she threw herself into his arms.
Chapter Two
MADDY PUSHED HERSELF away from Max’s embrace and brushed the tears from the corners of her eyes. He appeared utterly blown away to see her. She suddenly realized how stupid she must seem, arriving on his doorstep unannounced and crying all over him.
She was feeling kind of blown-away herself. It had been eight years since she’d last seen his face, and she was surprised at how much older and grown-up he seemed. He was thirty-one now, of course. No longer a young man. She hadn’t expected him to remain untouched by time, but the reality of him was astonishing. He almost looked like a stranger, with new lines around his mouth and eyes. His formerly long, tousled hair was cut short in a utilitarian buzz cut. His body was different, too. As a dancer, he’d been all lean muscle and fluid grace, but the man standing before her seemed bigger, wider, taller than the friend she remembered.
She laughed self-consciously as she realized they were both simply staring at each other.
“Always knew how to make an entrance, didn’t I?” she said.
“It’s great to see you,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were in town. Where are you dancing? Or perhaps I should ask who’s trying to steal the great Maddy Green away from the SDC?”
She opened her mouth to tell him her news, but nothing came out. Instead, a sob rose up from deep inside and she felt her face crumple.
“Hey,” Max said. He moved closer, one hand reaching out to catch her elbow. “What’s going on? Who’s got you so upset?”
She pressed her face into the palms of her hands. She couldn’t look at him when she said it. God, she could barely make herself say the words.
“They retired me. I had a knee reconstruction in July after I tore my anterior cruciate ligament. It’s been coming along well, getting stronger, but the company’s surgeon won’t clear me to dance. So it’s all over,” she said, the words slipping between her fingers.
“Maddy. I’m so sorry,” Max said.
She dropped her hands. “I didn’t know what to do, where to go. And then I thought of you. And I caught the first plane to Paris. Didn’t even bother to pack,” she said. She tried to laugh at her own crazy impulsiveness, but the only sound that came out was an odd little hiccup.
Max’s eyebrows arched upward and his gaze flicked to her dance bag, lying on the ground at her feet where she’d dropped it when he opened the door.
She understood his surprise. What kind of person took off around the world on the spur of the moment and lobbed on the doorstep of a man she hadn’t seen in over eight years?
“Guess I wasn’t really thinking straight,” she said.
An icy breeze raced down the alley, rattling windows and cutting through the thin wool of her sweater. She shivered and Max shook his head.
“You’re freezing.” He tugged her through the doorway as he spoke, reaching to grab her bag at the same time.
“Merde. This thing is still as heavy as I remember,” he said as he hefted the black suede bag.
The ghost of a smile curved her lips. Max used to give her a lot of grief about all the rubbish she hauled around. He always wondered how someone as small as she needed so much stuff. One time he’d even tipped the entire contents onto the coffee table and made her justify every piece of detritus. They’d been laughing so hard by the time they got a third of the way through the pile that Maddy had begged him for mercy for fear her sides really would split.
“Girl’s got to have her stuff,” she said, the same response she’d given him all those years ago.
He smiled and kicked the door shut behind him.
“I was just opening a bottle of wine. That’ll help warm you up,” he said.
She glanced around as he led her across the large open space. Ancient beams supported the roof high overhead, and the walls were rough brick with the odd, haphazard patch of plaster smeared over them. A workbench lined one wall, filled with hand tools, and a row of sculptures sat side by side near a painted-over window.
She knew from the mass e-mail that Max had sent to his friends that he’d recently moved into a new apartment after the death of his father, but this was the last place she’d imagined him living. In the old days, he’d always been the one who complained the most about the moldy bathroom and crusty kitchen in their shared rentals. He’d even painted his bedroom himself because he couldn’t stand the flaking, bright blue paint that had decorated his walls.
But maybe his appearance wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Maybe the years had given him a different appreciation for what made a home.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” she said as he dumped her bag on a low modern leather couch. At least that conformed to her idea of the old Max’s tastes—sleek, welldesigned, high quality.
“Yeah. Thanks for the flowers, by the way. I can’t remember if I sent a thank-you card or not,” he said. “It’s all a bit fuzzy, to be honest.”
“You did.”
They were both uncomfortable. She wondered if it was because she’d brought up his father, or because she’d miscalculated horribly in racing to him this way. She hadn’t expected it to be awkward. She’d expected to walk through the door and feel the old connection with him. To feel safe and warm and protected.
Stupid. She could see that now. E-mails and Christmas cards and the occasional phone call were not enough to maintain the level of intimacy they’d once shared. She’d run halfway around the world chasing a phantom.
“Maybe I should come back tomorrow,” she said, stopping in the space between his makeshift living zone and the counter, sink and oven in the back corner that constituted his kitchen. “You’ve probably got plans. I should have called before coming over. We can meet up whenever you’re free.”
Max put down the bottle of wine he’d been opening and walked over to stand in front of her. He reached out and rested his hands on her shoulders. The heavy, strange-but-familiar weight warmed her.
“Maddy. It’s great to see you. Really. I wish it was for a happier reason, for your sake, but I’m honored you thought of me. Now, make yourself at home. I don’t have a thing to do or a place to be. I’m all yours,” he said.
More foolish tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away, then nodded. “Okay. All right.”
He returned to the wine bottle, and she sat at one end of the couch. She was tired. Emotionally and physically. She felt as though she’d been holding her breath ever since Andrew had looked her in the eye and confirmed Dr. Hanson’s pronouncement that her career was over.
“Here.”
He slid a large wineglass into her hand. Red wine lapped close to the brim and she raised an eyebrow at him.
“Save me a trip back to the kitchen to get you another one,” he said.
“I haven’t been drunk in years,” she said, staring down into the deep cherry liquid. “I guess if there was ever a time, this is it.”
“Absolument,” he said.
She drank a mouthful, then another.
“I was wondering what else was different about you,” she said when she’d finished swallowing. “Apart from your hair and your face. It’s your accent. It’s much stronger now.”
“That would come from speaking my native tongue for the past eight years,” he said wryly. “These days, the only time I get to practice my English is when someone from the old days calls or visits.”
“It’s