Chapter Fifteen
September 23st, 4:05 p.m.
P aloma pulled up the long driveway of the colonial revival home. The late afternoon sun glinted off Woodland Lake, casting a golden glow across the weathered shingles and wrap-around porch. She parked next to a large motorcycle, eyeing it. She had to search to remember the actual names of the pineapple couple, ah, yes, the Thompsons. Her little inside joke with Max had almost erased their actual names. She shook her head. The Thompsons had told her they wouldn’t be at the house and to leave everything in the library. But the motorcycle said that might have changed their minds.
Her gaze shifted to the trees surrounding the property. Touches of autumn appeared in the sporadic leaves, turning yellow and pale orange at their edges. She closed her eyes, savoring the quiet: the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore and the occasional cry of a wheeling gull. With a deep breath, she opened her eyes.
Okay, get moving. Time to get to work. She’d drop off the updated floor plans and check out the changes made to the main bedroom. And she couldn’t wait to see Max’s progress on the indoor garden: the soft rustle of ornamenta l grasses, the soothing trickle of the wall fountain, the lush scent of moss and ferns.
She stepped out of her car, and the breeze danced with the hem of her knee-length skirt. Opening the rear door, she retrieved her portfolio and set off toward the house. Each footfall on the cobblestone path seemed to echo with thoughts of Max.
Their other projects and schedules hadn’t lined up since returning from Traverse City, which was a relief—and torture. The physical distance helped dull the constant awareness of him, gave her space to breathe without his presence making her question their agreement to wait. But she missed him, and a week apart hadn’t diminished how her body hummed at the thought of him.
“Deal with today’s problems,” she muttered. “Tomorrow’s will come soon enough.”
Rounding the car, she paused beside the motorcycle. Her fingers traced the iconic American emblem on its tank. She’d always wanted to learn to ride. Maybe next summer.
It seemed the Thompsons had more hobbies than swinging. She grinned, laughing to herself. No, she didn’t have proof, but she’d bet on the odds.
Patting the motorcycle, she left it behind and approached the house. She pushed open the side door next to the garage and stepped through the mudroom. The short heels of her boots clicked along the vestibule floor. She called out, “Hello? Elodie? Bill? Anyone home?”
No reply came, but a noise drifted from the kitchen. Upon entering it, she found the room empty. Then she heard a slicing sound emanating from her favorite feature of the house: the central staircase connecting the second level and the walk-out basement.
She’d o riginally wanted to knock it down and move it because it ran along the large, three-story window in the front of the house. However, after Max transformed the space into a garden oasis, she was glad he’d convinced her to keep it. Its beauty competed with the view of the lake.
Stepping into the great room, she halted. Had the man she couldn’t stop thinking materialized from her thoughts? Max’s shirtless back was to her. His trowel sank into the rich potting soil as he leaned over the indoor planter, triceps flexing with each careful movement. Droplets of sweat caught the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows, turning his skin to burnished gold. Damn.
A rush of warmth flooded her. Part of it was his obvious physical appeal, but the rest was harder to pinpoint. Something was mesmerizing about the way he worked. It spoke to a deeper part of her she couldn’t understand.
She was captivated by the subtle shift of his shoulder blades as he reached for a branch and the careful tilt of his head as he examined a leaf. This wasn’t merely a job for him but a labor of love. Although she couldn’t see his face, his focus was palpable, and his dedication was evident in every line of his body.
A surge of admiration welled inside her, surprising in its intensity. She respected his professional skills, but seeing him like this, wholly absorbed in creating beauty, revealed a depth she hadn’t expected.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, fighting the sudden urge to reach out and trace the contours of his bare back, to share in this moment of creation. She was drawn to his masculinity but also the care and attention he embodied.
She shook off her fascination and called out, “Max?” When he didn’t acknowledge her, she shouted, “Max!”
He started, then turned around. Her breath caught in her throat. If his back was impressive, his front was downright mesmerizing. Those biceps she ’d already fallen for, but now her eyes got to feast on bare broad shoulders and a firm chest with just the right amount of hair. Her gaze followed the tantalizing trail disappearing into his jeans. Her attraction to this hardworking man surged, leaving her breathless and hungry.
He pulled a pair of sleek wireless earbuds from his ears. “Paloma,” he breathed, her name falling from his lips like a caress. “What are you doing here?” His casual tone belied the intensity of his gaze.
She swallowed hard, working to find her voice. “I’m dropping off updated plans for the Thompsons,” she said, tossing the leather portfolio onto the walnut coffee table. It landed with a soft thud that echoed in the spacious great room, its high ceilings and large windows filling the space with late afternoon light. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“Surprise,” he said softly, taking a step closer. The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken tension, and memories of their almost-kiss hovered like ghosts in the space between their bodies.
She pulled her gaze from him, scanning the garden she’d grown to love. Her attention caught on the new additions, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“I like the tree,” she noted, gesturing to the one he’d been tending. “And that pineapple bush,” she chuckled, shaking her head, “it’s ridiculous how well it fits. The Thompsons will love it.”
Her fingertips brushed a petal, savoring its silken texture. She turned to face him, becoming aware of his proximity and his undeniable allure. She needed something—anything—to focus on besides him, and asked, “Is the motorcycle outside yours or theirs?”
“It’s mine,” he replied.
“You keep surprising me. You aren’t supposed to ride a motorcycle.”
“Why? Is this something to do with your nice guy stereotype again?”
She bit her lip, heat rising to her cheeks as she averted her gaze. “Maybe.”
He steppe d closer, bringing with him the earthy scent of freshly turned soil and clean sweat. “What do you have against nice guys?”
Confused looks and gentle letdowns—the echoes of “You’re just . . . intense” and “We want different things” rang in her mind. Then Max’s easy smile during their shared lunches, the warmth of his praise after a job well done. The thought of that smile fading, replaced by the same overwhelmed expression she’d seen too many times before, had her chest tightening.
“I have nothing against them.” She pointed at the soil on his arms and aimed for a teasing, light tone. “You’re getting into this project, aren’t you?”
He glanced down and grinned. “Can’t plant a garden without getting a little dirty.”
Was it her, or did his tone sound suggestive? Afraid she’d see the answer in his eyes, she stared at his neck, unable to look away from a drop of sweat that trickled from his clavicle to his chest.
“You’re too much of a nice guy to be so dirty,” she muttered, knowing damn well her words made no sense.
“Nice guys like getting dirty too.” Leaning closer, his heat reaching out to her, he said, “And if we’re going to stick to stereotypes, you’ve forgotten the most important one about nice guys.”
“And that is?” She still didn’t move away but kept her gaze glued to his neck as if avoiding his eyes would save her from where this was heading.
He rested a palm on her hip, and a shiver raced up her spine, her skin tingling where his hand rested. “Nice guys finish last.” He hunched forward, running his lips along the hollow of her collarbone, a spot that always ignited her desire. He paused, then did it again before moving to her ear and whispering. “Meaning you finish first . . . repeatedly.”
His quiet confidence made her pulse race and her breath catch. It wasn’t only the physical desire in his tone but the promise of being cared for and truly se en that heated her everywhere. There was an unspoken understanding that with him, she could let go and trust he would follow through on his promises—at least where her body was concerned.
She took in the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, the sound almost deafening in the electric silence. His nearness was intoxicating, every inch of him drawing her closer, tempting her to cross the line she’d sworn she wouldn’t.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered, but her body betrayed her resolve even as the words left her lips. The heat radiating from his skin called to her, and she leaned closer.
He stilled. “Do you want me to stop?”
Every logical thought, every hard-earned lesson warned her away—mixing business and pleasure would unravel all she’d built, thread by careful thread. But when Max looked at her with those steady blue-gray eyes, her carefully constructed walls began to crack and crumble like ancient stone.
She bit her lip, torn between desire and caution. “I . . . I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to reach out and touch him.
He waited, his body still except for his chest’s steady rise and fall. His eyes, dark with desire, never left hers, but there was no pressure in his gaze—only patience. He wouldn’t touch her again, giving her the space to decide.
Another bead of sweat trailed down his neck. She had to fight the urge to lean forward and taste it. His jaw clenched slightly, the only sign of his struggle. But he still waited. His self-control and willingness to let her set the pace only made her want him more.
Her resolve weakened with each passing second. The memory of their almost kiss, the tension that had been building for weeks, and their undeniable chemistry came crashing down on her.
With a sh aky exhale, she decided. Fear and excitement mingled in her chest as she met his gaze. “No,” she breathed. “No, I don’t want you to stop.”
The last thread of restraint snapped, and the tension between them ignited into a flame she couldn’t control. With a pounding heart, she stood on tip-toes and kissed him. The touch sparked through her, creating a wildfire.
His hands wrapped around her, pulling her against him until there was no space between them. The desire she’d buried since their kiss last week surged to the surface, and she gave in completely. Running her hand up his bare back and into his hair, she gripped the strands tightly.
Heat flooded her core with his deep, guttural groan. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth with a slow, deliberate sweep. She parted her lips for him, and he claimed her, his kiss fierce and consuming, drowning out everything but the need to be closer, to feel more of him.
Her body ached with a raw, unrelenting need, and she pressed into him, her hands roaming over his body, wanting to memorize every inch, and becoming drunk on the intoxicating heat of his touch.
“More,” she begged.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he demanded, and she listened without hesitation.
After a few short steps, he lowered them until she sat on the cold walnut table. On his knees, he pushed open her legs and settled between them. They were eye to eye, making it easy to kiss him and keep her legs around him. She scooted closer and rocked against his torso, desperate for friction.
“Do you need more?” he asked, his breath warm and tantalizing as it ghosted over her skin. His lips traced a path along her jaw, then descended with a slow, deliberate hunger, pressing rough kisses against the exposed curve of her neck and chest.
“Y-yes.” Her confession blended with the heat of his touch.
His palm skated up her thigh, stopping at her lacy underwear. “Can I taste you?” he asked.
Her hands, resting limply on his shoulders, tightened into fists. She pressed them against him to anchor herself. “Yes,” she repeated, the single word carrying the weight of her surrender.
His eyes darkened, and a wicked smile curved his lips as a shudder of pleasure seemed to ripple through his body. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to hear that,” he murmured, his voice thick and hungry. “Lift.”
She did, and he slid her underwear down her legs slowly, all the while his hot gaze locked on hers. Only when he’d pushed up her skirt, exposing her to him, did he look away. “So fucking perfect,” he said, before shifting and kissing one knee then her other.
With the same unhurried patience, he kissed a trail up her inner thigh. Reaching the apex of her center, he licked her with the flat press of his tongue and she damn near passed out. “Max,” she moaned and rocked, digging her fingers into his hair.
Hearing his name on her lips seemed to ignite something primal within him. He devoured her with an intensity that made her legs tremble, her release building like waves against a breakwater. A low rumbling sound crept through the haze of her senses. She couldn’t place it, her mind too clouded to process anything beyond the sensations Max was pulling from her. The noise grew louder, and a flicker of awareness bloomed in her subconscious, though it was lost when her climax overtook her. She gasped, pulling on Max’s hair.
Then, he was gone.
She sat u p, looking for him. “Wha—”
“Someone’s here.” His blue eyes were nearly black, and his pupils were blown so large, but she couldn’t tell if it was desire or panic.
“Hello? Ms. Wagner,” called Elodie, the click of her high heels growing louder.