Chapter 5
Chapter Five
A couple of nights later, Max’s feet were propped up on my coffee table as he lounged on my sofa, his thumbs flying over his phone screen. “Favorite ice cream flavor?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin as he stared down at his phone.
“Really? That’s what you think my family is going to ask you?” I shifted, tucking my feet beneath me. We’d been at this for over an hour, quizzing each other on random details in an effort to solidify our story.
“These are the kinds of things couples know about each other.” He finally lifted his head to look at me, a single eyebrow arched as if daring me to argue. “So?”
“Indian Summer,” I said with an eye-roll. “The one from Hodgies. It’s basically cinnamon, ginger, and molasses. Every year, I beg them to make it a regular flavor, but the teenage boys behind the counter just shrug and say they’ll pass along the request.”
Max’s lips twitched again as he glanced down and typed something else into his phone. “See? I didn’t know that. I would’ve guessed pumpkin pie, the one with the graham cracker pieces in it.”
“Oh, I love that one too. And peppermint stick.”
Max’s answering laugh was soft but rich, the kind that always caught me off guard despite having heard it for most of my life. “What I’m hearing is that you really love ice cream.”
I let out a heavy sigh, resting my cheek against the cushion. “Yeah, well, I don’t love the five pounds it adds every winter.” I scrunched up my nose, recalling all the holiday-themed pints of ice cream I’d devoured curled up right here on this very same couch. “Honestly, Hodgies being down the road from the hospital feels like a cruel joke.”
In the summer, it was easy to work off the extra calories with long walks along the rail trail or hiking at Old Town Hill, but when the temperatures plummeted to below freezing, curling up on my couch with a pint of ice cream to binge-watch all my favorite TV shows had become a problem. I probably needed to get a hobby or something.
“Okay, your turn,” I told him. “I remember your dog Snoopy, but was that your first pet?”
Max set his phone face-down on the coffee table and twisted on the couch to face me fully, one arm propped along the back cushion. “Nah, it was a goldfish named Stanley. He lived for approximately twelve hours before Jenny flushed him down the toilet. To this day, my sister is still freaked out by fish.”
I burst out laughing, the sound loud and unfiltered. “Poor Stanley!”
“I know, right? I was devastated; I wouldn’t speak to her for days.” Max smirked, his gaze lingering on me for a beat before his lips curled into that lopsided half-smile—the one that sent an unexpected, traitorous flutter through my stomach. He dragged a hand through his sandy hair, his movement unhurried, and I realized—too late—that I’d been staring. Again. “That’s when we got Snoopy—a pet we both agreed on. Next question: what’s your biggest pet peeve?”
“People who don’t return their shopping carts,” I said without hesitation, my voice sharpening with indignation. “There’s a special place in hell for those lazy bastards. I’ve told you this before.”
Max grinned, wide and unapologetic. “True, but now I get context for why my fake girlfriend mutters obscenities in parking lots.”
I grabbed the nearest throw pillow and launched it at his head. His broad shoulders shook with laughter as he caught it, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“You’re impossible,” I pouted.
“And yet you’re dating me.” He winked as he shoved the pillow at me, his hand resting on my knee as he leaned my way. The touch sent a jolt of heat straight through me. “What does that say about you?”
“That I have questionable taste in men?” I shot back, though my voice betrayed the laughter I was trying to suppress.
Max pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, his expression one of mock heartbreak. “Ouch. I’ll have you know I’m quite a catch.”
“So you keep saying,” I teased, biting my lip to keep my grin in check.
For a moment, silence stretched between us. Max’s gaze softened—barely noticeable, but enough to send my pulse skittering. Then, as if snapping out of it, he shifted back against the couch, one leg lazily draped over the other.
I swallowed hard, turning my attention to the pillow in my lap, fluffing it unnecessarily. Whatever had just passed between us, I didn’t know what to do with it.
Max’s phone buzzed loudly then, sending it skittering across the table. Shaking his head slightly—as if he was trying to clear the same sort of brain fog I’d also experienced—he reached over and picked it up. “Speaking of women with questionable taste, check this out.”
He turned the screen toward me, showing a photo of two of our mutual friends at a rooftop bar in Back Bay—Sarah perched on Tom’s lap, his arms wrapped possessively around her waist as they both laughed, utterly oblivious to the camera.
“Be nice. They’re cute together,” I said, ignoring the little pang in my chest. Sarah and Tom had danced around each other for years, their feelings for one another evident to everyone but them. Now they were talking about moving in together, and the pure joy on their faces in this photo was impossible to ignore.
“Yeah, they are,” Max agreed, studying the photo for a moment longer, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. When he looked up at me, his expression was unexpectedly serious. “But you know what this photo makes me realize?”
There was something in his tone and expression that made me hesitate, my stomach fluttering uneasily. “No, what?”
Max shifted slightly, his knee bumping mine, and then set his phone back down. “We’ve known each other so long that people at the wedding might think we’re too comfortable together. Like, right now, for instance.” He tipped his chin down to gesture to where my sock-clad feet were nudging against his shin. “You’re literally kicking me while we talk.”
I immediately jerked my legs back, heat creeping up my neck.
“I’m worried people might think we give off more of a brother-sister vibe than …” His voice trailed off, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He cleared his throat and looked away briefly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Than what?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
He turned back to me, his expression inscrutable. “Than two people who want to tear each other’s clothes off.”
The words hung between us like a spark in the air, just waiting to ignite. There was absolutely nothing brotherly about the way I pictured Max suddenly tearing all of my clothes off.
My cheeks went scorching hot, and I felt panic rush through me.
“Relax, Han. I’m just saying we need to be more convincing.”
“Convincing?” I asked, my voice coming out embarrassingly high-pitched, like I’d just sucked on a balloon. I clutched the pillow to my chest like it could shield me from whatever was happening right now. “What kind of convincing are we talking about here?”
Max tilted his head, his expression entirely too casual for the chaos erupting in my brain. “The physical stuff—holding hands, touching. You know, things real couples do without thinking about it.” He reached his hand out toward me, his palm facing up in silent invitation.
For a brief second, my body locked up—my fight or flight response kicked in—before I instinctively yanked my hand back, tucking it tight against my stomach.
His eyebrow shot up. “Seriously, Han? You just flinched like I have cooties. Real couples don’t do that—they gravitate toward each other.”
“I didn’t flinch,” I lied, my voice sounding feeble.
“You did.” His teasing softened, his tone dipping low. “Come here.”
I bit my lip, mortified. He was right. I was currently huddled against the arm of the couch like a terrified animal who’d been cornered—the exact opposite of convincing.
“Hannah. Come here,” he said, his voice dropping a notch, the command firm. His outstretched hand waited patiently.
I hesitated for a couple of seconds before forcing my body to cooperate.
I scooted closer, my heart pounding harder than when a bunch of us went skydiving together to celebrate Max’s 35th birthday. No doubt, this moment felt infinitely more terrifying than flinging my body out of a plane traveling ten thousand feet above the earth.
Eventually, I slid my hand into his, and the warmth of his skin against mine made me want to weep.
“See? Not so scary,” Max murmured, his fingers closing gently around mine. His thumb brushed lazily across my knuckles, the stroke feather light and likely meant to put me at ease.
Unfortunately, it did the exact opposite. Now, I couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like to have his fingers coasting over my naked body with such care and tenderness.
I swallowed hard, trying to push those thoughts to the far recesses of my brain and play it cool, but my voice betrayed me when I practically squeaked, “Right. Totally not scary.”
Max’s lips twitched like he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on me. With a gentle tug, he pulled me closer until the entire left side of my body pressed against his. I felt his heat like it was radiating through my skin.
His free hand lifted, slow and deliberate, until his knuckles grazed my jawline. The soft, barely-there touch made goosebumps bloom on my skin as a shiver raced down my spine. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingertips lingering just a second too long on my cheek.
“Max,” I said, his name barely more than a whisper from my lips. I wasn’t sure if I was warning him or begging him to keep going.
My heart raced so fast it was a wonder it didn’t just stop altogether.
With a light nudge against my jaw, he turned my face to his, and his eyes—dark and unreadable—lowered to my mouth. “We should probably practice kissing, too.” His voice had dropped again, rougher now, the suggestion lingering in the air like smoke. “Just in case anyone expects us to.”
I was frozen, torn between panic and something infinitely more dangerous— want .
Every nerve in my body went haywire. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My brain short-circuited at the thought of his mouth on mine. What if I wasn’t good at it? What if I used too much tongue? Or not enough? What if my breath was gross? What had I eaten for lunch?
Max’s thumb traced an absentminded circle on the back of my hand, and his cologne wrapped around me like a fog. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from him, not when his face was so close I could count the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose.
The room suddenly felt too warm, the air too thick. I tried to speak, but all I managed was a shaky breath.
His eyes searched mine for another long moment, holding me captive in the quiet intensity of his gaze. Then his hand cupped my cheek, his thumb tracing a soft path along my jaw, and any coherent thought I was still capable of simply fled.
The first brush of his lips against mine was soft—achingly gentle, almost as if he were giving me permission to pull away. My breath hitched, and a shaky, startled sound escaped me.
That tiny gasp seemed to unravel something in him. His fingers slid into my hair, and his kiss deepened, slow but deliberate, pulling me into a spiral I couldn’t stop. My heart slammed against my ribs as his tongue swept into my mouth, teasing, tasting, until every other kiss I’d ever had became irrelevant.
I clutched at his shirt, my fingers fisting in the soft cotton to pull him closer, as though the space between us was something I couldn’t bear a second longer. He didn’t just kiss me—he consumed me. Every brush of his lips against mine sent sparks dancing over my skin and made my head spin. I lost myself in the way he smelled and the way he moved, confident but careful … almost like I was something precious that was meant to be treasured.
And I gave as good as I got because I treasured this man with every fiber of my being.
By the time we broke apart, both of us were breathing hard, our chests rising and falling in tandem. My lips tingled, tender and alive, as though his kiss had branded me. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out everything but the memory of how he’d felt, how he’d tasted.
Max didn’t move away. Instead, he rested his forehead against mine, his hand still tangled in my hair. The moment stretched on, heavy and charged, as if the air itself had thickened around us. I could feel the heat of him, the subtle tremor in his breath.
I realized then that my own hands were still gripping his shirt, holding him like he might disappear if I let go. Slowly, deliberately, I forced my fingers to relax, smoothing out the wrinkles I’d left behind.
“Well,” Max said finally, his voice rough and a little unsteady. “That should be convincing enough.”