mind for this evening.
Fallon climbed the spiral stairs, heart pounding so hard she feared she’d faint and topple over backward and break her neck. She sat nervously at the edge of Max’s bed in her damp dress, stroking her palm across the dark red comforter, waiting. It smelled so deeply of him here in this space. Rain hammered the skylight above the bed and she lay back to take it in. Soon the faint tremors of Max mounting the steps arrived, jolting Fallon’s nerves, making her feel more drunk than she might already be. She closed her eyes, keeping them shut even as the mattress sank under his weight. Max’s rough fingers played along the length of her bare arm.
“Fallon,