And honestly, shopping for smaller-sized people isn’t easy either. Everyone has flaws they see in themselves, no matter what size they wear. Just because a person’s pant size is in the single digits and mine are in the double doesn’t make her immune to misery in a dressing room. That is a one-size-fits-all sort of pain.
Which is why that makeover scene in a movie makes girls of all sizes swoon hard. We all want to experience that moment when a dress doesn’t just make us feel beautiful but it makes us feel desired.
Confidence is a game I can play on my own. I’ve gotten pretty good at it, as a matter of fact. But that moment when you put on a pretty dress and a man looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world…fat or thin—that’s a game that requires two players.
And Max played his part like a king.
As Max samples the red wine the sommelier suggested we order with our steaks, I stare at him like my own personal meal. He is nothing like the countless CEOs I came across during my time in the corporate world. How has he managed to stay so sane with all this success he’s found? He literally just flew me here on a private jet, bought me a dress that will be delivered to his Aspen home by morning time, and he’s not checked his phone once since we arrived at this restaurant.
Is he really even human?
“You look like you’re having loads of dirty thoughts,” Max says, his indigo eyes narrowing wickedly as he swirls the freshly poured red wine in his glass.
I lick my lips and lean forward, lifting up my own glass. “How can you tell?”
His heated eyes rove over my face, causing me to flush. “You have a facial tell.”
“I do not.” I laugh, feeling butterflies erupt in my belly at the sexy, happy look on his face. Am I really what puts that there?
The alluring muscle in his jaw shifts as he smirks. “Your nose gets red when you’re thinking about sex.”
Instantly my hand touches the tip of my nose that feels surprisingly hot. “Does it really?”
He takes a sip of his wine and quirks a brow. “Were you thinking about sex a moment ago?”
“More or less,” I answer with a grin and cover my face with my napkin.
He winks. “You have a tell, sweet cheeks.”
My body curls in on itself when I think of all the times I’ve had dirty thoughts around him. It was before we ever kissed…well before we started hooking up. Did he know every time? Did he know during my interview?
“What’s your tell?” I watch him curiously, his gaze fixed on me in a way that makes me feel completely naked.
“Mine is a bit more obvious.” He waggles his eyebrows lasciviously and holds his hand out to me. “Give me your hand, I’ll let you feel it.”
“Such a pervert,” I exclaim, and his wolfish grin is panty-melting.
“It takes one to know one,” he volleys back.
He’s not wrong.
I chew my lip and sip my wine, musing a bit before asking, “How do you make it look so easy?”
“What?” He sets his glass down and gives me his undivided attention.
“Life,” I reply simply. “You seem to have such incredible balance. Everly, work, friends, family. You literally do it all, and now you’ve whisked me away to Aspen on a moment’s notice without even breaking a sweat. What is your secret?”
Max’s face grows serious as his jaw slides back and forth. “If it looks like I’m not sweating, it’s because I have an army of people who are wiping my face.”
I set my glass down as I notice the obvious shift in his expression. Gone is that boyish, sexy smirk that makes me feel like a schoolgirl. In an instant, Max has transformed into that powerful, smoldering CEO who makes me feel terrified in the best way possible. It’s an odd thing for me to be so attracted to, considering my past.
Max’s voice is guttural when he adds, “I wouldn’t have achieved a thing in my life if it weren’t for the constant support of my family, friends, and staff. Hell, I don’t even know when my next dentist appointment is. Marcia has to tell me. Bettina runs my home. Michael does all the cooking. I pay a lot of people to help me with many things. It takes structure and order for me to thrive and achieve this balance.”
I nod slowly, insecurity spreading through my body because I tried to do what Max is doing and failed…miserably. Once upon a time, I had big dreams and huge ambitions. I thrived off the buzz of being busy because I thought I was destined to be someone important.
If only I’d done better and been capable of more.
“What are you thinking about?” Max asks, doing that mind reading thing again. Though this time, I’m certain my nose isn’t red.
“I wasn’t always like this,” I offer softly, feeling my chin tremble as I reach out and pick up my wineglass for a fortifying drink, trying not to let my hands shake.
“Not always like what?”
“Miss Willy-Nilly,” I reply with a laugh and exhale heavily as nerves swirl in my belly. “Miss Why Do More When You Can Do Less.”
I wave my hands out like a circus monkey, but Max doesn’t laugh like I think he’s going to. He just watches me quietly, waiting for me to continue.
I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell him all this now. We’re having such a nice time, and this will certainly overshadow the Cinderella vibe of the day. But it feels important somehow. I want Max to understand how I became who I am. Especially if we’re going to have a chance at truly being together.
I take one more tremulous drink of my wine, using my left hand to ensure myself that I am okay now. I am healed. I feel Max’s eyes on me the entire time as I steel myself to say, “You know how I told you originally that I worked on those charcuterie boards as a form of therapy?”
“Yes,” Max answers, his brow furrowed curiously.
“Well, I let you believe that it was mental therapy, but in reality, it was physical therapy.” My heart pounds at the memory of those awful couple of months when my body didn’t feel like my body. It was like an alien had taken over my left hand and would do whatever it wanted instead of what I wanted. It took nearly three months for me to get it to a place where I could feel secure in its movements. I inhale a deep breath before stating the truth out loud, “I had a stress-induced stroke at Christmas time last year that paralyzed my left arm.”
“Are you serious, Cassandra?” Max snaps, shoving his wine aside and leaning across the table. His eyes are the most severe I’ve ever seen them, and I feel slightly terrified at the reality of my truth being displayed back to me. “An actual stroke?”
I nod and force myself not to cry. “It’s rare at my age, but it can happen. It happened at my corporate job that I mentioned to you.”
His eyes swim with fear as he watches me, barely even taking a breath as he inquires, “Jesus Christ, what happened?”
“Stress,” I respond with a garbled laugh that feels pathetic. “Loads and loads of stress.”
“What did you do at your last job? What was your position?” Max asks, his face taut with shock.
I sigh heavily, feeling horrified at the thought of recounting everything but knowing that he needs to hear it all to get the big picture. I inhale deeply and force myself to be professional. “I was in asset management, managing a large portfolio of industrial and commercial buildings scattered throughout the United States. I started right out of college, so I was only nineteen in the beginning, but I was twenty-five when I finally hit my breaking point, so I had been there for six years.”