Chapter Twenty
October 11th, 9:00 p.m.
P aloma leaned against the elevator’s wall as it glided to the top of the condo. Her feet were sore from being on them all day, but her pulse picked up with each floor she passed. Max had left the Sterling house long ago. She’d worked way later, but that was behind her, and the evening with Max spread out before her. Anticipation sank into her skin, zinging through her.
Caution whispered that craving his company and not just his body wasn’t keeping things casual, but she’d worry about when this work trip ended. The elevator dinged on the top floor. Leaving it, she unlocked their door and went inside.
The scent of autumn deliciousness filled her nose. The subtle fragrance of pumpkin mixed with a woody, slightly peppery smell, all topped with a creamy goodness. It made her stomach rumble.
She followed the aroma to the kitchen and took in one of the sexiest sights in the universe—Max in a worn Henley, jeans, and stirring something on the stove. “Why does it smell like heaven in here? What are you making?”
“Pumpki n Alfredo.” He offered her a spoonful of the sauce and said, “This is homemade, but sorry, not the ravioli.”
A wave of toasted autumn hit her, and the herbal notes of sage danced across her tongue, followed by a subtle peppery bite that cut through the butter’s richness. The sound that escaped her was damn near X-rated, but she didn’t care. The sauce deserved the adoration and more.
“Keep making those sounds, and I’ll cook for you every night,” Max said, his voice an octave deeper than usual.
She looked at him. His focus was on her mouth, and his look of desire caused her hunger to switch from food to him. She moved closer, but an alarm interrupted them.
He twisted around to the oven. “The Brussels sprouts are done.”
She wrinkled her nose as childhood memories of the mushy, bitter vegetable assaulted her. “Ugh.”
He laughed. “Don’t give me that until you try my dad’s recipe.”
Her gaze swept over the kitchen: the simmering pot, the steaming oven, the neatly chopped herbs on the cutting board. His back was to her as he reached for the oven mitts, his muscles flexing beneath the worn Henley. He was as tempting as his dinner.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she said softly.
He set the tray of Brussels sprouts on the granite counter. They had a delicious scent of sweet and savory. “Trust me, it’s better for both of us if I cook,” he teased. He leaned in, running his nose along her neck. “This morning you mentioned focusing on me tonight.”
The promise in the rumble of his voice warmed her in all the right places. “Oh, yeah?” she hummed.
“Yes.” He stepped back and grinned. “And I don’t want to risk your cooking killing me first.”
She arche d an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Rude. And I’d meant we could have picked up something to eat.”
He shrugged. “I like cooking.”
The aroma of his past filled the air, and she hoped he’d open up more and tell her the stories behind the recipe and the memories it held. A warmth spread through her chest, different from the cozy heat of the kitchen. He was sharing a piece of himself. The gesture touched her more than she’d expected.
Resting her elbows on the island, she watched him work. The view was sweet and seductive. “Did someone teach you to cook? Or are you self-taught?”
“Both my parents love to cook, but my dad was a chef. Owned a restaurant back in Chicago.”
“Were you close?” she asked.
His expression softened, a hint of sadness creeping into his eyes. “As close as a teenage troublemaker could be to his dad, I guess.”
Her heart ached for him. She moved closer, placing a hand on his arm. “Losing a parent is always hard, but during those years . . . it must have been especially tough. I’m so sorry, Max.”
He stirred the sauce, his gaze turning distant. “It was.” He paused, swallowing hard. “And the worst part is, it was my fault.”
A knot formed in her stomach. She couldn’t fathom how Max could blame himself for what seemed like a medical issue. “Why would you think that?” she asked gently.
He sighed, set the spoon down, and leaning against the counter, his body language spoke volumes. His shoulders were hunched as if he were carrying an invisible weight.
“Max, ” Paloma said gently, stepping closer and touching his arm. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m here to listen, not to judge.” Heaven knows she was no saint.
He met her eyes, and the pain she saw there made her heart ache. “I was a bit of a troublemaker. I loved the thrill of risk,” he began hesitantly. “Anyway, my friends and I . . . we broke into this rich guy’s house. It was stupid. Jack, my best friend back then, his mom worked for the guy. She mentioned one time that he never used his alarm. We thought it’d be fun to break in and swim in his indoor pool.” He ran a hand through his hair, a rueful smile contrasting with his sad eyes. “We waited until it was late and scaled the fence. I remember my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest. But we made it inside the house without any issues. The thrill was unbelievable.”
Paloma listened intently, her hand resting on Max’s arm in silent support. Her heart picked up its pace a little, sensing things were about to go south in his story.
“We were having a grand time in the pool. Well, all of us except Danny, who’d been snooping through the house. He found this ornate book in one of the rooms. I can still feel the carving under my fingers,” he muttered, his expression darkening. “Inside was cocaine. A lot of it.”
Imagining teenage Max in such a dangerous situation made her heart skip and tumble, but she kept silent. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze, silently encouraging him to continue.
“We were such idiots. Thought we’d hit the jackpot. Snorted a few lines like we’d seen in movies.” His voice was thick with regret. “We’re lucky one of our dumb asses didn’t OD. Anyway, that’s when the lights came on. The owner was there, caught us red-handed.”
“The guy gave us two choices: the cops or our parents.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I realized later he was probably bluffing. He was a TV anchorman. H e wouldn’t have wanted anyone to find out about his little stash. Anyway, parents were called. My dad lost his shit.” Max let out the saddest laugh she’d ever heard. Her eyes filled with tears. “If he were alive today, I’d still be grounded.”
His gaze met her, and it was filled with a mix of shame and regret. “Instead, the next day, he was rushed to the hospital.”
“Max,” she said softly, her heart aching for the scared, guilty teenager he’d been. “That must have been awful. But you have to know, your dad’s heart failure wasn’t because of that night.”
Max shrugged. “The stress I put him through. All the trouble I caused. It couldn’t have helped.”
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he’d been a kid who made a stupid mistake, like most teenagers. But platitudes wouldn’t erase years of guilt. Instead, she tightened her arms around him, hoping her embrace could convey what words couldn’t.
“A few days later, my dad died.” His voice cracked. “We had to move to Michigan after that so my mom’s family could help.”
She listened, holding him in silent support. She could feel the heaviness of the past bearing down on him.
“My mom never says anything outright,” he continued, his voice low, “but I always feel it. This . . . expectation. Like she’s holding her breath. Waiting for me to fuck up again.”
Her heart ached for him. She could almost see the teenage Max, grief-stricken and guilt-ridden, trying to navigate a new life under the burden of unspoken accusations.
“Max,” she said softly, choosing her words carefully. “That must have been incredibly difficult to deal with, especially while you were grieving.”
He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he exhaled. He shifted slightly, his arms loosening their hold on her. With a gentleness that belied his strength, he eased back, his fingers trailing lightly down her arms as he created a small space between them. His eyes met hers, a mix of vulnerability and gratitude in his gaze.
“Anyway,” he said, his tone lighter but with a slight roughness that betrayed his lingering emotions, “enough about the past. Let’s eat.”
He turned to the stove, picked up the wooden spoon, and stirred the sauce. The familiar motion seemed to ground him, bringing him back to the present.
She was touched that he had shared such a personal, painful part of his past with her. A part of her wanted to delve deeper, to offer more comfort or understanding, but she recognized his need to step back from the heavy conversation. So, instead, she murmured, “It smells amazing. Is there anything I can do to help?”
His smile grew a bit more genuine as he glanced at her. “Actually, yeah. Could you find the plates?”
Nodding, she moved to the cabinets. The confession stayed with her, but it wasn’t oppressive. Instead, it felt like a shared secret, a trust given and accepted.
She reached for the dishes, glancing at him. His shoulders were looser, less tense, as if unburdening himself had physically lightened his load. A warmth unfurled in her chest, threading itself with the pull of attraction.
After setting the plates on the counter, she touched his arm, waiting for him to meet her gaze. “Thank you for trusting me with that,” she said softly.
He met her gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks for listening. It’s . . . nice to have someone who doesn’t judge.”
The silence settled between them. But as their gazes held, something shifted, loosened, and then melted away. His expression transformed—the vulnerabilit y fading as his eyes crinkled at the corners. A warm flutter replaced the weight in her chest, and she returned his smile.
Stepping away, she searched for glasses, aware of him watching her. His attention sent a thrill through her. The air between them crackled with energy, but it wasn’t nervousness that made her pulse quicken—it was anticipation.
Returning to him, she briefly pressed against him. “You know,” she said, her voice low and teasing, “if you keep looking at me like that, we might not make it to dessert.”
His sharp intake of breath was gratifying. She continued her tasks, her movements purposeful and assured, reveling in the charged atmosphere they’d created. The heavy conversation from earlier hadn’t been forgotten, but it had evolved into something else—a new level of intimacy that only heightened her attraction.
They sat at the sleek, modern dining table crafted from rich walnut wood. Its rectangular surface was the perfect size for an intimate dinner for two. The table was positioned near the floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated one living area wall, offering a panoramic view of the bay.
The October night had already settled in, wrapping the world outside in darkness. The bay was a vast expanse of inky black; the far shore was barely visible, marked by a few scattered lights from homes and small businesses.
The aroma of their meal mingled with the ambiance created by the view, making the moment feel almost surreal. She took her first bite and, again, couldn’t help but moan at the explosion of flavors, the exquisite taste heightened by the equally exquisite setting. “Oh my god, Max. This is incredible,” she said, savoring another bite of the ravioli.
He grinned. “Told you my cooking was better than takeout.”
Between bites and conversation, she studied Max. His forearms flexed as he cut into his food. The subtle bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed was mesmeriz ing. Until she noticed another huge yawn overtaking him. It was his third in a short span of time. The wall clock read a little after ten, and before heading home, he’d mentioned taking a quick nap. Thinking back, the man was always tired.
She set her fork on the table. “Do you have mono?” she asked, only half joking.
He snorted. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Well, on the drive here, when I stopped for the restroom and a snack, you were sleeping when I came out and didn’t wake up until we’d arrived. You also mentioned you might take a nap today. Last week, when I swung by your office, you were hunching over some blueprints and asleep.”
“I never did get that nap today. I’d spent it on the phone, checking up on my other jobs.” He chuckled. “Which is probably why it seems like I have mono. I’d had a full schedule before taking on this job and the pineapple house. To keep up, I’ve had to forgo some of my beauty sleep,” he added with a wry smile.
She tilted her head, studying him. “Why did you do it? Take this job, I mean.”
“Because the challenge sounded interesting.” His fingers traced the rim of his water glass, his touch light and deliberate. “And I could tell it was important to you.” The sincerity in his voice melted her heart.
“That means a lot to me.” She reached across the table, touching his hand, and awareness zinged through her. “But I don’t want you running yourself into the ground.”
He turned his palm, catching her fingers in his. The touch sent a spark through her. “Don’t worry about me. I’m tougher than I look.” Another yawn overtook him.
She notic ed the fatigue etched in the lines around his eyes. A wave of affection washed over her. “Hey, why don’t you go grab a shower? I’ll clean up here.”
He looked like he might protest, but another yawn escaped. “You sure? I don’t mind helping.”
“I’m sure,” she said, standing and gathering their plates. “Go on, get some hot water on those muscles. I’ll be right behind you.”
The moment the words left her mouth, a spark of heat jumped between them. His gaze met hers, a flicker of interest cutting through his exhaustion. “Is that a promise?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.
She didn’t hesitate and met his gaze, a slow smile spreading. “Definitely,” she replied, her tone leaving no doubt about her intentions. “Consider it incentive to stay awake.”
He stood, and for a moment, she thought he might close the distance between them. Instead, he stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalizing strip of skin. “In that case, I’ll try not to fall asleep in the shower,” he said with a wink.
“No promises on what I’ll do if I find you asleep,” she called after him. “I might take you up on the offer to smother you with your pillow.”
His laughter echoed down the hallway, and she rushed to finish the dishes. The anticipation of what might happen when she joined Max energized her. She was done playing —they would finally act on the tension building between them.