Chapter Eight
August 13th, 6:10 p.m.
T hey walked into the lighting showroom, Max rehearsing his speech one final time. Working together for nearly a month had only intensified his feelings, and he was done pretending otherwise.
“Paloma—”
“Let’s start with the new display lighting.” She glanced at him. “Sorry, you were going to say something.”
Looking into her questioning eyes, his courage evaporated. “I was going to suggest the same.”
They made their way to the lighting showroom’s ceiling fixture section, where dozens of chandeliers, pendant lights, and flush mounts created a glittering canopy overhead. He welcomed the distraction. He spotted a sleek pendant light on display among the forest of display models. His fingers found the metal frame overhead, but the fixture was ungainly and tilted in his grip. He grunted as the weight distribution caught him off guard.
Paloma stepped forward, her hands landing on the metal frame next to his. “Here,” she murmured, her arm sliding across his chest as she shifted the angle.
Her sensu al scent heated his blood. The showroom became too warm, too small. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, pupils dilated, the blue nearly disappearing in the dim light. A strand of hair had escaped her pristine updo, and his fingers itched to brush it back. The fixture wobbled slightly as his grip loosened.
“Careful,” she whispered, shifting closer, steadying the light.
Her lips parted slightly, and he leaned in, drawn by her magnetic pull. “I think we should—”
The sharp clatter of the specification sheets hitting the floor snagged her attention. She jumped back, cheeks flushed, and let out a shaky breath. She bent, gathering the scattered papers, but her usual grace was gone, her movements jerky and uncertain.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t hook up that night at The Hill,” she said suddenly, then tilted her head. “Oh, sorry. You were saying . . .”
A startled laugh escaped him, a quick punch to the solar plexus. Damn. Had he been that off base with her signals these past weeks? He stumbled to find an acceptable ending to his sentence that wouldn’t make him look like an ass. “Um. I think we should, um, be looking at those pendant hybrids instead. I’d like to find something functional and aesthetically pleasing. Elodie told me they had a lot of parties, and that combination is important.”
Paloma grinned. “And did she invite you to said parties? That would definitely answer our question about them being swingers.”
He chuckled. “Sorry, no invite.”
“I bet it’ll come when this project is over. I see the way she and Bill look at you.”
Was that jealousy he heard mixed in her teasing? They moved toward the modern lighting display. Halfway through the showroom, he had to ask, “But you’re not interested?”
“In swi nging?” She sucked in the side of her top lip. “In theory, it sounds like fun. But I don’t think so.”
“No. I meant interested in me? You said you’re glad we didn’t hook up.” He smiled and hoped his disappointment didn’t show. “Has spending more time with me made you like me less?”
“God no,” she said with a soft laugh. “That’s why I’m glad nothing happened. You’re . . .” Her gaze lingered on his mouth before she looked away. “You’re dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” He set the light fixture down next to a sleek display of LED strip lighting and straightened, looking at her.
“I’m taking a break from men, focusing on my career.”
“Because of Asher?” A sucker-punch of jealousy caught him off guard—not at its presence but its intensity. He didn’t have a right to be territorial about her past, especially when he was the one who’d turned her down that night at The Hill. Still, knowing she might be hung up on Asher made his chest tight.
“No,” she replied.
“Then why the break?” he asked gently.
She slouched onto a nearby stepping ladder. “It’s not about Asher. He was just . . . a distraction, really. From something bigger.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “I was in a long relationship before him. Richard and I, we were engaged . . . and I made the mistake of mixing business with my personal life.”
“What happened?” Max asked, his chest tightening at the pain in her voice.
“He was this hotshot business consultant who specialized in startups. He convinced me to let him help with my business.” Her voice softened slightly. “I think he meant well at first. He was always talking about building thi s amazing future for us, how he wanted to make sure I had everything I wanted.”
“But something changed?”
“The gambling. God, I didn’t know about it until everything fell apart. He kept it completely separate from our life together. Until he couldn’t.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “He’d go on these ‘business trips’ to meet clients, but in reality, most of the time he was hitting casinos in Detroit, Vegas, and Atlantic City. High-stakes poker, mostly. Started small, but then he got in deep with some dangerous people.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Pure luck. One of my supplier’s checks bounced, so I went to the bank in person. The teller mentioned something about a wire transfer I’d never authorized.” She shook her head. “When I started digging, I found this whole separate life he’d been hiding. He had a system, funneling money from my business through fake vendors, making it look like legitimate expenses. Then he’d use that money to pay off gambling debts or buy into bigger games.”
“Jesus,” Max muttered.
“When I confronted him . . .” Her voice cracked slightly. “That’s what kills me. He broke down completely. Said he’d been trying to fix it before the wedding, that he had these systems that couldn’t fail. He kept saying he needed one big win to put all the money back, make everything right.” She shook her head. “He’d even been going to Gamblers Anonymous meetings in secret, trying to get clean. But then he’d relapse, lose more, and have to cover it up with more stolen money.”
“Sounds like he was living a double life.”
“Exactly. And he was good at it. In our regular life, he was this amazing fiancé. Remembered every anniversary, planned the sweetest dates, talked about our future home and the family we’d have.” She wiped at her eyes quickly, gla ncing around. Thankfully, their section of the store was empty. “Meanwhile, he’s up at 3 a.m. doctoring bank statements and moving money around to hide his losses. The FBI found spreadsheets on his laptop—he tracked every lie he told me so he wouldn’t slip up.”
“How much did he take?”
“Almost half a million. But you know what’s crazy? He blamed me. Said it was because I wanted too much. How I wanted to be the number one interior designer in Michigan, to have the best showcase home. My incessant wants were why he gambled, to keep up with my dreams.”
Anger flared in Max’s chest. He’d seen her work ethic firsthand, watched her pour herself into the Thompson project. The idea that someone would use her drive and passion against her, twist it into an excuse for their failures was vile.
His hands curled into fists, then forced them to relax. His rage wouldn’t change Paloma’s past. He took her hand and squeezed it. “You know that’s absolute bullshit, right?”
“Sure.” Her gaze dropped from his, telling him the truth.
“That’s rough,” Max said softly. “I’m sorry.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “After him, I was a mess. Felt like I couldn’t trust my own judgment anymore. That’s when the really bad decisions started.” A harsh laugh escaped her. “Like taking home a man who ended up stealing from me.”
His jaw clenched. He’d like to bury these men under some of his current landscaping projects.
“Indeed, but my brother has a shady friend who helped find that douchebag.” She shook her head, then added quietly, “You’d think I’d have learned my lesson, but no. Next came the weekender—a married guy. He rented. Well, I thought he was a renter. Turned out to be another liar, just a different kind.”
Max’s l ip curled. “Some people are shits.”
She grinned. “At least I got back at the shitty cheater. He invited me over again, after I learned he was married, I brought over some toys .” She waggled her brows in a way that suggested these items wouldn’t be in any kid’s toybox. “I hid them in odd places that would lead to so uncomfortable conversations with his wife.”
Max straightened. “Holy shit! That was you.” Asher had told him the story of Lilith’s kitchen clogged with a butt plug. He’d figured it had something to do with Lilith’s douche-bag ex-husband, Marshall. But, damn, knowing Paloma was who had hidden kinky toys all over in an act of revenge. He belly-laughed. “Oh, damn. I have to tell Asher. He’d laugh his ass off.”
“Me and my big mouth,” Paloma muttered, then gripped his forearm. “Please don’t tell him I put the toys in the house.”
“Wait. Are you telling me there’s more?” His admiration grew. She didn’t get mad and sulk. She got even. “How many are we talking?”
“That’s not the point. The point is, you can’t tell anyone.”
“I think it’s hilarious.” But hearing the slight panic in her voice, he said . “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you, I’d rather she didn’t know I was with her ex-husband while they were still together.”
“Technically, they’re still married. She served him papers, but he’s refusing to sign them.”
“Why? He seems like a guy that’d love to be single?”
Max shrugged. “Got me. I only know what Asher told me the first time I met her.” He grinned. “I bet you two would make great friends. You already have something in common . . .”
Her lips twitched. “What’s that?”
“Similar taste in men.”
She picke d up a small pendant light from the display, pretending to aim it at him. “Shut up.” Setting it back among the rows of artistic fixtures, she glanced over his shoulder at the wall of options. “How did we even get on this topic?”
“You saying you’re glad we didn’t sleep together.” He gestured toward another section of pendant lights. “What about these hybrid ones for the indoor garden?”
She nodded, walking toward them. “Ah, yes. Your refusal was another ego-popping moment.”
“Believe me, anyone there would have taken you home. You were hot as sin in that red dress.”
She picked up two similar pendants. Putting them down, she looked at him. “Anyone but you.”
He put his hands in his pockets. “I’m not into being someone’s consolation prize.”
“How are you a consolation prize?”
“You were there for my friend. But when that was over, you came to me . . .”
She blinked, then looked away, sucking the side of her bottom lip. “Damn, that was shitty of me. Sorry.”
People said that word easily, but her apology held true remorse. He appreciated it, but didn’t want to linger on that night—the memory of how badly he’d wanted to say yes still made his skin prickle with heat. Shrugging it off with a smile and nod, he moved toward a display of modern fixtures.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm, and he stilled. “Really, I wasn’t thinking along those lines at all. More like. ‘Well, that’s over with Asher . . . but on the positive side, this guy is hot.’”
He searched her eyes, and the sincere focus on him made his pulse race while soothing his ego. His gaze moved to her plump red lips, and she licked them. She pr obably tasted like cherries and desire. And what would desire taste like? Paloma.
“But this is better.” She sighed, and he swore he heard longing in her exhale. “I have a feeling one night with you wouldn’t be enough. And I need these projects to be a success.”
He tilted his head. “Projects? There’s only this one job.”
Would she be interested in the possibility of more after they completed the Thompson house? Business was over, and they could focus on the pleasure.
She grinned, jumping up and down, doing a little dance between the aisles. “With the possibility of many more. Sorry, I got sidetracked telling you about my pathetic dating life. But that’s why we’re better off as business partners instead of sex partners.” Pulling her phone from a hidden pocket in her dress, she opened an app and turned the screen to him. “I might be a fuck-up when it comes to relationships, but not in business. Yesterday, I shared the progress of your garden on social media. This morning, five clients called me wanting something similar. And one of them is Roy Sterling.”
Max stilled. “Of Bloom and Heart?” Not only was Roy from old-Michigan money but also owned the top home and garden magazine.
“Yup, him,” She trilled. “He and his wife bought a house on Grand Traverse Bay. They’d like us to submit a proposal. They want the interior, exterior remodeled—including a conservatory.”
“This year?”
She nodded. “If they hired us, we’d start next month. I’d have to shuffle around some clients, and the hours will be long . . . but it’s the Sterlings.”
He was already doing that for the Thompson project, but he hadn’t minded much because he liked the challenge of creating indoor gardens. And spending more time with Paloma was a definite bonus. But he wasn’t sure if he c ould take on another client, especially one that was out of town. That would stretch him and his employees too thin.
She came closer and took his hands. Her eyes were big and pleading. He couldn’t look away. “Please, tell me you’re interested. A job like that could change our lives. Take our careers to the next level.”
He was fine professionally. He had more than enough money and work. Yet, refusing her made his heart ache. He was torn between his contentment and her ambition.
Seeing Paloma happy and excited filled him with joy. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and he wanted to be a part of whatever made her eyes light up like that. It was becoming harder to separate his professional admiration from his growing personal feelings.
“I . . .” he began, voice faltering. Could he balance his needs with hers? The weight of the decision pressed down on him, and then he buried his worry under the hope in her eyes and caved. “I’ll do it.”
She lunged, hugging him so tight his breath whooshed from him. “Thank you. Thank you,” she squealed. “We are a fantastic team.”
His hands instinctively found her waist, and his body came alive at the contact. Her hair tickled his chin, her curves pressed against him, and his heart hammered so hard she could probably feel it. The scent of her shampoo made him dizzy, and he had to force his fingers not to flex against her hips.
Pulling away, their gazes met, and for a moment, neither moved. The warmth of her body, her light perfume wrapped around him. He found himself wanting to pull her close again, to feel her in his arms for just a little longer.
She seemed to realize how close they were standing and took a small step back, clearing her throat. “So, um, in conclusion,” she began, her voice slight ly unsteady, “it’s a good thing we didn’t sleep together. Mixing business with pleasure usually ends in disaster.”
Her gaze lingered on Max’s lips for a moment too long. “Usually,” he said, “but not always.”
“It does for me,” she whispered, almost pleadingly.
He heard what she asking. For now, he’d be her business partner and friend.
“You know what I noticed today?” she asked rhetorically.
“What’s that?”
“When I saw the post from the Sterlings, you were the first person I wanted to tell.” She fiddled with a price tag. “Not my brother, not my friends or family. You.”
“Makes sense it’s a team project.”
“No, that wasn’t it. In this short time, you’ve become my go-to friend. You’re important to me.”
The simple admission hit him harder than any flirtation could have. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She leaned against a display table, playing absently with a collection of vintage-style bulbs. “And that’s . . .” She shook her head, laughing softly. “That’s kind of terrifying.”
“Why?”
“Because important people always leave.” She met his eyes. “And the Sterling project could change everything for us.”
He caught her subtle emphasis on ‘us.’ “Professionally,” he said, testing the waters.
“Right.” She picked up another pendant light, then set it down without looking at it. “Though sometimes I wonder . . .”
“Yeah?” His throat went dry at the vulnerability in her expression.
“If I ’m being smart or just scared.” She gestured to the collection lights and LED strips they’d spent the last hour examining. “The thing is, Max, any other time in my life, I would’ve already . . .” She gestured between them, leaving the rest unsaid.
“I would’ve let you.” The admission cost him, but she deserved his honesty. “Hell, I nearly did when I thought I was the consolation prize.”
“But I think some risks aren’t worth taking.” She met his gaze. “No matter how tempting they might be.”
Max studied her face, recalling her story about the fiancé, about trust broken and dreams shattered. She was more than a spark or desire to chase.
And there was more to it. He wanted to be someone’s first choice, not their safe option after a string of bad decisions.
“I agree..” He took a step back, giving them both space to breathe. “These projects could transform both our business.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then looked to the wall of fixtures. “Now, about these hybrids for the conservatory . . .”
He let her change the subject, watching her eyes light up when she mentioned another detail about the Sterling project. They’d made the right choice. He’d rather be her partner in building something lasting than another chapter in her book of regrets.
“Max?” She was holding up two different fixtures. “Which one?”
He focused on the lights in her hands, committing to being her business partner and friend. It was the right choice.
So why did doing the right thing feel so wrong?