30. Max
MAX
I was early. Too early.
The restaurant had become a second home over the last few months, but for all the wrong reasons. Now here I was back at the bar again, nursing a soda I wasn’t drinking, drumming my fingers, and trying not to look like a guy who was about to lose his mind waiting.
This wasn’t just another date. This was her.
A small group came in through the door; a blast of cold air followed them. And then… Emma.
She pulled off her scarf and unbuttoned her coat. My breath stopped. She wasn’t dressed to kill; she didn’t have to be. She was wearing dark jeans, boots, and a blouse that caught the light just right so I could see the line of her collarbone.
She scanned the room, spotted me, and her whole face lit up in a smile that hit me like a punch to the chest.
Christ. I was screwed.
I stood up without meaning to.
“Hi,” she said when she reached me, her voice warm, faintly teasing, like she knew damn well I had been staring.
“Emma.” My smile was too wide, but I didn’t care. “You look… wow.”
Her eyebrow quirked. “Wow. A very technical Canadian expression, I see.”
“You’re making fun of me already?”
“Just a little.”
I wanted to offer to take her coat, but she shrugged it off and draped it over the back of her chair when we got to the table. I sat across from her, still trying to shake off the image of her walking in. She already made this place feel so different from every other night I had sat here.
“I would have picked you up,” I said as I got comfortable. “But you said this was easier?”
She nodded and smoothed out her napkin on her lap. “I had a meeting at the university that went late. It was easier to come straight here than to run back and forth by the time it was over.”
“Still.” I shrugged. “Would’ve been nice.”
Her lips curled, as if she understood what the words meant. “Next time,” she said simply.
Next time. That made my heart race.
The waiter appeared, the same guy as before.
The poor bastard had seen me through three disasters, and I half-expected him to roll his eyes the second he saw me.
But when he looked at Emma, the stiff formality vanished.
She gave him a smile that reached her eyes, open and unhurried, and he smiled back right away, as if he couldn’t help it.
“Good evening,” he said. “Is this your first time dining with us?”
“It is,” Emma said warmly. “It already smells amazing.” She glanced at the menu, then back at him. “I’m a vegetarian. Any suggestions?”
“Absolutely,” he said immediately, and for the next minute he named dishes with more enthusiasm than I’d ever heard from him. Emma listened carefully.
“I’ll trust you,” she said. “Surprise me.”
By the time he left, I was staring at her.
Not only because she had charmed the waiter in less than a minute, but also because it wasn’t an act.
Emma was… easy. She listened. She laughed at his joke about the chef’s obsession with truffle oil.
And Christ, she made me feel like the room wasn’t so heavy anymore.
We ordered drinks – wine for her and beer for me – and the conversation just… flowed.
The waiter brought bread and olive oil. She tore off a piece of bread, dipped it into the oil, and sighed like it was the best thing she had ever tasted. “I love bread so much. Honestly, how can people not want to eat it?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. My trainers would probably give you a lecture about carbs right now.”
She grinned at me over the crust. “Your trainers are wrong. Bread is happiness. People’s lives will be better the sooner they accept that.”
“That so?” I reached for a piece myself and dipped it in the oil. “Bread equals happiness? Bold claim.”
Emma gave a little shrug, playful. “It’s not a claim. It’s a fact. Universally accepted. Think about it: every culture has bread. The French, the Italians…”
“The Canadians?” I asked, smirking.
Her eyes twinkled. “Even the Canadians. Don’t you have enough doughnuts to qualify as a bread-obsessed nation?”
“Fine,” I said, laughing. “You win. Bread is happiness.”
“I know,” she said with a grin, as she tore off another piece. “Long before the kintsugi craze, Mum went through this whole bread-making phase.”
“Ah, the pre-gold era.”
“Exactly,” she chuckled. “She would experiment with various flours while kneading dough for hours on end. For weeks, the kitchen smelled like a bakery.”
“That sounds divine.”
“It was. It was comfortable, familiar, but always a little different. A bit like books or films.” She started talking about Inception, which she’d apparently seen for the fifth time, and picked apart the details.
I couldn’t help contradicting her, teasing her into one of those cute eye rolls. Within seconds we were arguing like we’d done it a hundred times before.
She squinted at me, but the smile that spread across her face ruined the effect. “You’re infuriating.”
“And you like it,” I shot back.
“Don’t push your luck,” she warned, but she was laughing now. Her voice was low and warm, cutting through the noise of the restaurant.
By the end of the main course, we were already leaning across the table more than sitting back in our seats, laughing at some dumb story I was telling about Will setting off the smoke alarm at two in the morning with what he swore were pancakes.
Emma had tears in her eyes from laughing, and her hand was lightly resting next to mine on the table.
The waiter came to take our dessert order. Before I could answer, he looked at me and asked, “Tiramisu again?”
The words slipped out before he seemed to realize what he had said. His expression froze, mortified.
Emma blinked, then slowly turned to me. For a second, I couldn’t read her expression. Then the grin appeared, bright and teasing. “Again?” she said, dragging the word out with unmistakable delight. “So how many times have you been here, exactly?”
The waiter was already backpedaling. “Excuse me, I’ll, uh, give you a minute,” he stammered, retreating faster than dignity allowed.
Emma was laughing now, her head tipped back. “Oh, this is too good. You have a usual dessert here? That’s commitment.”
I groaned. “It’s not what it sounds like.”
“Really?”
“I just…” I ran a hand over my face, grinning despite myself. “They have excellent food here, that’s all.”
She smirked. “So good you had to test it multiple times?”
“Something like that,” I said, trying not to laugh.
Her amusement softened. “Relax, Max. I’m not offended.”
When the waiter returned, still looking sheepish, I quickly said, “I’ll try something new this time: the chocolate tart.”
Emma handed back her menu. “Ice cream,” she said decisively.
He smiled, clearly relieved to move on. “Any particular flavour?”
“Vanilla, please.”
I stared at her. “Ice cream? It’s freezing outside.”
She raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed with my tone. “Ice cream is not seasonal, Max. Ice cream is eternal.”
I snorted. “That sounded like a manifesto.”
“It is. Some people fight for justice, some people fight for freedom. I fight for the right to eat ice cream whenever I want, no matter the weather.”
I grinned, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Wait until you see how good it looks. You’ll be jealous.”
When the desserts came, I was still grinning: her ridiculous little bowl of vanilla ice cream, with two flawless scoops shining pale against the dish, and my chocolate tart, dusted with cocoa.
Sure enough, I caught myself glancing at hers more than once. Emma noticed it immediately, because of course she did. Her eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Do you want to try it?”
The offer was casual, but when her spoon dipped into the scoop and she raised it to her lips first, something in my brain short-circuited.
The room tilted for a second when I saw the spoon cross her mouth and her tongue flicking against the edge.
Christ. I wanted a taste, all right, but not of the ice cream.
I tried to school my face, but she saw the pause and the hitch in my breath.
“You do want some.”
I gave in, leaning forward, lowering my voice. “Yeah. I do.”
She dipped the spoon again and held it across the table, her eyes glinting like she knew exactly what she was doing.
I leaned forward and took the bite straight from her spoon.
I let the ice cream slowly melt on my tongue.
Sweet, but nothing compared to the way she looked at me when I swallowed and let a sound escape that was far from innocent.
“Told you,” she said smugly, reclaiming the spoon and scooping up another bite for herself.
I pushed my plate away. “You realize I’m not ready to call it a night, right?”
Her smile was quick, a little shy. “Good, because neither am I.” She tilted her head, thinking, then brightened. “The aquarium’s open late today. Want to go? It’s close enough to walk.”
“Lead the way.”
* * *
The aquarium was only a few blocks from the harbour. The walk over was easy: Emma beside me, her coat brushing against mine now and again, her laugh cutting clean through the cold night air.
As soon as the doors closed behind us, we were no longer in the city.
The noise outside had vanished, replaced with a low hum.
I could hear water pumps somewhere behind the walls, the soft rush of air, and the faint echo of our footsteps on tile.
At this hour the place was almost empty.
A couple went into the gift shop, a security guard gave us a quick nod, and then it was just us.
The lighting was dim, with the tanks glowing in the dark. Blue light shimmered everywhere, broken up by the slow movement of fish swimming past the glass.
Emma stopped and went still. “Oh,” she gasped and it was as if every ounce of wonder in the room was concentrated in her voice. “This is… magical.”
I should have been looking at the fish. I wasn’t.
We walked into the first tunnel, water curving above our heads. Sharks swam past Emma in slow arcs, casting shadows across her hair and face. She gasped again when one passed just above us, its belly pale against the glow.