Chapter Thirty-Two
November 24th, 9:00 p.m.
T he restaurant door swung shut behind them. The cool November air was a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. Paloma shivered slightly. Max shrugged out of his jacket, offering it to her. She shook her head, not wanting him to freeze because she’d forgotten hers.
He moved behind her and draped the jacket over her shoulders. She put her arms in the sleeves, her hands lost in its large size, and she heated from his scent of cedar.
After saying goodbye to her brother and Abigail, he asked, “Should I call for an Uber?”
“I don’t mind walking, but you might want a ride since I’ve confiscated your coat,” she joked.
“I’m fine. Let’s walk.”
“It is a beautiful night,” she mused, looking at the stars peeking through the city’s glow.
Max hummed as if in agreement. They moved down the street, and with each block they passed, she became hyperaware of every point of contact, from the brush of his shoulder against hers to the warmth of the back of his hand, close enough for her to hold.
“I stil l can’t believe how well today went,” Max said, breaking the comfortable silence.
She grinned. “I know. When Mrs. Sterling hugged me, I thought I was dreaming.” The perfumed embrace was still fresh—the way the perfectly made-up woman’s eyes welled as she’d stepped from the conservatory into the living room. “It’s exactly what I imagined, but better,” Linda had said, her voice thick with emotion. Even now, hours later, the pure joy in her client’s face made Paloma’s chest tight with pride.
They rounded a corner, and the condo came into view, and a flutter of melancholy flipped in her stomach. This was their last night in Traverse City. Reality was waiting for them. They had no other job lined up. They were certain to get more offers, but that didn’t mean he wanted to work with her.
Opening the door for her, they walked to the elevator. Inside, they stood on opposite sides, the small space suddenly vast with the distance they’d placed between them. The soft hum of machinery filled the silence but couldn’t mask the weight of everything unsaid.
His fingers twitched at his side before he took a step forward. “I miss you.”
Her breath caught, and she reached for the collar of his jacket draped over her shoulders. “I’m right here,” she said softly, knowing what he meant—physical proximity wasn’t the same as true presence.
“But you’re not. Not really.” There was no accusation in his voice, only sadness. “You’re here, but you’re running.”
Instead of confronting the truth, she stepped in front of him. “Is that better?”
Reaching up, he tucked her hair behind her ears with an intimacy that made the lock on her heart stutter. “A little,” he murmured, but his eyes held so much more—desire, yes, but also patience, understanding, and something deeper that she was afraid to name.
His touch was gentle, asking rather than demanding. She was afraid to listen to what it asked of her. Because listening meant admitting he’d already slipped past her defenses. He could shatter her in ways no one else could. The feelings she’d desperately hoped to contain had escaped their cage, and soon they’d trample her when he inevitably found her to be too much.
His gaze dipped to her lips, and desire sparked in her. She leaned into needing a distraction from her worries. “Will you kiss me?” she asked.
He nodded and leaned in. Before their lips met, the elevator dinged, followed by the doors sliding open. They didn’t move apart until two staring teenage boys entered. Max stepped away, but the chasm didn’t feel as wide.
“We’re going up,” he told the boys, nodding with his chin.
“That’s what we get for paying more attention to the old people making out,” one kid whispered to the other.
“Whatever, the girl’s hot,” the other replied, not nearly as quietly as he probably imagined.
Paloma snort-laughed. “We can hear you.”
Their faces turned brighter than a clown nose. She peeked up at Max. He was biting on his bottom lip, silent laughter shaking his shoulders.
The elevator dinged its arrival to the top floor. The teenagers shuffled out of the way. Max wrapped his arm around Paloma as they left, pulling her to his side.
After the door shut, she asked, “Do you like me close, or are you jealous of my male admirers?”
“I defi nitely like you close.” He tickled her waist. “But I’m also reminding them that while I may be an old decrepit man, I’m leaving with the hot girl.”
She laughed while unlocking the condo. Once inside, she pulled him close, wanting their interrupted kiss. He went willingly, but when she tried to deepen it, to take it to the point where they were ripping off each other’s clothes, he pulled back and said against her lips, “Slow down, sweetheart. We’ve got all night.”
Then he kissed her like he cared about her. Like she was the only one falling. But she had to remember that good chemistry did not equal love. Just because she was feeling too much didn’t mean he felt anything.
Focus on the pleasure and worry about the rest later.
She reached for his belt and unbuckled him. He put his hand over hers and repeated, “Slow down. Let me savor you.”
He slid his hand through hers and guided them toward the bedroom. He took her purse and set it on the nightstand before sitting on the bed. Pulling her sideways onto his lap, he cupped her cheeks and pressed his lips to her. The kiss was slow and sensual as if he was savoring each moment.
Standing, he set her on the bed. Then he went down on his knees, unzipped her black leather boots, and removed them, followed by her socks. He circled the pad of his thumb over her ankle, eliciting a quiet moan from her.
“You like that?” he asked.
“Apparently. Though it’s new news to me.”
He bit gently on the spot and then soothed it with his tongue. Heat shot up her, pooling between her legs. “Max,” she moaned, unsure what she was asking for.
Standing, he came around. The mattress dipped as he settled behind her. Removing her sweater, he kissed her shoulders before his lips trailed down her spine. A t her bra strap, he unhooked it and slid his hand under the lace and over her breast. “Your skin is as soft as lisianthus.”
She jerked away, her stomach clenching. “Who’s that?” The question sliced through the air, razor-sharp. Was he comparing her to another woman? The asshole.
His chuckle rumbled against her skin as he pulled her close again. Warmth and irritation warred within her—how dare he laugh.
“It’s a flower,” he murmured, his breath warm on her neck.
“Oh.” Embarrassment flooded her cheeks where jealousy had roared. She ducked her head, grateful he couldn’t see her face. “That’s really sweet,” she admitted, smiling despite herself.
“And the truth,” he said, his hands gliding down her stomach and between her legs.
She pressed against his palm, twisting around and inhaling his intoxicating scent. “Please, Max. I need you close.”
He rolled to his side, and she met him in the center of the bed, tugging on his sweater. This time, he didn’t deny her and removed it. Followed by his slacks and boxer briefs, then socks. A naked Max was a glorious sight. And not all of it was merely his tight muscles and heated eyes, but this moment of true closeness between them.
Reaching for her purse, she got a condom and put it on him. “Come here,” he said. “I’ve missed your beautiful body against mine.”
She pressed her front against his side, and his arm wrapped around her, bringing her on top of him. That sensation of being home filled her again. Even more so when she looked into his eyes, dilated with lust but also touched with something more.
Too afraid to ask what that something could be, she focused on what she could have and took him inside her. “You’re so fucking perfect for me,” he sa id.
She blinked back sudden tears and nestled into his neck. Her throat constricted, chest tight with emotions she refused to name. It wasn’t the word ‘perfect’ that got her. All alone, it was trite, but added with, ‘for me’ as if she was perfect for him, that got her.
He rolled them but kept her wrapped in his arms as close as she had been when on top. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who needed skin-to-skin comfort. “Why do you feel this good?” he asked rhetorically, then groaned, “Fucking amazing.”
His thrusts were deep, and the pressure heady as his kisses. “Keep doing that. Don’t stop,” she begged.
“For you, anything,” he said, kissing her and giving her exactly what she needed. Her orgasm coiled, then released. He brought her leg up, hitting a spot that had her seeing heaven.
“Oh, Go—Max,” she gasped.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded, unable to speak. His rough pace and breathing told her he was close. She ran her short nails down his back, giving him a bite of pain he liked. He groaned her name as his body stiffened with his release.
Minutes or hours later, entangled in each other, her heartbeat returned to normal. She lay still, treasuring the warmth of his body pressed against hers, his steady breath tickling her neck. She traced absent patterns on his chest before catching herself and stilling them. These tender moments after sex were more dangerous than the act itself. They made her want to confess things she couldn’t take back, words and feelings pressing against her teeth and heart like prisoners testing their bars.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, disentangling himself and kissing her temple.
She reached for his pillow, then stopped halfway. No. She wouldn’t be that girl who surrounded herself with his scent, who let herself need too much. Instead, she rolled, facing the wall, pulling her arms tight against her chest, l etting reality crash over her like the roof of a house with a weak foundation.
The Sterling project was finished. Beautifully, perfectly finished.
There were no more projects to hide behind or excuses to keep this carefully constructed distance. There was nothing to buffer the inevitable moment when he’d want more—want things she wasn’t, want the person he thought she was rather than who she was.
The bathroom water shut off, and she quickly rolled on her side, facing the wall. Soon he’d realize what everyone else had—that she wasn’t worth the effort, that beneath her carefully crafted exterior lay someone too difficult to love.
The mattress dipped as he slid next to her. She kept her breathing steady, feigning sleep. The warmth of his hand hovered over her shoulder. Her fingers twitched to reach for him, but she curled them into her palm instead. After three heartbeats, he withdrew.
“Sweet dreams, Paloma,” he whispered, settling beside her without touching.
The space between them was a preview of what was coming. She lay rigid, each second of this night feeling precious and painful. Tomorrow they’d drive home, and the fantasy would begin to unravel.
So she stayed still, listening to his breathing deepen into sleep, clinging to these last moments before reality demanded its due.