Chapter Twenty-Seven

November 6th, 4:30 p.m.

P aloma stepped back after ringing the doorbell of the Thompson house, her gaze drawn to the pineapple door knocker. The sight deepened her already somber mood, not because of what it implied about her clients’ lifestyle, but because it reminded her of Max. Four days had passed since she’d last seen him—four days of replaying her hasty exit from his family home, of battling the guilt that gnawed at her insides.

The sudden introduction to his mom and her obvious dislike shattered the bubble of stolen moments and passionate encounters, making everything too real and serious.

Staring unseeing at the door, she worked to shake off the memory of Max’s disappointed expression as she’d fled. He’d been kind but distant since then, and she couldn’t blame him.

The door clicked, then opened, snapping her out of her reverie. The Thompsons stood before her. She smiled at them, forcing her professional mask back into place. She had a job to do, and clients to impress. She couldn’t let her drama interfere with her work.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “Are you ready for the final walk-through?”

“Are yo u sure Max can’t join us?” Bill asked. “There was another matter we’d like to discuss with him now that we’ve reached the end of this project.”

Her heart skipped. Did they have more work for them? Or maybe they’d recommend them to others.

She shook her head. “He’s in court today testifying as an expert witness. The judge rescheduled at the last minute and couldn’t get out of it. But we could reschedule for next week.”

After the disastrous run-in with his mom, she didn’t mind the break but understood why the Thompsons would want him here. And she wanted to keep them happy. Their satisfaction could lead to a flood of high-end clients. Her pulse fluttered. Maybe that’s what they wanted to discuss.

Elodie rested her hand on her husband’s arm. “Honey, I think we’ll get all we need from Paloma. She can pass it along to Max.”

There was a silent exchange between them that snagged at Paloma’s attention like a burr catching on silk. Bill’s lips curved in a way that made his usual friendly smile something else entirely.

They moved to the sweeping staircase where Max’s masterpiece unfolded—a cascade of native Michigan plants in tiered planters. Wild columbine nodded their delicate heads, achingly reminiscent of his thoughtful tilts, while ferns unfurled in shadier spots, their movement mirroring his animated gestures during their brainstorming session. Pineapple plants, the Thompsons’ quirky request, peeked out among the flora, evoking bittersweet memories of the theories she and Max had shared about their clients’ lifestyle. The garden and how it matched her design were a living testament to their perfect partnership. It should have filled her with pride, but instead, it intensified the hollowness in her chest. She’d run out on him when they had plans, and the choice haunted her. Their relationship defied easy labels, but his feelings deserved more than her hasty retreat.

She follo wed the Thompsons through their newly designed home, cataloging details on autopilot. She had a job to finish, even as her heart longed to return to Max and make things right.

Elodie gestured to the living room. “The color palette you chose is perfect. It reminds me of a certain . . . exclusive venue in Chicago. I believe Max might be familiar with the scene there.”

Her pulse picked up. The name was unfamiliar, but the mention of Chicago and Max wasn’t good. Was it her imagination, or was there an odd tension in the air? Elodie’s smile seemed a touch too wide while Bill’s gaze lingered a moment longer than usual.

“I’m not sure,” Paloma replied. “We focused on creating a sense of flow—”

“Oh, you’ve certainly done that.” Bill moved closer. “You know, we’ve heard whispers about Max’s . . . diverse experiences from his time in Chicago. It seems he has quite an interesting background.”

Her hands grew clammy. How much did they know? And more importantly, why did they care? She swallowed hard, and her mouth suddenly dried. “I’m not privy to Max’s history,” she lied.

The Thompsons exchanged a look that seemed to carry an entire conversation, but Bill merely nodded and said, “Well, the color works. It is beautiful.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson—”

“Oh, no, why so formal now, Paloma? Bill is fine. We’re all friends here.” He nodded at his wife. “Right, Elodie?”

“Yes, definitely,” she replied. “And I congratulate you both. Your partnership with Max seems very . . . effective.” Her hand brushed against Paloma’s arm as they moved deeper into the living room.

They stopped at the table Max had laid her on and made her come so hard she’d nearly blacked out. Had Elodie picked this exact s pot on purpose? And if so, why? Paloma forced a professional smile. “We do make a great team.”

Bill looked at her from the other side of the custom coffee table. “A little birdie told us your teamwork extends far beyond the office.”

Her mind raced. Who could have told them? She and Max weren’t from Brighton or Woodland Lake. And, more importantly, what the hell was she supposed to do about it now?

“Excuse me, I’m not sure . . .” How did she finish that sentence? Her personal life wasn’t their business, but she couldn’t afford to alienate an important client.

Bill chuckled, moving around the table. “No need to be coy, dear. Word gets around in our little community. It made us wonder about the day we stopped by unannounced.”

Elodie bent and traced her fingertip along the edge of the walnut coffee table, her dark eyes never leaving Paloma’s face. Panic rose in her throat, strangling her.

“This table is truly a focal point.” Elodie’s voice dropped to a honeyed whisper. “I bet it’s witnessed some . . . interesting discussions during your consultations.”

Memories of Max between her legs on that table flashed through her mind. She struggled to maintain her composure. “Yes, it’s . . . it’s a focal point for sure.”

Elodie glanced toward the fireplace mantle at an ornate, almost sensual statue. “Did we ever mention our home is equipped with cameras?” Her gaze moved to Paloma. “Outside and inside.”

Paloma stared at Elodie, her mind struggling to process the words “cameras” and “inside.” The room spun, and her heart hammered. The table. Max. That afternoon, they had seen everything.

Heat blaz ed across her face and neck. Her legs went weak, and she gripped the back of a nearby chair to keep herself upright. “Oh God,” she whispered. The memory of what she and Max had done—his hands on her body, her cries of pleasure echoing through this very room—now made her want to sink through the floor and disappear forever.

“I am so sorry,” she managed to choke out. “That was completely unprofessional. I never—we shouldn’t have—”

“Darling.” Elodie’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. We were . . . impressed.”

Paloma’s head snapped up, certain she’d misheard. Bill had moved closer, and his expression didn’t match her expectations of an angry client.

“You see,” Elodie continued, exchanging a look with her husband, “we recognize passion when we see it. And you two have incredible chemistry.”

Paloma swallowed, and there was an audible click from her now dry throat. “I don’t understand.” A new kind of nervousness replaced her mortification.

Bill cleared his throat. “What my wife is trying to say is that we’re part of a very exclusive, very discreet community. Given Max’s history and what happened here, we hoped you two might be open to new experiences.”

Her embarrassment transformed into shock of a different kind as their meaning became clear. The pineapple door knocker, the oblique references to Chicago, the lingering touches—everything shifted into a new context. She and Max were right! The Thompsons were swingers.

“You’re suggesting . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Only if you’re interested,” Elodie said, brushing Paloma’s arm. “No pressure. Though based on what we observed, you two certainly know how to enjoy yourselves.”

The weight of her mistake crushed against her chest like a physical force. She’d let all those careful boundaries she’d drawn dissolve in the heat of Max’s touc h. Now those dissolved lines had reformed into a noose around her reputation, business, everything she’d worked to rebuild.

Needing distance from the Thompsons and the situation, she stepped away and bumped into a side table, knocking over a frame. “I’m flattered by your offer,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “But I think it’s best to separate work and my personal life.”

She set the photo down and took another step back, her mind whirling. How had a simple final walkthrough turned into this? More importantly, how could she salvage the situation?

Elodie tilted her head, and her blonde bob brushed against her shoulder. “You didn’t with Max.” Her tone sounded neutral, but who knew what was happening beneath the surface.

“That was a temporary lapse. One time,” she lied. “We decided it was best to keep things strictly professional. We want to stay focused on our clients and our work. That’s what’s most important to both of us.”

Elodie raised a brow, her smile thinning. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” Paloma replied, her voice firmer now. “We make a great team because we prioritize our work, and that’s how we plan to continue.”

Bill chuckled softly as if amused by the whole exchange. “Fair enough, but I’ve seen you two together.” He glanced at the table again, then put an arm around his wife’s waist. “We respect your boundaries, Paloma. Just thought we’d put it out there.”

She forced a polite smile though her stomach churned. “I appreciate your understanding.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got another meeting soon, so we should finish our final walk-through.”

“Of course, darling,” Elodie said smoothly, a light laugh escaping her perfectly painted mouth. “No harm in asking, right?”

“Right, ” Paloma agreed, though she wasn’t sure if that was true. It might have harmed what was growing between her and Max.

She quickly completed the walk-through, keeping her voice even and professional despite her heart pounding and her mind racing. When she finished, she handed them the last bit of paperwork. “If you have any further questions, please call.” She hoped they didn’t have any questions.

Bill clasped Paloma’s hand a little too warmly. “Thank you for everything. And don’t worry—we won’t mention this to anyone. You’ll do the same, right?”

“Of course,” Paloma managed, withdrawing her hand as quickly as possible without appearing rude.

Stepping out of the house and into the cool air, the door closed behind her. She sucked in what air she could manage. They had a recording of her and Max. She might be royally fucked. Tears pressed in behind her eyes.

She got into her car, and her hands trembled as she gripped the steering wheel. The reality of what had happened didn’t wash over her so much as detonate. Each erratic heartbeat whispered, “They saw. They know. They saw. They know.”

Her phone buzzed. Max’s name flashed on the screen.

Her heart lurched. What would she tell him? That their clients had just propositioned them? She took a deep breath and answered the call.

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