Chapter Twenty-Six
November 2nd, 3:30 p.m.
M ax pulled into his driveway, easing his Harley beside Drake’s Mercedes. It seemed his brother was back in town for the week. Max hit the kill switch, and the engine’s rumble ceased, fading to a soft tick as it cooled. A twinge of melancholy struck him; this would probably be his last ride of the season. He’d gotten lucky with how long the fall weather held, but Old Man Winter was hiding around the corner.
The sound of a car pulling behind him banished thoughts of his bike and the impending winter. He removed the key and whipped off his helmet, his pulse quickening as he turned to see Paloma stepping out of her vehicle. The changes at the Sterling house had taken longer than expected, and it had been two weeks since he’d seen her in person.
With his overflowing work schedule, they’d rarely talked. His crew could only do so much, and there were a few projects he’d put off while in Traverse City that demanded his attention before the winter weather set in, leaving little time for anything else. Their brief text exchanges and hurried phone calls had only intensified his longing to see her again.
But she was back, and the rest of the day was theirs.
Paloma ap proached. The autumn breeze tousled her dark hair, and the fading sunlight brought out the vivid blue of her eyes, like a clear winter sky. Her fitted jacket and jeans accentuated her curves, reminding him of all he’d been missing these weeks.
The familiar comfort of her presence collided with a new, electric uncertainty. His fingers twitched, caught between the urge to reach for her and the sudden fear that his touch might not be welcome.
“Hey,” Paloma said softly, stopping a few feet away. She fidgeted with the strap of her bag, betraying a nervousness that matched his.
“Hey yourself,” he replied, aiming for casual, but his wide grin probably gave him away. “It’s good to see you.”
Her lips curved into a small smile, but her blue eyes held a question. “You too. It’s been a while.”
“Too long. I’ve missed you,” he ventured.
Was that relief he saw in her eyes? Her gaze drifted from him to the motorcycle and the helmet dangling from his gloved hand. Her smile widened.
“Riding the bike today, huh?” she said, her voice low and sultry as she stepped closer. Her fingers trailed along the curve of the fuel tank. “You know what that does to me.”
“Do I? I’ve forgotten. Why don’t you show me?” he challenged.
Drawn closer to Paloma, heat coursed through his body. The small space between them crackled with electric desire, making the hair on his neck stand up. She pressed against him, and his breath hitched. Her warmth seeped through his clothes. His arms encircled her waist, pulling her closer. He reveled in the feel of her body against his. All the uncertainty of the past weeks melted away.
He removed his riding gloves and tossed them on his motorcycle. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones, and he cupped her face in his hands before crash ing his lips against hers. The kiss was hungry and desperate; weeks of longing poured into a single, scorching moment.
She matched his hunger, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. She arched into him, erasing any remaining space between their bodies. Max groaned softly against her mouth, one hand sliding down to her hip, gripping tightly.
They broke apart, panting. Her pretty lips were swollen, and her pupils were dilated. He rested his forehead against hers, unwilling to pull away completely.
“That was quite a welcome,” he murmured.
Her lips curved into a playful smile. “Just showing you what your bike does to me,” she teased, her breath warm against his skin.
“Damn, I need to ride more often. Maybe even in the winter.”
“Right now, I’d rather you ride me,” she said bluntly.
Her words bypassed his brain, striking deep in his gut, unfurling into a swarm of hungry butterflies. He swallowed hard, tasting anticipation on his tongue.
She nodded toward Drake’s Mercedes. “Is the fancy car merely keeping watch, or is your brother playing sentinel inside?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “You pulled in right behind me. I haven’t been inside. But probably.”
She winked. “Well, that puts a damper on my plans to ravish you on this bike.”
Desire coursed through him. He leaned in, ready to throw caution to the wind until a flicker of movement in the kitchen window caught his eye. Reality crashed back like a bucket of ice water. Right. The house. His brother. He pulled back slightly, keeping a hand on Paloma’s waist.
“As tempting as that sounds,” he murmured, nodding toward the house, “we might have an audience.”
“That ’s okay. It’s just good to see you, Max. I’ve missed this.” She kissed him. “Missed us.”
Her words cleared away his shadows. He’d worried the spark might have fizzled with her during their time apart. But here she was, standing before him, her eyes bright with desire and something that looked a lot like affection.
He drank in the sight of her. Weeks of longing crashed over him, made worse by her tantalizing proximity. He curled his hands into fists at his sides, fighting the urge to pull her close again.
He’d spent the last week trying not to overthink what had happened in Traverse City, reminding himself they’d agreed to wait until the Sterling project was completed to talk about what they were to each other. And did they need to? The way she looked at him now, the way she’d practically melted into his arms, had to mean something. And what if putting a name to whatever was growing between them would change everything?
Playing it cool, he took her hand, and they walked to the house. “Come on, let’s get inside. I’ll make us something for dinner.” He pulled her close at the door, running his lips along her neck, taking in her sweet, sexy scent. “Then we’re going to my bedroom, and I’m having you for dessert.”
“Oh, Max,” she laughed, her eyes sparkling as they walked toward the house. “Such a gentleman, aren’t you? Offering dinner first when we both know what you’re really hungry for.” She pressed into his back, and he fumbled with the lock, turning around and pushing his hungry mouth to her lips.
Breaking the kiss, he reached behind and opened the door. “What can I say? I’m a nice guy.” Keeping her in his arms, he walked backward to the foyer. “And I believe in doing things properly.”
“Nice a nd proper, hmm? I’ll be sure to remember that later,” she said before going on her tiptoes and nipping her earlobe. “But I prefer rough and thorough.”
He cupped her ass, pressing her against him. Never mind. She was going to be his dinner and dessert.
“I was beginning to think you’d set up camp in the driveway,” said Drake.
Max’s head snapped toward his brother’s voice. His eyes narrowed at Drake, leaning against the kitchen sink. Paloma’s hold slid from around him, her cheeks flushing red.
“I thought I saw you spying like a creep,” Max said, resting a hand on her back and leading her to the kitchen.
“I’m the creep?” A sardonic smirk played on his brother’s lips. “You were the one trying to crawl inside Paloma through her mouth.”
Max laughed-groaned. “Shut the f—”
“Maximilian! Language!” His mother’s voice rang out as she strode from the great room into the kitchen.
He jolted, his elbow knocking against a mug on the counter. It clattered with a thud into the sink. “Mom, what are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to greet your mother? I haven’t seen either of my sons in weeks, so I came to you guys.” His mom’s gaze moved from him to Drake and then locked onto Paloma. She tilted her head, eyebrows rising a fraction.
His tongue was sandpaper in his mouth. He glanced at Paloma, then at his mom. How did he introduce her? Work partner? No, too formal after Traverse City. The memory of their time there flickered through his mind, and his cheeks burned hotter. But are they dating? They hadn’t talked about it yet.
“Mom, this is Paloma— ”
She stepped forward, extending her hand. “I work with Max.”
His mom’s lips thinned, and her eyes narrowed, settling coldly on Max. A crease formed between her brows. “Works for you?”
He shook his head. “No, with me. She owns an interior design business.”
“Oh, decorates homes?”
Max winced. His mom, who’d redecorated their house six times in the past decade, would love chatting design. But he knew how much it irked Paloma when people confused design and decorating.
“I design them,” she said, her voice carefully neutral.
His mom’s brows furrowed. “So, an interior decorator?”
“Uh . . . Mom.” He fought the urge to clamp his hand over his mother’s mouth.
Paloma drew in a measured breath. “That’s a different profession.” Her fingers drummed against her thigh, the only visible sign of irritation.
His mom’s gaze darted between them, her lips compressing further. “Well, lunch is ready if you’d like to join us,” she said with brittle brightness.
An inexplicable tension settled over the room. Something was off, but he couldn’t pinpoint what or why. His mother’s smile was strained, but was it directed at him or Paloma? The uncertainty made his stomach churn.
Paloma looked at Max, then quickly away before she turned to his mother. “No, thank you. I actually have a . . . client meeting I forgot about,” she said, her words coming out a touch too quickly. “I should really get going.”
He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath him. “We cleared our schedules,” he murmured, unable to keep the edge from his voice. That had been the plan. He’d been up since dawn, racing through his work to have this time with her.
A flicker of something—guilt? Regret?—passed over her face before she schooled her features. “I know, and I’m sorry,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “It came up suddenly. You know how demanding some clients can be.”
His shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him. “Right,” he said, bitter disappointment coating his tongue. “At least let me walk you to your car.”
She shook her head, offering a small, apologetic smile. “No, that’s okay. Spend time with your mom.” She turned to his mother, her posture stiffening slightly. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. London. Thank you for the lunch invitation.”
His mother’s left eye twitched, a tell Max recognized from countless childhood confrontations. “Of course,” she said, her tone clipped. “Another time, perhaps.”
Paloma gave Max one last look, a mix of apology and something else he couldn’t quite read—maybe defeat—before heading toward the door. The sound of her heels on the hardwood seemed to echo in the tense silence as she left.
“What the hell was that about? What’s your issue with Paloma?” he demanded. Each word was measured and deliberate, but he pressed his hands flat against his thighs, fingers splayed, needing to ground himself.
“Don’t take that tone with me. And I’m upset with you, not her.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “It has to do with what you were doing before you walked through the door.”
Drake, who’d been slouched at the table like a bored teenager, sprang to life. He slinked toward the stove with all the subtlety of a cartoon burglar. Cupping his hand to his mouth, he stage-whispered loud enough for the neighbors to hear, “Psst! I wasn’t the only one at the window like a creeper.”
Their mom smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “I’m not a creeper. I was just excited to see my son.”
“Yet you weren’t after you saw your son had company.” Drake’s grin widened, and he tapped their mom’s cheek. “Aw, you blush as bright as Max.”
“Quiet, son.” She ducked her head, suddenly very focused on checking on the delicious-smelling stew on the stove. Placing the lid back on the Dutch Oven, she looked at Max. “Think about the consequences.”
His jaw clenched, the tension radiating down his neck. The kitchen was suddenly too small, too warm, the smell of his mother’s stew cloying and suffocating. “I told you, Paloma doesn’t work for me.”
“I heard. But you are business partners, correct?”
He nodded, still not understanding. Yet, a familiar weight settled in his gut, that old feeling of disappointment he could never seem to shake around his mother.
“How well do you think you’ll work together if things fall apart?”
“Wow, way to be a pessimistic Peggy.”
Drake chuckled, earning a withering glare from their mom. “What?” he protested. “It’s funny because your name’s Peggy.”
She rolled her eyes. I know why it’s funny. But it’s not. I’m realistic, not pessimistic. And you, Max, are impulsive.” She left out the phrase, “as usual” but he heard it.
“Even if that happened, it wouldn’t end either of our careers,” he argued, but the words were hollow.
A familiar weight settled in his gut, that old burning weight of disappointment he could never seem to shake around his mother. He wasn’t that reckless teenager anymore, the one who’d made impulsive decisions that had rippled out, affecting his life and others’. He’d worked so hard to b ecome someone his mother could be proud of, someone responsible and trustworthy.
But now, looking at the concern etched on her face, Max was right back in high school. Or standing over his father’s hospital bed, making promises to any deity who’d listen to his prayers.
“I’m not being impulsive,” he insisted, hating how defensive he sounded. “Paloma and I, we’ve thought this through.” But even as he said it, doubt crept in. Maybe she’d already considered all this, and that’s why she’d hesitated to have anything more with his impulsive ass than sex.
“What you two are working on isn’t profitable?” his mom asked, halting his spiral.
“No, it is.”
“One project is with the Thompsons who own all those yoga studios,” Drake said, butting it. “And an even bigger one for the Sterlings. That’s why they were in Traverse City.”
“The Sterlings?” his mom exclaimed, her eyes widening. ‘You mean the obscenely wealthy Sterlings who own that top-selling home design magazine AND the hit TV show? Those Sterlings?”
He nodded again. “Yeah, so?”
“That’s huge, Max. Think of the contacts.” Her brows rose. “And the possible fallout if things didn’t work out.”
“We’re professionals,” Max argued, but even as the words left his mouth, a flicker of doubt chased after him. Images flashed through his mind: awkward client meetings, strained conversations, the spark between them fading to cold ashes. He swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts away. “Even if things didn’t work out and, worst-case scenario, we ended up hating each other, we’d finish the project.”
“And when their friends and colleagues wanted to hire you as a team. Then what?”
Good ques tion. His certainty wavered. His mother’s words wormed their way into his mind, planting seeds of doubt. Was he being impulsive? Was he risking everything he’d worked for? The possibilities he hadn’t considered loomed large, threatening to overwhelm him.
Then there was Paloma’s hasty retreat, the way she’d tensed at his mother’s questions. Maybe she’d already considered all these complications. Their time in Traverse City had been perfect—away from expectations, just the two of them exploring whatever was growing between them. But now, watching her practically sprint from his house, he worried if trying to define things would only make her run faster.
They were good together, weren’t they? The easy flow of their work partnership, the electric chemistry between them, the way she made him laugh. Did they really need to slap a label on it? But leaving things undefined, of pretending their connection was casual when it felt anything but, sat like a stone in his gut.
His mom sighed, “Oh, Max, when are you going to learn to be less impulsive?”
He wanted to argue that she was wrong. But was she?
What had started as something thrilling but complicated had become precarious, balanced on the knife-edge between professional success and personal happiness. And now, with the phantom warmth of her kiss still on his lips and the sting of her hasty exit fresh in his mind, he wasn’t sure which way it would fall.