Chapter Seven
August 13th, 6:15 p.m.
H ot water cascaded over Max’s shoulders, loosening the sore muscles from a morning at his desk hunched over drafting plans, the afternoon at the Thompson house setting up some of the garden, and ending his workday helping his crew remove old shrubs at a revamped condo complex. He was up before the sun, needing to get a head start on his day so he could meet up with Paloma in the evening.
Closing his eyes, memories of her flooded his mind like spring rain. Not just that first night at the bar in that red dress—though the image still haunted him—but all the moments since then that had transformed simple attraction into something more.
The way she leaned over his shoulder yesterday, pointing out how the living wall should frame the antique mirror she found. Her perfume had mixed with the earthy scent of the soil samples he’d been reviewing, creating an intoxicating blend that stroked his desire. She’d been so excited about their shared vision, her eyes bright with possibilities. He wanted to turn his head and taste the spot where her neck met her shoulder.
With a groan, he tipped his head back under the spray, letting the water stream down his face. Reaching for the soap, he worked it into a lather, the slickness gl iding over his skin as his hand traveled across his chest and down his torso.
Everything about her turned him on. From the way her mind worked—how she could take his technical solutions and transform them into something beautiful—to the sound of her laugh. Or the brush of her fingers against his when she handed him coffee fixed exactly how he liked it.
His grip tightened, and he skimmed his hand lower, unable to resist the memory of her stretched across his desk last week, barefoot and completely unselfconscious as she sketched out her vision for the Thompsons’ entertainment space. The hem of her skirt had ridden up just enough to reveal the curve of her calf, and he’d lost the thread of their conversation entirely.
“Three months,” he muttered, wrapping a hand around his rock-hard dick. Three months until the project was finished. Three months fighting his growing attraction.
“Getting off to my business partner is a slippery . . . slope.” The self-deprecating edge did little to stem the need pooling in his gut.
He redirected his thoughts, conjuring a more “appropriate” distraction—one involving a celebrity crush. But even that betrayed him because her gown shimmered red, and when it slipped to the floor, it wasn’t his imaginary muse joining him in the shower. It was her.
Paloma.
Her mischievous dark eyes glimmered as the water beaded on her smooth skin, her lips curving into a wicked smile. She leaned in, pressing a hot kiss to his neck, the trail of her lips igniting a path down his chest. She sank to her knees before him, and he swore he could feel the warmth of her breath against him.
His hand moved faster, the tension coiling tighter with every stroke. Short, uneven breaths echoed in the steam-filled room, each edged with desperation.
In his fantasy, he looked down, and there she was—her plump, red lips wrapped around him, her gaze locked on his as she took him deeper. The image unraveled him.
With a violent jerk and a guttural groan, he came, his release shuddering through him. With his free hand, he braced himself against the slick tiles. The water continued to pour over him, washing away the evidence but doing nothing to erase Paloma from his mind.
“Fuck. So much for keeping it professional,” he muttered, stepping from the shower.
He’d left his bedroom door open, and from across the house, an indistinct conversation drifted down the hallway. His brother’s familiar baritone, mixing with another softer voice that was like dark honey—rich and sensual. Those husky inflections, that smoky timbre . . . after a month, he’d already memorized every sultry note of Paloma’s laugh, every seductive rise and fall of her speech.
After drying off and brushing his teeth, he quickly dressed. Before leaving his ensuite bathroom, his hand hovered over the cologne bottle. Why bother? This was a business outing, not a damn date.
“I am ridiculous.” Still, he sprayed a little on his neck. The sharp, woody scent filled his nostrils, contrasting the lingering humidity from his shower. Then he swished another helping of mouthwash, all the while hearing his brother’s sardonic laughter in his head.
Leaving his bedroom and crossing through the great room, he saw Paloma sitting at the kitchen table with Drake next to her. They were so close their shoulders almost touched, and whatever he was telling her held all her attentio n. A twinge of something uncomfortably like jealousy twisted in his gut.
He swallowed the bitter taste climbing up his throat. “Sorry, if I’d known you’d get here so quickly, I’d have skipped the shower,” Max said.
Paloma’s gaze lingered on him, pausing on areas that had him recalling his fantasy of her in his shower. Then she pulled her attention to Drake’s laptop screen, saying, “No worries. Your brother was giving me a few tips for my business.” She pointed at a sheet of paper with notes scribbled on it, then asked, “Do we have a couple minutes, or does the lighting gallery close soon?”
“It’s open late tonight, so we’re good. I’ll grab a quick bite while you read.” He walked to the fridge. “Do either of you want anything?”
Drake turned his chair, facing Max. “I raided your kitchen before you got home. That strawberry chicken salad was delish. And the blueberry pie. I swear, what I miss the most since moving to Detroit is your cooking.”
“You cook?” she asked, the edge of her mouth curving up.
He shrugged. “A little. Are you hungry?”
“Guess we know who’ll be making the grilled cheese during our next impromptu lunch.”
He nodded vigorously. “One hundred percent, most definitely.”
“Hey,” she laughed, tossing a pen at him. “And no, I’m not hungry. I ate before I got here, but you go ahead.” Paloma turned to Drake. “Would you mind going back to that first website you showed me?”
“Sure,” he said. The soft tapping of keys filled the momentary silence. Then he pushed the laptop toward her.
Finding the spicy miso ramen from the other day, Max removed the lid and leaned against the counter. Paloma was focused on the screen, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. He was mesmerized by the simple gestu re, needing to know if her locks were as soft as they looked and how it’d feel to run his hands through her hair.
He squared his shoulders, forcing his wandering mind to heel. Her unwavering commitment to the job deserved his professional admiration, not this . . . distraction. Yet, he couldn’t look away, his gaze tracing the cascade of her raven hair, the elegant column of her neck.
Drake tipped his nose in the air, then smirked. “You smell divine, brother. Are you wearing cologne?”
Max narrowed his eyes and mouthed, “Fuck you.”
Drake laughed, and Max couldn’t help doing the same. The sound seemed to pull Paloma from whatever she was reading. Her gaze jumped to him and stayed. “You do smell nice.” She pulled that delectable bottom lip between her teeth.
Drake cleared his throat and muttered something about sexual tension. Paloma dropped her gaze from Max to his brother. “If you have time while visiting, could I show you my social media branding? I’d like to see if it’s on point.” She rested a hand on his arm. “I’ll pay you for your time.”
“For a friend of Max, I’ll do it for free.” There was a flirt in his voice. He gave her that smile that made women and men swoon. Some days Max really disliked his perfect brother.
He twisted around, staring out the window over the sink, finishing his food, the tangy flavors as hot as his irritation. He shouldn’t care, but did his brother have to flirt with Paloma?
“You charged Jackson,” Max said, looking past his porch, lawn, and empty road to the dense forest.
Drake snorted. “One, he wanted the full package: help with advertising, website, and branding for all five of his hardware stores. That’s a lot more work than looking at a few socials. Two . . .” When he didn’t continue, Max turned, rais ing an eyebrow. “I should’ve been quarterback of the football team. I was two damn grades above. The jerk stole it from me.”
Max laughed. “Did you charge him resentment tax?”
“I’d never do that!” He tugged on the cuffs of his button-up, then winked. “But I thought about it.”
“So, you were a senior when Max as a sophomore?” Paloma asked Drake.
“Yup.”
“No wonder we’ve never met. I was a year under him and Jackson in high school.”
“I figured. Because I definitely would have remembered you.” Drake’s signature smile widened, and Max’s hand tightened on the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening.
Paloma’s lips twitched. “Aren’t you a charmer.”
“Yeah, of snakes,” Max muttered, dropping the empty food container in the sink.
“Did you know my sister, Emmeline?” Paloma asked. “She was in your grade.”
Drake tapped his chin. “Emma?”
“Yeah, but recently she’s going by her full name. Emmeline.”
“Did she drop that asshat she was dating back then too? Henry Foster?”
“Like the nickname, recently. She’s divorcing the asshat.”
Drake chuckled. “Not a fan?”
“Nope. He cheated on my sister with some guy.”
Drake tilted his head and asked, “Do I sense judgment?” The question was asked without heat, but there was a tightening in his brother’s shoulders.
“Maybe a little,” she replied. Disappointment filled Max. He hoped she wasn’t closed-minded.
“I’m bi,” Drake said flatly.
Paloma he ld up her hands. “I’m not judging Henry for sleeping with men. I feel bad for him. His dad’s awful. He’s a pray-out-the-gay kind of guy. But I am angry at Henry for hurting my sister, for pulling her into his lie. Now, at thirty-five, she’s starting over with a toddler. Meanwhile, he left the state, abandoning his son.”
Max nodded, absorbing her words. The three sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling around them.
Paloma sighed and glanced at her watch. “What time does Lighting Design close?”
“At 9:30, but we should get moving in case it takes us a while to decide,” Max replied.
Paloma stood up. “Okay, let me get my tablet from my car. I’ll meet you at yours. Nice meeting you, Drake.”
“Wow,” Drake breathed, his eyes following her retreating figure. He leaned in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I like your business partner.”
All the ease and humor drained from Max. He turned to his brother. “Stick to visiting those in your memory lane.”
“Do I sense jealousy? A bit of possessiveness?” Drake drummed his fingers once against his empty glass, then folded his hands like a therapist settling in for a breakthrough session. “And why? You said you’re not interested in her. Are you lying to me or yourself?” The corner of Drake’s mouth quirked, and Max recognized that familiar look—his brother baiting the hook, waiting for Max to bite. The annoying part was that he couldn’t entirely dismiss the question.
The floorboards creaked, and he turned. Paloma stepped into the kitchen. “I forgot my purse,” she said, reaching past him.
Drake tracked her movements with that practiced charm, and something primitive stirred in Max’s chest, and he shifted, angling between them. Their shoulders brushed as Paloma retrieved her purse, the brief contact sending a current through him that had nothing to do with static electricity.
“Sorry,” she murmured, but her eyes held his a moment longer than necessary.
Clarity struck him like summer lightning. All his half-assed rationalizations about keeping things professional crumbled. He didn’t want a business partner; he wanted the way she bit her lip when she was thinking, the sound of her laugh when he said something ridiculous, and the spark in her eyes when they shared the same vision for a project. He wanted all of her.