Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Max set his empty wine glass on the counter and glanced around the half-painted room. “I think I should help you finish painting.”
I stared at him in disbelief, taking in his perfectly tailored suit and polished appearance. “You? Help with painting? Dressed like that?”
“Why not?” He shrugged, and I tried not to notice how the movement made his shoulder muscles flex beneath his crisp white dress shirt.
“But you’re in a suit.” One that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe put together, I couldn’t help but think.
Max looked down at himself and then back at me, a mischievous glint in his eyes that made my stomach do a little flip. “Ten bucks says I don’t get a drop of paint on me.”
I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re legitimately going to paint in that?”
“Unless you want me to get naked,” he said with a teasing waggle of his eyebrows as he began rolling up his sleeves, revealing forearms dusted with golden hair.
After staring at them far longer than any friend should have, I shook my head and handed him a roller with one of those paint reservoirs attached, saying, “This should be interesting if nothing else.”
“So,” he began, glancing at me as he applied the first stroke to the wall, “we’ve finally got our story straight, but what’s the deal with your cousin? I’ve met her a few times, and she seems really intense.”
I sighed, leaning against the doorframe as I watched him work. There was something oddly intimate about having him here in my space, helping with such a mundane task. “This wedding is going to be a circus, honestly. Melody is the queen of over-the-top everything, and since this is her ‘special day,’ she’s pulling out all the stops. Black-tie, a five-course dinner, two photographers, a string quartet for the ceremony—the works.”
“Fancy,” Max whistled softly. “Guess I’ll need to buy a new tux.”
“You can borrow David’s,” I joked, knowing full well that Max would rather show up naked than wear something of my brother’s, especially since David had bought it over ten years ago and had kept it stored in mothballs ever since.
Max shot me a playful glare that made my heart skip. “I’m not wearing anything your brother’s worn, thank you very much.”
My brother wasn’t a slob, but he also wasn’t as fastidious about his appearance as he used to be. I hated to say anything because I could understand the reasons behind his lack of self-care, but with his health issues, he’d kind of let himself go. You could most often find him wearing sweatpants—and not the sexy gray kind, either—regardless of whether he was lounging around at home or out and about in the world.
“Fair enough,” I said, taking another sip of wine and watching as Max carefully painted along the edge of the wall, his technique surprisingly good for someone who probably hadn’t painted since college—if ever. I knew for a fact when he bought his house a couple of years ago—a new construction monstrosity built to look like one of the antique federal-style homes that were common in our town—it had come fully furnished. “You’re actually not terrible at this.”
“I helped paint my sister’s nursery last year. Trust me; nothing tests your painting skills like a hormonal woman with a vision board.”
“I forgot about that,” I admitted.
“I am a man of many talents,” he said, flashing me a devastating smile over his shoulder.
“Such as?” I raised a dubious eyebrow his way.
I loved teasing this man.
Max turned to face me fully, the paint roller held in front of my face, and for a moment, I thought he might actually try to paint me. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” The way he said it, low and teasing, made heat rush to my cheeks.
I quickly looked away, focusing on the paint can as if its label held the secrets of the universe. “So anyway,” I said, desperate to change the subject. “About the wedding …”
“Right.” Max turned back to the wall, but I could hear the smile in his voice.
The silence that fell between us then was comfortable, but every now and then, I could feel his eyes on me, studying me in that way he had, like he could see right through my carefully constructed facade.
“Han,” he said, breaking into the silence, his voice soft. “I know we’ve got our fake dating story figured out, but I can’t help but feel like there’s something else bothering you about this wedding that you’re not saying.”
I hesitated, biting my lip as I considered how much to reveal. I hadn’t prepared myself to be this vulnerable with him, which was probably poor planning on my part since Max had a way of seeing me even when I didn’t want to be seen and asking the tough questions I didn’t necessarily have an answer to. “Is it that obvious?” I asked, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the floor.
Max set down his paintbrush and joined me, his long legs stretched out beside me. “Only to someone who’s paying attention.”
I picked at a loose thread on my paint-splattered sweatpants, avoiding his gaze. There was something about his gentle probing that made my carefully constructed walls begin to crumble. “It’s just … even though I like to think I’ve made peace with where I am in life, being around my family sometimes makes me question everything. Everyone else is either married or in a serious relationship, but here I am, thirty-five and still single, with nothing really to show for myself except my job and a condo I haven’t decorated even though I’ve lived here for six years.”
“Hannah,” Max said softly, and something in his tone made me look up. His eyes were intense, focused entirely on me. “There’s nothing wrong with being single.”
Coming from anyone else, those words might have felt empty, like a platitude. But Max had turned being single into an art form. I’d watched him date his way through what felt like half of the North Shore’s eligible population, never staying with anyone long enough for things to become serious. At first, I’d written him off as just another commitment-phobic player, but lately, I hadn’t missed the way he sometimes went quiet at dinner parties when couples talked about how they met or the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes when people joked about him being a permanent bachelor.
There was a story there, one he kept locked away as carefully as I hid my feelings for him.
And that was the real reason I could never tell Max how I felt. Not just because he was my friend or because this whole fake dating scheme would implode, but because I knew exactly how this would play out, and I couldn’t risk the friendship we’d built. Some risks weren’t worth taking, no matter how much my heart raced when he looked at me like I was the only person in the world worth seeing.
“I know that,” I answered quickly—maybe too quickly—recognizing my response definitely had an air of “the lady doth protest too much” about it.
“I mean, logically, I know that,” I started again. “But try telling that to my family. They look at me like I’m some kind of sad charity case because I haven’t found ‘the one’ yet.” I made air quotes around the words, trying to inject some humor into my voice but failing miserably.
Max shifted closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “You’re not a charity case,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “You’re incredible. You literally bring people into this world every day, you make everyone around you laugh, and you’re kind to everyone you meet.” He paused, and I held my breath. “And you’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Anyone who makes you feel otherwise is an idiot.”
My heart thudded in my chest, and for a moment, I couldn’t seem to find my voice, so I poured myself another glass of wine from the nearly empty bottle sitting on the floor to my left to buy myself some time.
“Thanks,” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper. “That means a lot.”
Max gave me a small smile, but there was something in his eyes that I couldn’t quite read. “I mean it, Han. You’ve got nothing to worry about. You’ll knock ‘em dead.”
I chuckled, trying to lighten the mood before I did something stupid like cry. Or kiss him. “Well, I did buy an amazing dress.”
“Oh yeah?” His eyebrows lifted with interest, and he nudged my shoulder with his. “Care to share any details? You know, so that I can coordinate my tie appropriately.” He was clearly teasing—Max’s fashion sense was impeccable without any help from me.
“It’s green,” I offered, picturing the gown I’d bought the week before. “Dark green. Like forest green, but …” I waved my hand vaguely, the half bottle of wine I’d drank tonight dulling my senses. “Fancier.”
“Fancier forest green,” Max repeated solemnly, though his eyes sparkled. “Got it. I’ll make a note.” His smile widened, but there was still something soft in his expression that made my chest tight.
We sat there for a moment, the silence charged with an undercurrent of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Finally, Max cleared his throat and reached for the bottle to refill his glass. “So,” he said, his voice lighter now. “I call shotgun on the drive to the wedding.”
I laughed, grateful for the shift in tone. “You don’t get to call shotgun when you’re the only other person in the car, you dork.”
Max grinned, the familiar sparkle in his eyes pulling me in. “Sure I do. House rules.”
“Whose house rules?” I asked, unable to keep the smile off my face.
“Mine.” He nudged my shoulder again. “And since I’m your fake boyfriend, you have to respect them.”
I rolled my eyes, but my skin tingled where he’d touched me. Or maybe that was the wine? “Is that how this works? You just make up rules as we go along?”
“Absolutely,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Rule number two: you have to laugh at all my jokes.”
I wrinkled my nose and gave him my best skeptical look, the one I usually reserved for patients who swore they’d been taking their prenatal vitamins regularly despite their bloodwork saying otherwise. “Even the bad ones?”
“ Especially the bad ones,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Rule number three: no making fun of my navigation skills when I inevitably get us lost on the way to the hotel.”
I snorted. “So you’re admitting in advance that you’re going to get us lost?”
“I’m setting expectations,” he corrected, pointing his wine glass at me. “That’s what good fake boyfriends do.”
“You’re such a dork,” I said again, shaking my head. “You do realize there’s this amazing new invention called GPS, right? My friend Siri is an excellent navigator.”
His lips quirked to the side in an amused grin I’d seen countless times over plates of nachos at our favorite bar or across the table at my mom’s house every time he joined us for family dinner. “Suit yourself.”
As the evening wore on, the wine flowed—I opened another bottle—and the wall remained only half-painted, forgotten in favor of our spot on the floor. I found myself relaxing more than I had in weeks despite the flutter in my stomach every time Max laughed or looked at me a certain way.
“You know what’s funny?” I said after a while, my head feeling pleasantly fuzzy from the copious amounts of wine we’d consumed. “We’ve been friends for what feels like forever, but I feel like tonight I’m seeing you in an entirely different light.”
Max turned his head to look at me, and I realized just how close we were sitting. “Maybe you just never looked hard enough before,” he said softly.
My breath caught in my throat. “Or maybe you never let me,” I whispered back.
Something flickered in his eyes, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought he might kiss me. But then his phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the spell. He checked it and sighed. “I should probably go. Early meeting tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to ignore the disappointment that settled in my stomach. “Of course.”
We both stood up, a bit unsteady from the wine and sitting so long. As I walked him to the door, I was hyperaware of his presence behind me. “Wait, you’re drunk,” I said, turning to face him, the room continuing to spin even after I’d stopped moving.
Max chuckled and shook his head. “I’m not drunk.”
I scrunched up my nose, squinting at him to try and gauge the veracity of his statement. My drunk brain was having trouble processing this information—surely we’d both been drinking equally? That’s how sharing wine worked, right?
“But we drank almost two bottles,” I insisted, holding up my fingers and squinting at them. “And there are two of us. So that means …” I paused, my wine-addled brain attempting to solve what would typically be a straightforward equation. “That means you must have had …” I moved my fingers as I tried to count the typical number of glasses per bottle divided by two, eventually settling on, “At least several glasses. Many glasses. Math doesn’t lie, Max.” Giving up my count, I poked his chest for emphasis, but my depth perception was clearly off, and I stumbled forward. He caught me against his chest, his hands steady on my waist.
For a moment, we just stood there, my hands pressed against the spot where I could feel his heart beating just a little too fast for someone so composed. His fingers flexed against my waist, and I wasn’t sure if he was pulling me closer or preparing to set me back on my feet. The warmth of his body seemed to radiate through the thin material of my t-shirt where he touched me, and the woodsy scent of his cologne—something I’d come to associate exclusively with him—made my head spin even more than the wine did. I forced myself to breathe, but that was a mistake because now his scent was everywhere. It wasn’t until he shifted slightly that I noticed the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed his own unsteadiness. Whether it was from the wine or something else, I couldn’t be sure.
“Nope,” he muttered, more to himself than to me, shaking his head slightly. “Not going there.”
My heart stuttered at his words. Not going where exactly? And why did his voice sound so rough, so uncertain? Max Bennett was never uncertain about anything.
But before I could analyze his words further, he set me carefully back on my feet and took a deliberate step back, saying, “And for the record, you drank most of that wine. I’ve only had two glasses.”
“I don’t know if I believe you,” I said, but my protest was half-hearted at best since I was way more intoxicated than I should have been if we’d actually split the wine evenly. “But thank you for coming by,” I added, my voice softer than I intended. “And for the attempt at painting.”
Max smiled, and my heart did that annoying flip thing again. “Anytime, Hannah.” He hesitated briefly, then reached out and brushed something off my cheek. “I’m looking forward to being your plus-one.”
Before I could second-guess myself, I stood on my tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath my lips, and I caught another whiff of his intoxicating cologne. “Me too,” I whispered.
Max’s eyes lingered on mine for a moment longer than necessary, that same unreadable something flickering in them again. Then he cleared his throat and took a step back. “Get some sleep. And drink some water.”
“Yes, Dr. Bennett,” I teased, though the words came out a bit breathier than I’d intended. Max was the Chief of Pediatric Oncology at the largest hospital in Boston. Given our complementary professions, we often teased each other by using our work titles, but something about the way the word doctor slipped from my lips just now felt less like play and more like foreplay.
His eyes glimmered, and he shook his head with a soft laugh before heading down my condo’s interior public hallway. I watched him until he disappeared around the corner, then closed the door and leaned heavily against it, my heart racing. The room was still spinning slightly, but now I couldn’t tell if it was from the wine or the lingering warmth of his skin against my lips.
“You are in so much trouble,” I said to myself, sliding down to sit on the floor. The ghost of his smile played in my mind, along with the way his hands had felt on my waist, steady and sure even as my world tilted on its axis.
Rule number four , I thought to myself as I pressed my cool hands to my flushed cheeks: Don’t you dare let him find out you’ve been in love with him for years .
But sitting there in my entryway, the scent of his cologne hanging in the air, I wondered how much longer I could keep pretending my heart didn’t race every time he smiled at me or that I hadn’t memorized the sound of his laugh years ago, or that this whole fake dating scheme wasn’t just another way to torture myself with something I couldn’t have.