10. Max
Chapter 10
Max
S he’s not what I expected.
I don’t usually take meetings off a referral, but Sebastian rarely offers praise. When he does, it means something. Plus, his strange behavior about the girl made me want to dig a little deeper.
Still, I assumed I’d get another over-eager planner trying to impress me with glossy mood boards and Pinterest energy. I wasn’t expecting her.
Genevieve St. Claire walks in with polished professionalism and a spark just beneath the surface. It’s not arrogance. It’s something quieter. Earned. The way she carries herself, the way she answers questions, the way she pushes back without sounding combative. She knows she has something to prove. And I can tell she’s used to people doubting her.
She’s well-spoken. Articulate. Precise. But there’s a moment—just a flicker—where her confidence cracks. A shift in posture. A falter in her voice. She recovers quickly, but I notice.
I notice a lot more than I should.
The silk of her blouse. The slight shake in her hand before she steadies it. The way her eyes dart to my mouth when she thinks I’m not watching. Her perfume—not heavy or artificial, just...soft. Fresh. Feminine. It lingers after she’s gone.
She’s nervous.
And for reasons I can’t explain, I don’t want her to be.
I keep things professional. I always do. The world I live in requires discipline—walls that stay up no matter how many people try to climb them. I’ve built a career on control. On not letting distractions interfere with the goal. But she walks in and suddenly, I’m aware of the curve of her mouth and the flush creeping up her neck when I don’t look away. I’m not even sure I can.
It’s not about attraction. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. I just know that I can't seem to keep my eyes off her. She’s young. Talented. Trying hard not to show how much she cares about making the right impression. There’s something vulnerable beneath all that polish. And determined. It’s a dangerous combination.
I’m almost sad to see her leave when our meeting comes to an end.
The moment the door clicks shut behind her, my phone buzzes. I don’t check it right away. I wait. Because I need a beat to pull my head back where it belongs.
When I finally glance at the screen, Naomi’s name lights up.
I swipe to answer. "You’re calling before noon. What’s on fire?"
"Your brain, apparently," she says dryly. "You sounded distracted in your text this morning. I figured I’d intervene before you did something uncharacteristically emotional."
I sink back in my chair. "Good morning to you, too."
"Don’t ‘good morning’ me. What’s her name?"
"Who says this is about a woman?"
"Because you’re weird, Max. And when you get weird, it’s either because you found a structural flaw in someone’s business plan—or a girl. I’m betting this isn’t about zoning codes."
I don’t say anything. Which is apparently all the confirmation she needs.
Naomi hums. "So? What’s she like?"
I stare out the window. "She’s smart. Young. Talented."
"Pretty?"
I pause. "Distracting."
"Ah. One of those."
"She’s not a flirt. She’s not trying to charm her way into anything. She actually knows what she’s doing. And she’s good at it."
"And yet here you are, acting like your software crashed."
"She caught me off guard. That’s all."
"Max."
Naomi and I have always been close. Close in the way that comes from surviving the same pressure cooker childhood and walking away with matching burn scars. We grew up in a house where image mattered more than honesty. Where expectations were sky-high and affection was earned, not given. It’s why we understand each other even when we don’t say much.
She’s sharp. Perceptive. Always five steps ahead, but with more compassion than I know what to do with. She’s also the only person who doesn’t buy the carefully curated version of me I present to the world.
She doesn’t push often. But when she does, it’s usually with good reason.
"You’re not going to act on it," she says after a beat. It’s not a question.
"Of course not."
"Because she’s young. And competent. And you respect her."
"Exactly."
"And because you haven’t flirted with anyone in what? Nine months? A year?"
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Naomi."
She’s quiet for a second. Then, "Do you even know what you’d do if you let yourself want something again?"
I ignore that.
"You know what your problem is?" she continues. "You keep surrounding yourself with people who expect you to be made of stone. You’re not. You never were. But you’ve convinced everyone—including yourself—that feeling something is the same as weakness."
"I don’t have time to chase a feeling."
"You don’t have to chase anything. But maybe stop running from it, too. I’m just saying. Maybe being human every once in a while wouldn’t kill you."
"Noted."
She softens a little. "Don’t shut down because something feels different. You’re allowed to want things, Max. Even if you don’t know what to do with them."
I don’t respond. I can’t. Because she’s not wrong. And because some part of me already knows this isn’t the end of it.
"She’s a client," I say, because that’s the line I’ve drawn. It’s clean. Uncomplicated.
"And yet, you’re brooding over her."
I roll my eyes. "Thanks for the call."
"You’re welcome. Also, I’m sending you the updated budget proposal for the foundation gala. Don’t pretend you lost it again."
"I never said I lost it."
"You conveniently forgot to review it. Again."
Naomi lets the silence stretch. Then, quietly, "Do you want me to vet her?"
"No."
"Okay. Then trust your instincts."
I hang up, stare down at my desk, and wonder why trusting myself suddenly feels harder than anything else.
I close my eyes and lean back in the chair. I tell myself I’m focused. Disciplined. That I know how to compartmentalize. But even as I open the next spreadsheet, I’m still thinking about her.
Genevieve St. Claire.
The girl who walked into my office and made me forget how to breathe for a full ten seconds.
This should be nothing. Another project. Another professional interaction.
So why do I get the sinking feeling it’s already more than that?
It shouldn’t be. It can’t be.
And, not just because she’s a potential vendor. No, this girl is just that. A girl . She’s over a decade my junior and still green in ways she probably doesn’t realize yet. Still finding her footing. And I’ve lived a whole life she hasn’t even begun to imagine. I’ve built empires, watched them burn, rebuilt better. I know what I want. What I don’t. What I can afford to let in. She doesn’t. Not really.
I shouldn’t be watching her mouth when she speaks. Shouldn’t be wondering how her skin would feel under my hands. I can remember the pitch of her voice when she promised she could deliver what I wanted—and how my brain immediately put it in the wrong context.
She’s a risk. Not the kind that can be managed. The kind that lingers. That tempts you into thinking about possibilities. I’ve spent years cutting those out of my life.
The smart thing would be to find another event planner. It doesn’t matter how good she is. I open her file again. Her preliminary pitch. Her deck. It’s solid. More than solid. It’s thoughtful, sharp, strategic. She understands vision and execution. She doesn’t just think in aesthetics—she thinks in results.
I have other things that need my attention. But my mind keeps straying back to her.
I’m thinking about the way she looked at me before she left. Curious. Cautious. Interested. I saw it. Felt it. I know chemistry when I see it, even when I wish I didn’t.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and exhale slowly.
This is a bad idea.
And I’m already too far in to walk away clean.