Chapter Thirty
November 7th, 8:30 a.m.
A searing bolt shot through Max’s shoulder, ripping a gasp from his throat. His eyes flew open, then squeezed shut, blocking the sun’s blinding rays. Waves of pain radiated outward, ebbing and flowing like a relentless tide. He forced his eyes open again, squinting against the glare until unfamiliar shapes emerged.
This wasn’t his bedroom. The last wisps of sleep clinging to his mind evaporated. His senses sharpened, and a sweet aroma enveloped him–wildflowers mingling with hints of coconut. His fingers brushed against soft, light blue fabric.
Paloma’s house. He was at Paloma’s house.
“Paloma?” The sheets rustled as he shifted his weight onto one elbow and rolled. White-hot pain flared across his upper back and down his arm. A strangled gasp escaped him as the spasm seized his muscles, freezing him mid-motion. He straightened, sucking a lungful of air and glancing at his shoulder. What the hell had happened?
A large, angry bruise dominated his shoulder and chest. The discoloration spread in an almost circular pattern but with irregular edges. At its center was an intense purplish-black blotch about the size of a grapefruit. Spidering ou t from the main area, lighter red and pink splotches extended toward the neck and down the upper arm.
He ran his fingers along a thin, parallel stripe of deep bruises from his shoulder to his upper chest. Flashes assaulted his mind: blinding headlights, a sickening crunch, the acrid smell of deployed airbags.
There’d been a car accident. He’d fallen asleep at the wheel. Oh God. His heart hammered against his ribs. Paloma had been there, hadn’t she? He vaguely recalled her voice, soft and worried . . . No, that was after. She kept waking him during the night, her words blurring together.
Shit. Had he hit another person on the road? The thought sucker punched him in the gut. His lungs seized. Each breath came shorter, faster, scraping his throat raw. The room tilted and swayed, the walls closing in. He blinked rapidly, but the world blurred, darkening at the edges.
The door creaked open, and Paloma appeared, balancing two steaming mugs of coffee. “You’re awake,” she said, a small smile on her lips. “How are you feeling?”
“Did I hit someone?” His voice cracked, high, and strangled, each word clawing its way out.
She rushed forward, kneeling in front of him, her hands cool against his clammy cheeks. “No, Max. No,” she said, her voice cutting through the roaring in his ears. “You hit the traffic median.”
Her cool hands anchored him, and he focused on her face, on the gentle pressure of her fingers against his cheeks. He drew in a shaky breath, then another, each coming a little easier than the last.
“Traffic median,” he repeated, the words still unsteady. The room’s spinning slowed, the edges of his vision sharpening. His shoulders dropped a fraction, some of the tension uncoiling.
He closed his eyes, breathing in her calm and exhaling his relief. In, out. In, out. He opened them again after a count of five or maybe five hundred. The world seemed more solid, more real.
“Okay,” he murmured, his voice low but no longer strangled. “Okay. Just the median. No one else.” His hand, now a little steadier, covered hers.
She stood, her warmth and comfort leaving him. Picking up the mugs from the dresser, she handed one to him and perched on the edge of the bed, her posture oddly stiff. There was a distance in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, and it made his heart sink.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The corner of her mouth dipped down. “For what?”
Where to start? For doing exactly what she feared would happen if they were more than business partners—complicating her life, messing with her career. He settled for, “Calling you. Keeping you up half the night. Missing your morning appointment.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay.” Her tone was almost flat. That hurt as much as the bruises from the accident.
He could fix this. Get his shit together and help more than hinder her. “What time are you leaving for Traverse City? Don’t worry about dropping me off at home. I’ll call Jackson. See if he can pick me up.”
“I’m not going. At least, not today.”
He paused, the mug halfway to his mouth. He returned it to his lap. “What? Why not?”
“The delivery people were due to arrive at the Sterling house early. I wouldn’t have made it on time.”
Because of him . Because she’d come to the hospital for him .
Bits and pieces from last night came back. She’d watched over him during the night. He rubbed the spot over his heart, ignoring the tender bruises. He loved and hated that she’d done both.
“Felix is covering for me. I told him we’d be there tomorrow or the next.”
That caught his attention, pausing his spiral. He couldn’t leave for Traverse City in the next day or so. “I can’t go. I have to call the insurance company. I was driving a work truck. Shit. I’m going to be late for—”
“I’ve already spoken to Grace. She’s going to take care of the truck stuff. She also called in someone named Greg to cover your appointments today. In fact, she said you’re good for the rest of the week. Heading up to finish the Sterling house won’t be an issue.”
His chest tightened. She’d done so much and rearranged her entire schedule all because of his carelessness. And what had he given her in return? Nothing but complications and setbacks. First, he’s the catalyst for the situation with the Thompsons, and now this accident. He’d forced her to miss an important appointment and burden herself with his care. The familiar ache of self-loathing settled in his gut. Once a fuck-up, always a fuck-up.
“I’m so sorry for all of this. You shouldn’t have had to—”
“Don’t.” Her tone was gentle but still distant. “It’s fine. Really.”
The tightness around her eyes and the slight downward tilt of her mouth told a different story. But he didn’t want to push or make things worse than they already were. Instead, he’d make it up to her the only way he knew how: by fixing his mistakes.
Gritting his teeth, Max turned, his bare feet hitting the bedroom rug. A hiss of pain escaped him, and every bruised muscle protested the movement. His forgotten coffee sloshed over the mug, dripping onto his boxer briefs and leg.
“Max,” she gasped, reaching for his mug, her fingers brushing against his. Instead of pulling away, he gently trapped her hand against the ceramic, his thumb tracing a small circle on her skin.
The bruis ing . . .” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the angry purple splotches marring his chest. Her free hand hovered inches from his skin, not quite touching.
He held his breath, torn. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he lied.
Her eyes snapped to his, a flash of something—concern or frustration—crossing her face. “Don’t.” She shook her head. “Don’t pretend with me.”
The air was heavy with unspoken words and restrained impulses. He loosened his grip on her hand, allowing her to pull away. She didn’t.
She let out a slow breath and let her fingers ghost over the edge of the bruise. He couldn’t hold back a sharp inhale at the contact. She immediately withdrew.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you,” she said.
“No, it’s okay,” He replied, missing her warmth. “It’s just . . . sore.”
“Let me get your pain meds.”
“No,” he said firmly. Medicine would fog up his thinking. “We need to talk about what happened with the Thompsons. I’m so sorry you had to deal with that situation.”
She stood and took a sip of her coffee. He couldn’t help but notice the way her t-shirt clung to her curves as she moved. He shouldn’t notice at a time like this, but she was so beautiful.
Her back was ramrod straight, but a little humor danced in her eyes. “It was so awkward, but I think we’re okay. Maybe. Plus, there’s nothing we can do.”
“First, tell me everything they said. Then we can decide if there’s anything we can do.”
Pacing, she told him the whole story. It had him drowning in guilt. That one fucking night with his ex was following him like a damn curse. And he shouldn’t have let his dick rule him that incredible afternoon.
“I agre e,” he said. “Let’s wait and see. Them having a recording of us gives me an ulcer, but it seems like they want to keep their lifestyle quiet and won’t risk talking or upsetting us so that we talk. If they call you, let it go to voicemail. I’ll deal with them.”
“I don’t need to hide behind a man,” she snapped.
He made to stand to stop her pacing, but a wave of dizziness hit him. He stumbled, and Paloma reached to steady him. Her hands gripped his bare arms, and they were face to face, barely inches apart.
Her gaze dropped to his lips, then quickly back to his eyes. She swallowed and stepped away, her hands falling to her sides. “Careful,” she murmured.
He was tempted to pull her close, but something told him that’d be a mistake. So, he focused on the conversation. “I know you can take care of yourself, but you had to handle them in person, where they blindsided you. It’s my turn to deal with any more awkwardness.”
“Fine,” she conceded.
“I say, we shelve them for now and put all our focus on wowing the Sterlings. They’re bigger fish anyway.”
She nodded. “I agree.”
He saw a flicker of something in her eyes—a spark of the usual light returning. It kindled a small flame of hope in his chest. Maybe he could still salvage this situation.
Yes, he’d messed up, but he wouldn’t let that define him or their partnership. One step at a time, he’d make things right. And maybe, just maybe, he could prove to Paloma—to everyone—that he wasn’t the perpetual screw-up.
“Rest. I’m going to take a shower. Then we can go to your house to pack. Are you sure you don’t want some pain meds?”
He nodded, and she turned to leave. He caught her hand. “Wait,” he said, his pulse picking up. “I know I’ve complicated things between us. But I wa nt you to know . . . you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”
Her breath caught. She squeezed his hand, her eyes shimmering. “Max, I—I can’t do this right now. We can’t.”
She pulled away, leaving him with the ghost of her touch and a heart full of unspoken words. The door closed behind her. “I’m falling in love with you, and I don’t know how to stop,” he told the empty room.