Chapter Eighteen
October 10th, 4:45 p.m.
P aloma twisted the key in the lock and pushed open the door to Abigail’s condo. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting warm stripes across the polished honey-colored hardwood floors. The open-concept living area stretched before them, a study in modern elegance and comfort.
Max came up behind her and breathed, “Damn this is nice.”
The condo was stunning, but the view outside demanded attention. The balcony, accessible through sliding glass doors, offered an unobstructed panorama of Grand Traverse Bay. The water stretched to the horizon, its surface a mesmerizing dance of sunlight and shadow. In the distance, the silhouettes of sailboats dotted the bay, their white sails billowing in the breeze.
“Right,” Paloma agreed. “Although I shouldn’t be surprised. She is a Hayek.”
“No shit.” Max let out a low whistle as he moved toward the gourmet kitchen, running his hand along the massive island topped with veined marble. “Don’t they own a sports team?”
“Not big into sports?” she teased.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, a playful glint in his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to lose my man card,” he joked.
She ran her palm along the sleek leather couch, its unyielding surface crossing the fine line between aesthetic appeal and practical comfort. It had the former but not the latter. The failed contrast reminded her of the delicate balance she was trying to maintain with Max.
Patting the impractical couch, she left it behind to check out the kitchen. Drawing the fancy wine cabinet, she bent to examine the labels. Top-shelf stuff. She straightened, and Max’s deep voice came from close behind her. “Find anything good?” he asked, his breath tickling her ear.
Her back brushed against his chest as she turned. They were mere inches apart. She could see the flecks of green in his ocean eyes and smell the faint scent of his delicious cologne. Her breath caught in her throat.
“I, uh . . . ” she stammered, then cleared her throat. “I was checking what Abigail likes. For a thank you gift.”
“Good idea,” he said, his voice lower than usual, but he was the first to step back, turning to the fridge and opening it. “For someone who spends most of her time at your brother’s, her fridge is stocked.”
She moved next to him. “Do you think she’d notice if we ate all her food?”
Max snorted. “Only if you plan on replacing it with your cooking.”
“Ouch,” she clutched her chest dramatically, stepping back. “I burn a few grilled cheese sandwiches . . .”
“I think one of them growled at me,” he teased.
“Alright, alright, I surrender. My kitchen skills are a national disaster. If there’s any cooking to be done during our stay, it will be your job. Happy now?” She playfully swatted his arm. “Come on, Gordon Ramsay, let’s check out the rest of the condo.”
The first room in the short hallway was a bedroom converted into an office and library. Abigail was a woman after Paloma’s heart. All but the wall with a window overlooking the bay had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She ran her fingers along the spine until they landed on a familiar title.
“I can’t believe Abigail has this,” she murmured, pulling out the book.
Max looked away from a different shelf. “What’s that?”
She turned, about to answer, when her foot caught on the edge of a rug. She stumbled forward, the book slipping from her grasp.
Max stepped toward her. His hand caught her elbow, steadying her, while his other arm reached past her to grab the falling book. The sudden movement brought them chest to chest, faces inches apart. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low, with a hungry edge.
She stepped back, nearly stumbling to put distance between them, fighting her body’s urge to lean into him. “Fine, I’m fine.” The room was suddenly too small, too warm. She had to leave before she did something stupid, like kiss him. “I’m going to check out the rest of the house.”
She nearly ran from the office, her past failed relationship chasing after her. This was exactly how it started. Desire and delusions made her think this time would be different. And then it would all come crashing down, and she’d be left picking up her broken pieces.
Five minutes later, she stood in the center of a beautiful main bedroom, her panic cresting. Max’s footsteps grew louder, and then he appeared in the doorframe. “Where’s my bedroom?”
“Good question.”
A line appeared between his brows. “What do you mean?”
She spread her arms wide. “This is the main. We’ve seen the office.” She pointed in the general direction of the hallway. “Down there’s the bathroom. Besides the kitchen and living room, those are the only rooms.”
“Fuck,” he whispered.
No. No, t hat wouldn’t be happening. “I need to call Felix.”
She stepped around Max, making her way to the kitchen. Grabbing her phone from the counter, she dialed her brother’s number and put it on speakerphone. After Max told her not to flirt or hit on him, the last thing she needed was for him to think she’d set this up like some rom-com.
Felix answered right before her call went to voicemail. “How was your drive, sis?” he asked.
“Fine, but you said Abigail’s place had two bedrooms.”
“Yeah. One, the main. The other was converted to a kick-ass office. What’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem?” she squeaked. “Why in the world did you think I wanted to share a room with my business partner?” She couldn’t say, bedroom. The word would conjure up her recent dark dreams of the man who’d followed her into the kitchen, looking as panicky as she felt.
“You two aren’t fucking?” Felix sounded truly perplexed, and Paloma wanted to sink into the pretty hardwood floors.
“No! He’s my business partner.”
“I thought he was both. My bad. I totally thought you had a little pleasure going with your business.” He chuckled. “Well, after these two weeks of sharing a bed, you might.”
“Asshole,” Paloma laughed-groaned and hung up. She looked at Max. “This is my mistake. Tomorrow I’ll find a hotel for myself. That way only one of us has to do the drive. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”
They glanced toward the living room. The couch looked perfect for reading a book or watching TV but not for sleeping. It was deep but not long, and the sides were impossibly high.
“We’re adults. Let’s share the bed,” Max said. “The thing’s huge. We’ll be fine.”
She turne d away, pretending to examine the couch, but was trying to hide the flush creeping up her neck. She had to get it together. It was sleeping. In the same bed. With Max.
Images flashed unbidden through her mind: his strong arms, the way his shirt sometimes clung to his chest. Or like the notorious afternoon at the pineapple house—without his shirt. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the memory was burned into her.
She opened her eyes and turned to Max, hoping her face didn’t betray the turmoil within. “You’re right,” she said, proud of how steady her voice sounded. “We’re adults. We can handle this.”
It was one night. She could handle sleeping next to him for one night. It was no big deal.