Chapter Thirteen
September 13th, 5:15 p.m.
P aloma’s car swung left onto Front Street, tires crunching over loose gravel. Max rolled down his window, taking in the faint freshwater scent from nearby Grand Traverse Bay. It was mixed with the subtle fragrance of hanging baskets and planters that decorate the street. The combination was Michigan magic.
The sugar maples lining the street were beginning to hint at autumn, with a few leaves starting to blush gold at the edges. The design was perfect for the bustling city. Their still-full canopies provided a beautiful backdrop and ample shade for pedestrians strolling along the sidewalks enjoying ice cream and the sunset.
She made another turn, and the busy main street faded away like the last whisper of summer. She parked in front of her brother’s house, a beautiful two-story building with burnt red siding and white trim. Max had a soft spot for homes with front porches, and Felix’s lined the front of his. A mature sugar maple dominated the small yard, its canopy a vibrant palette of reds and golds that seemed to capture the essence of a Michigan autumn.
“Nice place,” Max said, retrieving Paloma’s small roller bag from the trunk and walking her to the porch.
The front door swung open before she’d even knocked, and in the entryway stood a taller, masculine version of Paloma. The same black hair, azure eyes, and wide, full mouth regarded her with a huge grin.
He pulled her into a bear hug. “Sis! It’s been too long.”
“It has.” She squeezed him tight.
A woman with light brown hair who looked like her last name should be Kennedy or Rockefeller glided around Felix. Her green eyes crinkled with genuine delight as she enveloped Paloma in a tender embrace. “How are you?” she asked, her voice rich and melodious, each word enunciated with the polish of a finishing school education.
Paloma beamed, pulling away from the hug. “Max, this is my brother, Felix, and his girlfriend, Abigail.”
“Nice to meet you,” Felix said, ushering them inside. “I’d give you a tour of the whole house, but the upstairs is going through a major renovation, and anyway, all the fun is downstairs.
Crossing the threshold, Max was enveloped in the warmth and the intoxicating aroma of spiced rum. Through the foyer, they stepped into laughter and clinking glasses. The house was filled with people.
“Welcome to card night. Poker’s in the dining room,” Felix announced. “To the right, in the dining room, is poker.” Max glimpsed a long cherrywood table, every seat filled. Then, they moved to a large, open family room and kitchen. Groups of four sat around a coffee table, another at a high top. “In here is euchre. At the breakfast nook is Texas hold ’em.
“What do you say?” Abigail asked, pulling out two bar stools at the kitchen’s island. “Play a little euchre?”
“Euchre?” he echoed, punched in the heart by nostalgia. During his second semester at his new high school, he’d been paired with Jackson for an assignment. They’d gotten along, and Max had been invited for cards. There, he met Asher and other people who were still his friends today. They taught him the game, but more importantly, it had been the first time he’d truly felt like he belonged in his new home. “I’d love to,” Max said, his voice thick with memory.
Felix mixed drinks as they settled into their seats. The familiar rhythm of shuffling and dealing filled the air. Max was instantly at ease, swept up in the friendly competition and banter.
The hours slipped by, and the next time he looked out the window, the moon and stars were out, and he was three or five old-fashioneds deep into what was shaping up to be an unforgettable night. His cheeks ached from laughter, and his mind buzzed pleasantly with liquor. Across from him sat Paloma, his partner against Felix and Abigail. Fence and a woman whose name he couldn’t quite recall—was it Bella?—were sipping their drinks and watching the action.
“Alright, last hand,” Felix announced, shuffling the cards. “We’re all neck and neck, so this is for all the marbles.”
Max picked up his hand, glancing briefly at Paloma before he assessed his cards. He had the Jack of hearts, nine of hearts, King of clubs, ace of spades, and Queen of diamonds. The up card was the ten of spades. Across the table, Abigail shuffled her cards while Felix looked at his hand thoughtfully.
“Pass,” Max said, his eyes flicking to Paloma. She met his gaze, her brow knitting slightly, and he caught the faintest tilt of her head. He’d learned that meant she had a plan.
“Pass,” said Abigail.
“Pass,” Felix echoed, scanning the table.
Paloma hesitated for a fraction of a second before saying, “Pick it up,” to Felix, her tone steady. He noted how her fingers tapped lightly on the table, a subtle signal that she had a strategy in mind.
He grinned, scooping up the ten of spades. “Spades it is, then.”
His focus remained on Paloma as he led with the ace of spades. She played the nine of spades, and he noticed the slight tightening in her shoulders. She was taking a calculated risk, and he had to support it.
Abigail played the King of spades, and seeing no spades in his hand, Max discarded his nine of hearts. He caught Paloma’s gaze, and she gave a nearly imperceptible nod—a sign that they were still on the same page. Felix threw in the ten of hearts, clearly biding his time.
Abigail led the next trick with the Queen of spades. Paloma played low, clearly setting something up, and Felix took the trick with the Jack of spades. Anticipation built in Max, he nudged Paloma’s ankle under the table. She tapped back, a jolt of warmth spreading through him at the simple touch. It was all the confirmation he needed—they were in perfect sync, reading each other’s intentions without a word.
“Come on, babe,” Felix crowed. “One more, and we’ve got this.”
Abigail led with the ace of diamonds. Paloma played another low card, holding back, and Felix followed suit. Max didn’t hesitate; he confidently laid down his Queen of diamonds, taking the trick. Paloma’s gaze was on him, and he swore it was warm with approval.
It was his turn to lead. He looked at Paloma, searching her expression for a hint of what she might be holding. She met his eyes, her lips curving in a small, confident smile, and that was all he needed. He played his Jack of hearts—the left bower in a Spades hand.
Her beautiful face lit up as she laid down her ace of hearts, and a thrill ran through Max. Groans echoed around the table. “Last trick, Paloma,” he said, his voice low and sure. “Bring it home.”
Without hesitation, she played the Jack of spades—the right bower—sealing their victory. The room buzzed with the energy of their triumph, but Max was only aware of her smile, the way it matched his own.
“Yes! ” he exclaimed, reaching across the table to high-five her. Their hands lingered, fingers brushing, thrill shot through him. He held her gaze, and the electricity between them was palpable—a shared spark of victory and something more unspoken.
Felix shook his head. “Unbelievable. How did you know she had the right bower, Max?”
He shrugged, still grinning at Paloma. “I didn’t know for sure. But something told me she had a plan, and it’d be a good one.”
The corner of Paloma’s mouth twitched—that telltale sign she was holding back a full-blown smile. The warmth from the bourbon made him a little looser and his grin a bit wider. His foot nudged hers under the table again. Her gaze met his, a glimmer of mischief dancing in her eyes.
“Pretty good, huh?” she said, her voice a little slower, leaning back in her chair as if she’d won a marathon instead of a card game. She stretched her arms overhead, the movement exaggerated, and let out a satisfied sigh. “I mean, I practically carried the team.”
He snorted, recognizing her playful jab for what it was. “Oh please,” he retorted, “I was the mastermind behind this operation.”
She quirked an eyebrow, a challenge clear in her expression. “Is that so? And here I thought I was partnered with a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve. Or should I say, his cards on his face?”
Before he could fire back, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled for it, glancing at the screen through tipsy eyes. He caught the time and muttered, “Oh shit,” as he answered, with a slight slur, saying “Jamie, shit, sorry. I lost track of time.”
“It also sounds like you lost track of the drinks you’ve drunk,” his friend laughed.
“Yeah, I’ll definitely be getting an Uber to your place. I’ll call now.” He stood, and thankfully, the room only tilted instead of spinning.
“Don’ t worry about it. I’ll come get you. Front Street isn’t far from me.”
Max gasped. “How do you know where I am at?”
Jamie snorted. “You told me when you texted to tell me you’d be a little late. This was back when you were sober.”
“I’m sob—” He cut off that lie. “I’m buzzed, not drunk.”
“Whatever, man. I’ll be there in a few.” Jamie hung up, still laughing.
Maybe it was time for water. Max pulled up short. The woman who’d been standing next to Fence blocked his path.
“Bella?” Her name was a question along with why she was in his way.
“Isabella,” she corrected, her voice soft and playful. She rested her hand on his bicep, her touch lingering as she gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I couldn’t help but notice your game earlier. You’ve got quite the intuition.”
He nodded, a little uncomfortable with the attention. “Thanks. Paloma and I seem to click when it comes to Euchre.”
“She’s your work partner, right?”
He nodded, and she leaned closer, her breath warm against his cheek. “Oh, good, because I wasn’t just talking about the cards.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve been watching you all night. The way you read people, the way you . . . connect. It’s impressive.”
A flicker of surprise pinged through him, followed by a twinge of discomfort. Her gaze was intense, almost hungry, and he leaned back slightly. He was a little flattered, but mostly he didn’t like that a woman who wasn’t Paloma was in his personal space.
“You know,” she said, her fingers tracing a small pattern on his skin, “I’d love to see how that intuition of yours translates to other . . . situations.”
His brows shot up, and his mind raced, struggling for an appropriate response.
“Max!” Paloma’s voice cut through the moment like a knife. He turned, and she was striding toward them, her eyes flashing with an emotion he couldn’t q uite place. Her easy smile was replaced by a taut line, her posture rigid. “I thought we were going to, um . . . discuss that thing.”
“What thing?” he asked.
She moved closer, her shoulder brushing against his arm, effectively creating a barrier between him and Isabella, causing her hand to slip from his bicep. She took a small step back, the self-assurance draining from her features as she glanced briefly at the floor.
“You know, the . . . thing. About the . . . project.” Paloma turned to Isabella, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Sorry, inside joke. You know how it is with . . . partners.”
He couldn’t help but notice that she left out the “business” before “partners.” Was it intentional?
“Right,” Isabella said, glancing between them. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Max.” She picked up her drink from the kitchen’s island and walked toward Fence.
Paloma visibly relaxed, leaning slightly into Max. “I need some air. Come with me?”
Hell yes, he was going to follow her. He needed clarification on that bewildering exchange.
Once outside, her eyelids fell closed, and the cool air ruffled her hair. “Much better,” she murmured.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
Opening her eyes, she looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Paloma.” His words cut through the night air. “That whole scene back there. The ‘thing’ about the ‘project’? The way you practically shoved yourself between me and Isabella?”
Her cheeks blazed crimson as she averted her gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. ”
“Really?” he pressed. “Because it seemed an awful lot like you were jealous.”
Her head whipped around. “Jealous? Me? That’s ridiculous!”
He leaned in, and the scent of her perfume clouded his senses, stoking his frustration. “Is it? From where I’m standing, it looks like you couldn’t handle seeing another woman flirting with me.” Aggravation simmered beneath his skin, warring with a burning curiosity. He forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow. “What, you don’t like anyone hitting on your backup plan?”
The words hung between them, charged with unspoken tension. He hadn’t meant to let that slip, but there it was—the ugly truth neither of them wanted to face.
She took a half-step back, her head tilting. “What are you talking about?”
“Asher,” he replied, done tiptoeing around the other man’s shadow looming between them.
“What about him?” she snapped.
Tightness gripped his jaw. “You’re going to make me spell it out.”
She slammed her hands on her hips. “I’ve already apologized for coming on to you that night at the bar. It was a shitty thing to do, but that was months ago!”
“But you’re still hung up on him,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Stepping toward him, she poked him in the chest. “For fuck’s sake, Max!” Her eyes narrowed. “Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t get to make assumptions about my feelings!”
He jutted out his chin. “I saw you at the coffee house.”
“Another emotionally stunted male,” she muttered. “I wasn’t pining after Asher. I was being a petty bitch. There’s a huge difference. I was pissed at the way he discarded me.” She dropped her hand and shrugged. “Which is dumb beca use we didn’t have anything special. And he was right to break it off since he’s obviously interested in Lilith. But . . .”
“But what?” Max asked.
“But I did text him and apologize.” She shrugged again and smiled. “I’m petty but not stupid. He’s good for my business. I’m on speed dial for him and Hope when any of their clients need a home designer.”
The ground tilted under him. He’d read the situation completely wrong. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions. I should have known you better than that. It’s just . . . when I saw you at the coffee house, I thought . . .” He shook his head, stepping down two of the porch steps. “Never mind. You’re right; I shouldn’t make assumptions about your feelings.”
The tension seemed to drain from her body. She moved in front of him. Still on the porch, they were now eye level. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I get it. It probably looked bad from the outside.”
They stood there, the air between them thick with unspoken desires and lingering tension. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how close they were standing.
“Paloma, I . . .” His pulse thundered in his ears, and he leaned in, her lips tantalizingly close. The world had narrowed to this single, perfect moment—her warmth, scent, the promise of a kiss hanging between them like a gossamer thread.
He leaned in, intending to close the final distance between them. Then, the bass from a car boomed, shattering the delicate silence.
His stomach lurched as if the ground had liquefied beneath his feet. Reality crashed between them with brutal force, leaving him reeling. Headlights, harsh and unforgiving, pierced the darkness, pulling alongside Felix’s house.
Shit. Jamie.
He steppe d onto the sidewalk, the space between them suddenly vast and aching. A cold emptiness settled in his chest where anticipation had burned mere seconds ago. He summoned a smile that was probably more like a grimace, hyper-aware of Paloma’s proximity, of the moment slipping away like water through cupped hands.
They walked to Jamie’s car, and Max introduced Paloma. His skin prickled with frustration, desire thwarted and unresolved. “Give me a second to grab my duffle,” he told his friend.
He turned to Paloma. Her body language was closed off. “I guess this is goodnight then,” she said, her tone neutral. Her car was parked a little farther down the street, and they walked toward it.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Max replied, searching her face for any hint of the connection they’d shared moments ago. “Thanks for inviting me tonight. It was . . . fun.”
She nodded, her expression guarded. “It was. I’m glad you met my brother and Abigail.”
He hesitated, wanting to address what had almost happened between them. “Paloma, about what—”
“We got caught up in the moment.” Her gaze focused on her car, now a few feet away.
A pang twisted in his chest. “Right,” he said, failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
He went to the back of the car to grab his bag. The trunk popped open, and their gazes snagged over the hood. A spark of electricity passed between them.
“Max, I—” Paloma started, then stopped, shaking her head slightly.
“What is it?” he asked, his hand pausing on the handle of his bag.
She opene d her mouth, then closed it again, clearly struggling with what to say. Finally, she managed, “Have a good night. I’ll . . . I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning on the way to the Sterling house.”
He pulled out his bag and closed the trunk with a soft thud. “Yeah, see you tomorrow.” All the way to Jamie’s car, the weight of Paloma’s gaze followed him. Hand on the passenger door, he turned and caught a glimpse of conflict in her eyes before she quickly looked away.
Climbing into Jamie’s car, Max tossed his bag in the back seat, his mind whirling with unanswered questions and unresolved tension. As they pulled away from the curb, he watched Paloma in the side mirror. She stood rooted to the spot, her expression unreadable in the dim streetlight.
“Everything okay, man?” Jamie asked.
Max tore his gaze from the mirror. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just . . . complicated.”