Chapter Sixteen
September 21st, 5:05 p.m.
S hit . That sound. The distant mechanical groan that had barely cut through the hazy bliss of Max between her legs. A garage door.
Paloma’s heart pounded, her ribs practically rattling with each beat. Max bolted upright, his warm hands vanishing from her thighs, tugging down her skirt. A whiplash of emotions coursed through her. Moments ago, she’d been lost in sensation, her world narrowing to touch, heat, and pleasure. Now, reality crashed into her, sharp and immediate.
Her mouth was desert-dry, and her gaze dropped to his erection pressing against his jeans. And damn. He was big. Not crazy scary big like the girth of a soup can and the length of a tire iron. But, the kind of substantial that made her thighs clench with possibilities. The kind of size that in skilled hands . . .
The sharp rap of footsteps on the hardwood jerked her back to the present. Two sets were getting closer, and the living room lights were suddenly far too bright.
“Get over there,” she urged in a harsh whisper “And hide your dick behind a pineapple or something! Where’s your shirt?” She lurched to her feet, snatched up her portfolio, and dropped it again as she whirled around, shoving cush ions aside, yanking up the rug corners. Where the hell had her underwear landed?
She spied the black lace crumbled next to the coffee table’s leg. Scooping them up, she tucked them in her skirt pocket like an unwanted confession. Her skin prickled, and damp dread welled inside her with each echo of Elodie Thompson’s heels on the hardwood floor, each click a countdown to . . . what? Discovery? Disaster?
Max crossed the room, his hair disheveled from her fingers, his still-bare chest heaving, a smudge of dirt streaking his jawline. “Your shirt,” she hissed. “Where is it?”
“I tossed it somewhere,” he muttered.
“Paloma?” Elodie’s voice rang out around the corner, and then she came into view. “Are you here? I thought that was your car—oh!”
Her gaze darted to Max, who had grabbed his T-shirt from a makeshift workbench and was putting it on. “I didn’t realize you two were . . . hard at work already,” Elodie said, her voice a touch lower, silkier than usual. Her gaze returned to Max again, lingering, and Paloma had the crazy urge to tell the woman to stop checking him out—as if either of them had a claim to him.
“Not me. Just Max. On the garden. He’s working on your garden. I came—” She choked on her panic and shitty choice of words, which were coming out all wrong: too fast and much too loud. One breath in. Another out. “I arrived here a few minutes ago to drop off the main floor bedroom changes.”
Bill’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he glanced between them, his expression shifting from curiosity to speculative. The awkward silence stretched, thick with unspoken secrets and suspicion. His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip. His gaze fell to the table she’d lay on with her skirt up around her waist.
Elodie fo llowed her husband’s gaze and squeaked. “What’s that on my walnut slab?”
Holy Hell, no! That was not evidence of her orgasm on the surface. Elodie wiped her hand on the wet spot of the ten-thousand-dollar table. Paloma gasped, her heart hammering.
Max stepped forward. “I’m sorry, I set a butterfly pea flower there.”
What the fuck was a pea flower? “Mrs. Thompson, I—” Paloma’s voice cracked. After a solid year of re-building her business and carefully cultivating clients in Michigan’s exclusive neighborhoods—poof, all gone because of one amazing orgasm.
“Do you have any idea what organic compounds can do to raw wood? This isn’t sealed yet!” Elodie’s voice rose sharply. She bent closer to examine the mark on the wood.
The mark—oh god, the mark that Elodie had just touched—seemed to glow like a neon sign of Paloma’s indiscretion.
Bill stepped closer. “Honey—”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me.” Her voice climbed higher with each word. “This is a museum-quality piece of timber. I didn’t spend three months tracking down the perfect slab to have it stained before it’s even finished!”
“Mrs. Thompson, it was my fault,” Max said. “I was showing Paloma the flowering specimens for the indoor garden, and I—”
“I don’t care whose fault it is!” Elodie cried. “This isn’t any piece of wood. It’s an old-growth Indonesian walnut. Do you know how many tables I had to reject before finding one with this grain pattern?” She ran her fingers along the edge of the slab as if checking for further damage. “What if it seeps into the grain? What if it leaves a permanent mark?”
Paloma covered her mouth. The urge to throw up was all-consuming. Her carefully built professional reputation teetered on the edge. The Thompsons were important not only in Brighton but all of Michigan. One complain t about the careless handling of materials could sink Paloma faster than a stone in the harbor. And if they found out what really happened…She couldn’t even think about the consequences.
“I can have a specialist look at it immediately,” she offered, her professional demeanor wavering under Elodie’s fury. “There are treatments we can try—”
“Treatments?” Her laugh could have frosted glass. “This isn’t some mass-produced piece of furniture. This is functional art. And now it has a . . . a . . . flower stain on it!” She gestured at the mark, her perfectly highlighted hair swinging like a weapon.
Bill cleared his throat. “Honey, I’m sure it can be fixed. Remember what that specialist did for the teak when we had the water damage in Aspen?”
Elodie’s shoulders lowered a fraction, but her lips remained pressed in a thin line. “That was different. That was sealed wood.”
“Mrs. Thompson,” Paloma said, forcing herself to maintain a steady voice despite her racing heart. “I know someone who specializes in raw timber restoration. He worked on the Guggenheim’s Brazilian walnut installation. I can have him here first thing tomorrow morning.”
Elodie’s perfectly manicured fingers drummed against her thigh as she considered this. “A Guggenheim piece?”
“Yes.” Paloma pulled out her phone with trembling hands. “I can call him right now. He owes me a favor after I sourced that rare purple heartwood for his gallery showing.”
“Fine,” Elodie huffed. “But if there’s any hint of discoloration, any variation in the grain . . .” She left the room, her husband following, but her threat remained.
“What the hell is a butterfly pea?” Paloma hissed.
“It’s a flower. Its scientific name is Clitoria ternatea.” He shrugged. “I freaked out. It’s the first thing that came to me.”
She’d l augh if the situation wasn’t so awful. The Thompsons could decimate her career, which was finally in the red.
As if reading her mind, Max whispered, “Think we’re fucked?”
“I don’t know.” She ran her palm along her skirt, smoothing out any imperfections—but she was the imperfection. Too impulsive, to the point of recklessness.
“Hey,” Max touched her arm. “Your restoration guy, is he good?”
Paloma nodded, pulling from his touch and ignoring the hurt that flashed over his face. “He is. But Elodie . . . she notices everything. If the wood isn’t perfect . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Losing this project wouldn’t only cost her money; it’d cost her reputation. In this business, reputation was everything.
Elodie’s sharp voice carried through the house. “I knew we should have waited for that craftsman in Copenhagen . . .”
“El, let Paloma call her contact. We’ll worry about it after.” Bill’s voice had the patient tone of a man well-versed in his wife’s moods. “Tonight, we have that thing at the Lake Club.”
“The Fall Festival? That’s not until eight.” Elodie sounded less irritated. “Though we should go early. Last year they put us next to the Hendersons.” Her words faded, then “so vanilla” floated back, followed by Bill’s muffled laughter and “I’ll call the club.”
A minute later, he returned to the living room. His gaze lingered on Max for a moment before turning to Paloma. “We like your idea of marble floors instead of wood in the main bedroom, but we’d like to look at the samples. Did you bring them?” he asked.
“I did,” she said with a bit too much enthusiasm. They’re in my car. Would you and Mrs. Thompson like to see them?”
By the ti me she showed them the samples, called her contact about the table, and the Thompsons were pulling out of their driveway, things were somewhat back to normal—or at least damage control seemed possible.
Paloma turned toward the house, pressing her hand to her stomach. She had to end what was happening between her and Max. She wanted Max and her career, but having both wasn’t possible. And no way was she risking her career on a man. She learned her lesson with her ex-fiancé.
Her footsteps echoed in the empty foyer as she re-entered the house. Her pace slowed when she approached the living room. She hesitated for a brief moment before entering. Her gaze drawn to the coffee table. She could almost feel the phantom press of cold wood under her, and the warmth of Max between her legs. A warm flush crept up her neck, clashing with the chill that ran down her spine.
She looked away and found Max watching her from across the room. He stood in front of his lush garden, one hand resting on a potted fern. His jaw was tense, his eyes dark, and focused on her.
“I’m sor—”
“Nothing like that can happen again,” she said, aware of how dry her mouth had become. “I told you I can’t separate business and pleasure. They almost caught us fucking on their coffee table.” Her fingers fluttered to her throat, pressing against her collarbone. “I would’ve been ruined.”
His lips twitched. “Or they’d ask to join in.”
She stared at him. How could he joke? Her career wasn’t a joke. “And I don’t want to have to let them, to save my damn job. This,” she pointed between them, “ won’t happen again.”
The slight trace of humor drained from him. “Here, in their home, was a mistake, but not us,” he said.
“Yes, us. I love my career. And it’s the only thing I’m good at. Not love. Not lust. Not relationships. If I have to choose, I’ll pick my career.”
His expre ssion shuddered, his eyes losing their warmth, and he took a small step back as if her words had physically pushed him. “Understood,” he said in a low, flat tone.
“What do you want from me?” The words burst from her like shards of glass, sharp and cutting. Do you expect me to give up my career because you made me come?” She jabbed a finger toward the coffee table. “One orgasm isn’t worth my entire future, no matter how good.”
Why did every man think her ambition was worthless, something to do until she fell in love—or this case, lust?
“I’m not asking or expecting you to pick. I’m asking you to give us a chance to see where things went between us. I like you—I like you a lot—but I won’t push if you aren’t interested.” He turned toward the garden, giving her his back.
She liked him, more than was safe. But she couldn’t risk her career. “I’m sorry, Max,” was all she could offer.
“It’s fine.” His voice said the opposite. He picked up a shovel, giving her a beautiful view of his wide, muscular back. Right before he reached the garden, he turned. “But please, don’t kiss me again. Don’t flirt with me.” He paused, his gaze locking with hers, the tension between them crisp, like the first cool breeze cutting through the lingering warmth of late summer. “Not unless you mean it.”
Her throat tightened, and she opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Did she mean it? Did she even know what she wanted?
“I . . .” she faltered, desperate to shift the focus back to work, away from the mess of emotions swirling inside her. “Okay.”
He nodded and turned away. She should leave. That would be the smart thing to do. But watching him shut down, seeing the stiff set of his shoulders as he worked, made her chest ache.
Her smart watch vibrated and she glanced at it, seeing her brother’s name. He was probably following up about the accommodation issue they’d discussed this morning. The Sterling project . . . God, how were they supposed to handle that now?
She cleared her throat. “My brother called earlier with news about Traverse City.” The words hung in the stale air between them, her attempt at normality withering like week-old flowers. She pressed on anyway. “Abigail agreed to let us use her condo while we’re working on the house.”
Max’s hands tightened around the shovel, then turned. “Really? After what just happened, you think we should share a place?”
He wasn’t wrong, but her tight budget didn’t include $500 a night for two hotel rooms for two weeks or more. “The drive is over four hours away. We need accommodations with office space. Her place is close to the Sterling house. And nearly everything close to the Sterlings is booked solid for fall tourist season.”
“And you can shut off this thing between us? Just like that?” He snapped his fingers.
“Yes,” she lied. “The condo has two bedrooms, and it’s the only option that makes sense financially and logistically. Unless you want to explain to the Sterlings why their designer and landscaper can’t coordinate or keep things professional.”
His jaw tightened, his muscles working. “If you’re so worried about keeping things professional, maybe you should find another landscaper.”
Her stomach plummeted. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the best, and I need your expertise. We just need to . . . to forget what happened here and focus on work. We’re adults. We can handle sharing a condo for a few weeks without . . .” She wasn’t able to finish the sentence.
“Fine, if that’s what you want.” He dug the shovel into the shallow dirt, turning it over with practiced precision, as though the garden was the only thing that mattered.
She lingered by the door, watching his shoulders move beneath his shirt. The same shoulders she’d gripped less than an hour ago. Her fingers tingled with the memory.
“I’ll email you the Traverse City schedule,” she said, her voice steadier than her heart. When he didn’t respond, didn’t even look up, she left. Her heels clicked against the hardwood, hollow sounds that echoed through the empty house, marking each step that took her further from him.
At her car, she caught her reflection in the window: perfect hair, crisp blazer, not a thread out of place. The consummate professional. Only the black lace still tucked in her skirt pocket told a different story.