Chapter Seventeen
October 4th, 4:00 p.m.
M ax gripped the handlebars of his motorcycle, his knuckles white beneath his gloves. In a few days, he’d be alone with Paloma for two whole weeks. Two weeks of pretending he didn’t want to touch her again, to finish what they’d started in the Thompsons’ house. Two weeks of trying to focus on work when all he could think about was the softness of her skin under his fingertips, her taste, the intoxicating scent of her perfume mingled with desire.
He’d promised her he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t flirt unless he meant it. But damn, how he wanted to. The urge to throw caution to the wind, to risk it all for another moment with her, was almost overwhelming. But he wasn’t the impulsive screwup of his youth.
He turned into the parking lot of The Hill, adjusting for the uneven surface, hating his lies. His resolve was as steady as the gravel under his tires. Another man with a little more control wouldn’t have taken that kind of risk at a client’s house.
He parked and dismounted his bike and took a deep, centering breath. The crisp autumn air filled his nose, carrying the aroma of grilled burgers and fresh apple pie. His stomach growled in anticipation as the scents mingled with the earthy smell of fallen leaves and the faint tang of gasoline from the surrounding vehicles. He focused on the mouthwatering fragrances rather than the knot of anticipation that had taken up permanent residence in his stomach lately.
Gravel crunched under tires as Jackson and Asher pulled in next to him. A minute later, the rumble of Tate’s Triumph approached, its deep purr cutting through the quiet country air. He executed an impressive tight U-turn, the bike’s chrome gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight.
Max removed his helmet and asked no one in particular, “Why is Tate selling his bike? He’s a great rider and seems to love it.”
“He says he doesn’t have time to ride and doesn’t want to pay for the extra parking spot at his condo,” Asher said.
Jackson tucked his helmet under his arm, lowering his voice. “You know, I met Tate’s new girl last week. Katrina. I think she might be the reason.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
Jackson’s mouth tightened into a grimace. “I got the feeling she wants him to be his only hobby.”
“She’s intense,” Asher agreed.
Tate killed the engine, then removed his helmet. “The backroads out here were fucking fantastic. I swear, every time I come here, I want to quit my job and leave the city.”
Jackson and Max exchanged a look but said nothing. Tate was Lilith’s brother and the newest to their circle, so none of them knew him well, but Max hoped everything was okay.
“You could,” Asher told Tate, nodding toward The Hill. “I heard the owners are retiring and selling the restaurant.”
Tate laughed. “Funds manager turned entrepreneur, that’d be a change. Instead of managing other people’s millions, I’ll do it for myself. Come on, let’s grab a table at my future restaurant,” he joked.
“Go ahe ad, I’ll meet you there,” Max said. “I need to store my shit.”
“Same,” Jackson added. Asher and Tate nodded, heading toward The Hill.
Max closed and locked his saddle bag, asking Jackson, “How’s it going with your newest hardware store in Grand Rapids? It’s your third, right?”
“Yeah, my third. The distance makes it challenging, But once I get a good, solid manager who’s local, I’ll be less stressed.” Jackson locked the forks on his motorcycle, then asked, “How’s the new projects with Paloma going?”
“Interesting.”
“I bet. What’s it like working with her? She seems . . . intense.” Jackson grinned. “And hot.”
Max’s mind flashed to that moment in the Thompsons’ house—Paloma’s lips on his, her skin under his fingertips, smooth as silk, warm and inviting. Her addictive taste. He shook off the memory, his chest tightening at the crushing weight of her words afterward: “I want you, but I want my career more.”
“It’s complicated,” Max replied, aiming for nonchalance but missing by a mile.
Jackson paused to lock the steering and said, “Complicated, huh? Spill it, London.”
They started toward the diner, their boots kicking up gravel. “She’s brilliant,” he said. “She has an amazing eye, and her business sense is waaay better than mine. And yeah, she’s gorgeous, but it’s more than that. She has this . . . presence.”
“My friend, you sound like you’re whipped.”
“Shut the hell up.” Max chuckled. “And okay, fine, I’m attracted to her. And it’s messing with my head. We work well together, but there’s this . . . tension. It makes it hard to focus sometimes,” he admitted, leaving out the part abo ut how they’d nearly been caught messing around by a client. Jackson would tease him mercilessly until they were old and gray.
His friend let out a low whistle. “Well, well, well . . . looks like our boy Max is feeling the heat! But, come on, man, you’re overthinking this; mixing business with pleasure is a fucking fantastic combination.”
“I disagree,” he lied. “We’ve got two high-profile projects on the line and clients counting on us. If we mess this up, it’s not just our feelings at stake—it’s our reputations and our careers. I’d feel like a dick if emotions screwed things up.”
“Then don’t let emotions factor in. Have some fun. Release that tension. You’re both adults.”
Max shoved his hands in his back pockets. “I’m not sure we’re on the same page. About everything.”
“Oh, damn.” Jackson shook his head, running a palm up his face to his short locs. “The attraction is one-sided. That sucks.”
“No, it’s not that. More like she’s afraid it’ll affect our work.”
It was Jackson’s turn to look confused. “Why? It’s not like you’ll be fucking on the table at a client’s house.”
Max choked on a swallow and stumbled over the gravel. He quickly regained his composure. “Right, of course not,” he said, forcing a laugh that sounded strained. He picked up his pace, hoping the brisk walk would explain away the heat creeping up his neck. “That would be so unprofessional.”
“Holy shit, London! What did you two do?” Jackson said to Max’s back, catching up a second later.
“Noth—”
Jackson shoved Max playfully. “Don’t fucking tell me nothing, you liar.”
“All I’m saying is—”
“Save it.” Jackson’s grin widened. “Your face says everything. You kinky bastards did something, didn’t you?’
Max kept walking. There was no point in denying it. “We might have gotten a little carried away.” He dipped his chin and looked at his friend. “At a client’s house.”
Jackson’s eyes widened. “Were they home? Like, watching?” He wiggled his brows. “That is kinky.”
Max snorted. “No, you asshole. But they came home. We were nearly caught.”
Jackson tilted his head to the sky and laughed. When the asshole got control of himself, he said, “And that’s why you should just fuck. Get it out of your systems, then maybe it won’t spill into your working hours.”
“Does that even work? The whole, ‘get it out of your system?’” He didn’t think there was any ‘getting Paloma out of his system.’ He’d only grow more addicted to her.
Jackson shrugged. “It does for me.”
Max fought the urge to roll his eyes. That was because Jackson was in love with Hope. He couldn’t give anyone else a chance when the guy was hung up on his best friend.
“Look, man,” Jackson continued. “Sometimes you’ve gotta take a risk. If you both feel it, why fight it? Life’s too short for what ifs.”
Max mulled over his friend’s words. Despite Jackson’s obliviousness to his own romantic situation, there was some truth to what he was saying. Maybe fighting the attraction was causing more problems than it would solve.
He could taste the freedom of giving in to their attraction, of exploring their electric connection without restraint. But the stakes were high; their professional reputation and hard-won projects could all come crashing down if things went wrong.
And yet, the thought of never knowing, of always wondering “what if,” was equally unbearable. Almost as unbearable as the upcoming two-week trip to Traverse City for the Sterling project. The two of them stay in the same house away from their usual environments.
“You still with us, London?” Jackson’s voice broke through his reverie.
Max blinked. He’d stopped walking. “Yeah, just thinking about that job I mentioned. Paloma and I are heading out of town for two weeks to start the groundwork.”
“Two weeks, huh? Sounds like the perfect opportunity to ‘release that tension. ’”
“It’s a work thing, man.”
“Even better!” Jackson clapped Max’s shoulder. “Two weeks of ‘professional development,’ if you know what I mean.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Max groan-laughed.
Jackson held up his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk said it all. “I’m just saying, two weeks is a long time to dance around each other.”
“It is,” Max sighed. “But we’ll keep it professional. It’s what needs to happen.” Unless she was sure about changing things. He couldn’t take the back and forth.
He pushed open the door to the diner. Two weeks in Traverse City. The ball was in her court, and he’d respect whatever she decided.
But damn if a huge part of him hoped she’d change her mind.