Chapter Fourteen
September 14th, 10:15 a.m.
M ax held open the massive wooden front door, still reeling from the two-hour client meeting with the Sterlings that had upended all his conservatory design plans. Paloma stepped past him, the faint scent of her perfume teasing him.
They stepped onto the circular drive. Through the trees, waves crashed against the rocky shore below, their rhythm blending with the rustle of maple leaves that were turning from green to orange. Zipping up his jacket against the morning chill, he adjusted the strap of his messenger bag.
He shook his head. “Wow, Roy is something. He is particular in what he wants.”
Paloma ran a hand over her sleek updo and let out a strangled laugh. “Until his wife makes a suggestion.”
Max snorted. “Then he pauses and says the same thing—”
“And they both pretend it was his idea.” She threw up her hands. “I nearly bit through my tongue when he spent fifteen minutes explaining why they absolutely had to have the exact light fixtures his wife mentioned two minutes earlier.”
“Well, at least we know the real approval process now.” Max grinned, checking his watch. “Do you want to grab breakfast?”
“Yesss.” The word sounded like a deflating balloon. “I overslept and was too nervous to eat anyway. Felix says there’s a great breakfast place if we made a left instead of right when leaving the peninsula.”
Max snuck glances at Paloma’s profile as she navigated the coastal road. The almost-kiss from last night replayed in his mind: the desire in her eyes, the way she’d tilted her head and body toward him, and how his heart had nearly burst from his chest before Jamie’s terrible timing. Now, she was strictly business, detailing her vision for the house like nothing had happened. Maybe that was her way of telling him to back off.
She parked at the corner of a small strip mall in front of a weathered diner with blue trim and windows facing the harbor. Inside, they slid into a booth, and the waiter handed them menus, asking if they wanted coffee. They did, and after he left to retrieve the carafe, Max couldn’t hold back anymore. “Do you regret last night?”
“Hell yes!” she groaned, her fervor making his stomach drop. “Why did I drink so many of those fancy martinis Abigail made? And then stayed up talking with her and Felix until three in the morning before one of the biggest client meetings of my life.”
Right. She was choosing to pretend the almost-kiss hadn’t happened. He should follow her lead, but his mouth had other ideas. “I meant, do you regret that we almost kissed? Or regret that we didn’t?”
Her fingers stilled on the menu, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “A little bit of both.”
The waiter interrupted with coffee and a chipper, “Ready to order?” They went through the motions of choosing breakfast, though his stomach was twisted in knots, waiting to see if that was all Paloma would say.
After the waiter left, she stared out the window, watching the cars on the road between them and the harbor. Maybe that’s all she’d say. He sipped his coffee, doing his damnedest to swallow his impatience and impulsiveness.
She met his eyes, and the pain there made his chest ache. “Look, I want you, but we need to keep things professional. I’ve worked too hard rebuilding my reputation after my ex nearly destroyed it and my business. These projects with you—the Thompsons, the Sterlings—are my chance to prove myself. To show everyone who whispered behind my back that I’m not some lovesick fool who’s too dumb to manage her business.”
“I’m not asking you to give up your career,” he said softly, fighting the urge to reach for her hand. “We’re in this together. All I’m asking is we explore this attraction.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?” The question burst out before he could stop it. Typical. He kept pushing when he should have backed off.
“Honestly? Because nice guys like you scare me more than the obvious jerks. With them, I know the score. But men like you . . . it’s different. I don’t know what I’m getting into, and I don’t know how to trust what I feel.” She blinked rapidly. “I still wake up some nights in a cold sweat, wondering if I’ll ever trust my judgment again. I can’t risk messing up what we have professionally. I’m good at casual. I’m not good at,” she gestured between them, “whatever this could become.”
Her words were a physical weight on his heart. Everything in him wanted to promise he’d never hurt her, but empty promises weren’t what she needed. “What about after?” he asked quietly, his usual impulsiveness giving way to something more careful, more deliberate
She traced the rim of her coffee cup, not meeting his eyes. “The project is going to take three to four months. You’ll be sick of me by December.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Sick of her? Did she think so little of herself? For once, his usual impulsiveness stilled. She needed patience, not his typical headlong rush. “And if I’m not?”
She shrugged. “Fine. After the final walk-through with the Sterlings, I’ll take you to dinner at Trattoria Stella if you aren’t ready to run in the other direction.”
“I’d be happy going to Don’t Drive-in as long as it’s with you.”
“So would I. Their patty melt with jalapenos is amazing,” she joked.
The waiter balanced two heavy white plates. The scent of maple syrup and salsa had his stomach growling. He slid a towering stack of banana-stuffed French toast drowned in maple syrup in front of Max, followed by a massive breakfast burrito for Paloma that leaked green salsa onto the plate.
“Hot sauce?” the waiter asked, already reaching into his apron.
“Yes, please!” Paloma’s eyes lit up as he set down Tabasco and Sriracha. She dumped both liberally over her eggs. She caught him staring and grinned. “What? I love my food spicy, full of flavor.”
“I’m just making mental notes for December,” he said, cutting into his French toast. “When I cook you dinner after our first official date.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “Pretty confident for someone who has to wait three, maybe four months.”
“I am.” He leaned back, picking up his coffee. “Some things are worth waiting for.”