Chapter 9 #2
“I didn’t think so,” he said, planting his feet right in front of mine. “Then you practically inhaled my Macallan 18 and chased it down with your martini as if it were fruit juice.”
My amusement faltered for a moment. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have spent the entire evening practically setting my dress on fire with your glares,” I countered.
His gaze dropped to my lips, lingering longer than it should’ve. “You looked like you were enjoying your time with Jackson,” he said.
Oh . . . new territory.
“Jealous, are we?” I teased. He was paying attention to me again—that much was clear.
“I didn’t realize you had a thing for dads now.”
Did I? Not necessarily.
“He was a handsome one, wasn’t he?” I replied, batting my lashes innocently, trying to see how far I could push him.
“Stop testing me.”
He was losing his patience. A part of me felt a rush at his possessiveness. I liked it. There was something undeniably attractive about a man on edge, especially if that man was Max.
“I’d be a good mother,” I continued, meeting his gaze head-on, my chin held high.
“You’d make an even better gold-digger—if you found anyone willing, that is.”
“Bastard.”
I wanted to order another drink—one to throw at him, so I could watch the icy liquid splash against his smug face.
Max had a tendency to make my mouth drop, and not with any feeling of awe.
Annoyance, maybe. Frustration. I couldn’t stand the man and his stupidity.
How could such a handsome guy say something so mean?
It felt like I was dancing on the edge of a knife each time I spoke with him, and for some inexplicable reason, it was difficult to tear myself away.
His proximity made it difficult to think straight.
“That mouth of yours will get you in trouble someday,” he finally drawled. Each syllable that left his mouth felt like a pebble landing in a still pond, rippling outward and disturbing the calm surface.
“My mouth?”
A small smirk played on his lips. “Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word, “and that whole attitude you carry around with you. All that fire and defiance.”
I crossed my arms defensively. “My attitude?”
He laughed. “Your attitude is—”
“If you have any sense of self-preservation,” I interrupted, my voice gaining strength, “never comment on a woman’s attitude. Men are the only reason we have one anyway.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” he drawled, the amusement in his voice unmistakable. “Tell me, how do men navigate a minefield such as yourself?”
Did he find joy in annoying me? I hated that. It made me want to laugh for some reason, and that was such an odd reaction to something that frustrated me so.
“Don’t patronize me,” I snapped, trying to sound annoyed for what felt like the millionth time tonight. Inside, however, a tangled mess of emotions was running through me.
This was exactly why I shouldn’t drink gin.
“I’m not patronizing you,” he asserted with a confidence that was both irritating and strangely attractive. “I’m asking.” His voice was softer now. I didn’t know it could sound any smoother. “For my self-preservation, of course.”
I scoffed. “Trying would be a waste of your time. You’ve always gotten on my nerves.”
“Have I?”
“Yes, you have,” I admitted.
My gaze drifted down to his full lips. I wondered if he’d be a good kisser. He had to be—the man likely had women every weekend, since he looked like a walking Calvin Klein ad.
Why was I even thinking about something like that? I couldn’t kiss anyone. I wasn’t sure whether the curse was real or not.
Then I realized that wasn’t a bad idea. I needed to kiss someone I didn’t care about—someone I could detach myself from easily. Someone who wouldn’t leave an aching void when the spell inevitably wore off.
Someone like Max.
It was a stupid idea—one that bordered on self-destructive. Max wouldn’t even consider it. My father had sworn a blood oath that made it so any man of his who laid a finger on me would face dire consequences.
If it wasn’t the curse that would kill Max, it would be my father.
Still, the thought lingered.
“Anyway, this conversation has been lovely, but I’ve got to go.”
The word “go” was a flimsy excuse, a desperate attempt to escape the suffocating air that seemed to follow Max.
In truth, I could have stayed wallowing in the intoxicating haze of alcohol and my silly, unspoken desires. But I was most certainly too drunk to deal with him, and more importantly, I was too drunk to deal with myself.
I lifted my hand to his chest. His muscles tensed beneath my touch.
He was warm—impossibly warm. His gaze fell to where my hand rested against him. He was surprised. His heartbeat pounded against his rib cage. It was strong . . . fast.
He put on one hell of a front.
“Go where?” he asked. “Back to Jackson? He’s not your type.”
This was the second time he’d brought up Jackson.
“No? And you know what my type is?” I challenged, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
We were back to our argumentative tendencies.
“Men who are sad, broken, and in need of fixing.” He said this with his eyes narrowed.
I blinked, surprised by his answer. It was a low blow even for him. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but he wasn’t exactly right either.
The truth, which was far messier, would hit a nerve of his. I couldn’t say it out loud. It slipped out anyway. “I would say you’re wrong,” I began, “but I did have a thing for you once.”
“Stop flirting with me,” he said with a swallow.
I frowned. “But it’s so fun.”
And it really was.
“You enjoy tormenting me?” he asked.
I didn’t know my flirting was tormenting, but so be it. There was something about Max that made me want to act on my impulses. Sue me, but I’d had a few deprived years. To put it plainly, I wanted some kind of intimacy, and that was very hard to get when every man I kissed shit the bed.
“Yes, I do. It comes with its perks,” I admitted.
He seemed flustered. “And what might those be?”
“Getting under your skin, for one.”
“And two?” he asked.
I watched him intently. I thought about kissing him again. I couldn’t kiss him. Especially not here, a few feet away from being seen by my entire family.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t look at me like that,” he demanded.
“Like what?” I persisted, playing dumb for all I was worth. A slow smile spread across my lips.
“You know what.”
My hand, seemingly of its own accord, drifted up his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone before coming to rest on the warm skin of his neck.
He stayed silent, his eyes never falling from mine for even a second.
My heart hammered against my ribs, urging me forward, while my mind screamed warnings.
Was I really going to kiss him?
Oh gosh, I think I am.
I knew what kissing Max meant, but before I could talk myself out of it, I was leaning against him, closing the distance between us.
The man didn’t make it difficult at all. He didn’t pull away like I expected him to.
Instead he did what he shouldn’t have done.
He allowed me to kiss him.
His large hands, warm and unexpected, settled on the small of my back, pressing me flush against his hard frame.
Max was kissing me back.
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but there was something about the way he held onto me that spoke more than the kiss could.
It felt intoxicating to hiss him. Or maybe that was just the gin. Either way, his lips were warm and fit so well against mine. So did his hands. They grabbed onto my hips and then went lower, and lower . . .
The moment was short-lived. As if coming to his senses, Max pulled away, his grip tightening on my jaw. He seemed frustrated—not with me but himself.
“Go,” he demanded. “Keep your lips off mine, Rosalie. I am not the gentleman you think I am.”
Right.
I wouldn’t miss him too much.