Chapter Thirty-Seven
November 26th, 4:00 p.m.
P aloma leaned against the iron railing of her balcony. The metal was warm from the New Orleans sun. Below, tourists weaved between locals on Bourbon Street, some clutching orange to-go cups from Café du Monde, many other sporting plastic beads, and hurricane glasses. Their laughter floated up to her like music from a party she wasn’t invited to.
Her fingers traced the hollow beneath her collarbone, pressing against the ache. Her phone sat heavy in her pocket. She should have called Max before leaving. But wasn’t this exactly what she’d wanted? Space. Distance. A chance to protect her heart.
Ceramic clinked against the mosaic table. “What do you think of the two hotels?” her dad asked.
She turned to him, grateful for the distraction of work. Historic buildings differed from the residential renovations she was used to, but the challenge kept her mind busy—at least until tonight, in quiet hours when her regret would visit. She wrapped her hands around a tall glass of lemonade. “The structure and history within the walls are amazing. I’ve got so many ideas.”
“The site has an unusually generous lot size for a boutique property in an urban context,” her father said. “However, the current outdoor dining terrace layout doesn’t optimize the guest experience or operational efficiency. It needs a complete redesign to better integrate with the building’s flow.”
“Did you see the skeletal remains of a garden?” She stared, unfocused, at her drink. Max’s face swam into view—that contemplative look he’d get when studying a space, seeing past what was, to what could be. His shoulders would square slightly, his head tilting as if measuring angles only he could see, and his eyes alive with the quiet passion he had brought to every design. He took that same careful attention to everything: how sunlight fell across a courtyard, how people naturally moved through a space, the secret language of roots and soil.
He’d looked at her that way too, studying her like she was a garden worth tending, worth the patience of seasons. Her chest tightened. She’d run from that look, from the weight of possibility it carried.
The irony wasn’t lost on her—she’d taken this job to keep things casual, to prevent herself from falling too deep, and now here she was, missing him with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. Maybe running hadn’t protected her heart at all. Maybe it had just given her new ways to break it.
“Are you dating Max?” her father asked.
Her hand jerked, the slice of lemon hit the side of the glass. The liquid settled, but the ripples in her chest didn’t.
“Why are you asking—” The words caught in her throat, too thin to carry the weight of denial. She swallowed and tried again, aiming for professional detachment.
“The garden you mentioned. I like the idea of bringing it back,” her father said. “And the Baton Rouge hotel sits on three acres. The outside should be as impressive as the changes we have planned. I looked up his landscape bu siness and his designs. He has a great eye. I wouldn’t mind getting a bid from him.”
Her pathetic heart jumped and clapped at the chance to see Max. “You should,” she replied. “Max and everyone who works for him are incredibly talented.”
“Good to know. But you didn’t answer my question. Are you seeing him?”
“Why does it matter?” Each syllable landed like a small stone between them. Her father rarely asked about her personal life—why start now, and why about Max?
“For this job, it doesn’t. As my daughter it does.”
She traced the mosaic pattern on the table with her fingertip, gathering her thoughts. “Why does it matter ‘as your daughter?’” she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral. The question had an odd texture in her mouth, like tasting a familiar food prepared by unfamiliar hands. Where was this sudden fatherly concern coming from? Mom was usually the one who noticed these things. Dad just . . . worked.
“Because this one seems worth knowing.” He covered his mouth and muttered, “unlike that asshole ex-fiancé. The leech.”
A smile tugged on her lips. “You hated him from the start, didn’t you?”
“Richard was a shifty shit. The kind of guy waiting for everyone to take care of him.” Her father wasn’t wrong. “But Max seems like a good man.”
“He’s the best,” she admitted softly. “But no, we aren’t seeing each other.” It wasn’t a lie. They were never a couple. Though he’d felt like hers.
“Huh, I read that wrong. I was certain—” A knock had them turning toward the sound. Her father stood. “It’s probably Tim with the old blueprints of this place.”
When he disappeared into her room, Paloma leaned forward, resting her elbows on the ornate balcony railing. The crowd ebbed and flowed like a tipsy tide —tourists with their to-go cups and flashing cameras weaving between locals who navigated the street with practiced ease. They celebrated below while her heart ached above. Had she sabotaged something beautiful out of fear?
She closed her eyes, letting the weak winter sun caress her skin. Everything about him had felt so right. The way he’d match her impulsive ideas with his wild schemes, feeding off each other’s energy until they were breathless with laughter or passion or both. His kindness, that crooked smile that made her heart stutter . . .
And sweet Jesus, the things that man could do with his hands.
What was the point of running from how he made her feel when her thoughts always circled back to him? She was certain that distance wouldn’t dim him; nothing would.
She pulled out her phone with trembling fingers, her thumb hovering over Max’s name in her contacts. With a deep breath, she pressed his call and lifted the phone to her ear, ready to stop running from what mattered.
A throat cleared, and she turned from the street. Her dad’s frame filled the doorway. He gave her a look she’d never seen before—softer than his usual business exterior, almost awkward in its tenderness. It was strange and touching all at once, this glimpse of the dad he might have been if they’d spent more time talking about life instead of work.
“The man you said you aren’t seeing is here to see you,” he said, stepping onto the balcony and to the right.
Her heart stuttered. Max stood in the arch of the door, clutching a huge bouquet of dark purple flowers mixed with beautiful white ones. His phone rang from inside his jacket. She hit “end call,” setting her phone on the table. The noise from his pocket silenced.
Those summer blues she’d tried so hard not to think about crinkled at the corners, his eyes dancing with a warmth that had haunted her dreams. The blooms t rembled slightly in his grip, betraying a nervousness that matched her own.
“What are you doing here?” Her heart raced, hardly daring to believe he was there on her balcony, holding flowers and wearing that sunshine smile she loved.
“Could we talk?” His gaze bounced from her to her dad and back to her. Yeah, she’d rather have this conversation without her dad watching them.
But he seemed too amused to retreat quietly. His lip twitched, and he asked, “About work? And only work?”
She chuckled. Who knew her dad had a sense of humor? It was as dry as dirt, but there. A warm glow bloomed in her chest, discovering that her father wasn’t only blueprints and business plans. These unexpected moments of fatherly concern showed her that New Orleans might offer more than a fantastic work opportunity.
“No, Dad,” she said, grinning.
He nodded, then looked at Max. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“You as well,” he replied. He and her father continued talking, but she didn’t catch it because of the unique design of the fuchsia flower. “Is that the clitoris flower?” she asked.
Her dad coughed. “The what?”
“It’s a butterfly pea. The other is lisianthus,” Max replied, sounding a little strangled.
Lisianthus? Her heart melted. It was the flower he’d used to describe her skin. That he’d not only come to New Orleans but brought these specific blooms spread warmth through her chest like honey. It was perfectly Max: turning even small gestures profound through careful attention to detail. He hadn’t grabbed just any pretty flowers, but chosen ones that told their story. Without words, he was telling her those quiet moments had mattered to him too.
“Well, ” her father said, checking his watch with exaggerated interest, “I have that call with the contractors about the foundation work.” He pushed away from the wall, his shoes clicking against the weathered tiles. At the doorway, he paused, looking between them with that same unfamiliar softness. “The terrace plans can wait until tomorrow, Paloma.”
She nodded, grateful for his discretion even as her stomach fluttered with nervous energy. Just before stepping inside, her father turned back to Max. “Those are beautiful flowers. My mother used to grow lisianthus in her garden.” He smiled a real smile that made him look years younger. “She always said the best gardens grow from patience and care.”
Her father’s gaze met hers, gentle and knowing in a way she’d never seen before, then he disappeared into the cool darkness of the room beyond, leaving her with Max and only the sounds of Bourbon Street rising between them like a tide.
Max held out the flowers. “I should have been clearer last night. I said I could fall for you. That’s a lie.”
Her heart died in his pause.
“I’m already falling for you.”
And then it revived.
She stared at the offered bouquet, her hands remaining firmly on the railing. The metal had cooled beneath her palms, or maybe all the warmth had moved to her heart. His words struck at the soul of what she’d been trying to avoid by taking this job. Because she was falling too—had been falling for months.
“I . . . then why did you walk away?”
Below, a jazz band started playing, the mournful wail of a trumpet climbing up to wrap around them like Spanish moss. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted,” he said. “Everything you did seemed designed to keep me at a distance.”
She had, and it had been cruel. “You’re right,” she admitted softly, the words catching in her throat. “I kept one foot out the door, didn’t I? Always ready to run.” She gave a quiet, rueful laugh. “And then I got mad at you for not chasing me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, an almost-smile that always made her heart skip. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Me waiting for a sign, you waiting for me just to know.”
She stepped toward him, close enough to catch his scent of cedar and possibility. “So where does that leave us?”
“That depends,” he said, offering the bouquet again. This time, she took it, her fingers brushing his. “Are you still running?”
The flowers were cool and damp against her palms, their fragrance rising like a promise. “No,” she said finally, meeting his eyes. “I’m ready to grow roots.”
He cupped her cheek, kissing her gently. Her skin heated at the intimacy of his touch, at the rightness of being here with him.
“Max,” she said. “I’m falling for you too.”
He bracketed her in the corner of the balcony, his arms on each side of her, close enough that their bodies touched. “Then let’s grow something beautiful together.” He pulled her closer, claiming her mouth in a kiss that tasted of promise and possibility, of gardens yet to bloom.
He drew her closer, his kiss deep and sweet as chicory coffee. She melted into him, the world narrowing to this moment, to only them. Running his hands up her back and into her hair, tilting his head, he whispered against her mouth, “I know it’s only been a day.” He laughed. “Not even a full day, but damn, I’ve missed you.”
“I don’t deserve you,” she sighed.
“Don’t say that.” He leaned back and then kissed her nose, followed by her forehead. “We’re perfect for each other. We deserve each other.”
He angled his head, and their kiss went from sweet to heat in a heartbeat. His closeness wasn’t enough, and she pressed tighter, moaning into his mouth.
A sharp whistle pierced the air, followed by the distinctive clatter of plastic beads hitting the balcony tiles. Paloma broke away with a laugh, glancing down at the strand of purple beads now coiled near their feet. Below, a group of tourists raised their hurricane glasses in a cheerful salute. “Keep it going,” someone shouted, and another hollered, “That’s hot!” followed by wolf whistles and a, “Take it off, baby!”
Laughing, Paloma turned slightly from Max and looked at their feet. A tangle of purple and green beads dangled from the balcony’s black and rust bars. She nudged the beads at her feet until they fell. “Show’s over, I’m not showing you my boobs,” she said.
A woman shouted, “What about him?”
“He’s not showing anything either.” She winked at the blonde below. “At least not to you.”
The woman placed two fingers in her mouth and let out an impressive whistle, followed by two thumbs up. Paloma laughed harder, in love with this city, the day, and the man holding her hand.
She led him inside her room, not bothering to close the balcony and twisting around to kiss him. “Show me how much you’ve missed me,” she breathed, nuzzling the warm spot beneath his ear where his cologne mixed with something distinctly him—like sun-warmed cedar and fresh earth after a rain.
“I’ll start with a kiss.” His lips brushed her temple. “Then with your shiver when I touch you here.” His fingers traced her collarbone, that hollow that had ached for him. “Followed by the soft sounds you make . . .” He pressed his mouth to her throat. “Then how perfectly you fit against me, and me inside you.”
They’d reached the bed, and he sat; she straddled him. “I know you like to go slow,” she said, removing his shirt. “But I need you like I need to breathe.”
He hiked her dress to the tops of her thighs. “We’ve got our whole lives to savor each other. Let’s indulge now.”
“Thank all the gods in the world.” She rose to her knees, lifted her arms, and allowed him to remove her dress.
“Okay, maybe I need a moment to savor this sight.” His hands run up her sides, stopping at her breasts. There, he ran his fingers along the lace of her red bra, leaving a trail of fire where he touched.
“God, Paloma. This color on you . . .” His busy hands moved down her stomach to her matching panties. “More red. More lace. All perfection,” he muttered, pressing his thumb against her clit. She gasped, rocking against his jean-clad erection.
Scooting back, she unbuttoned and unzipped him. She gripped the waist of his jeans and boxer briefs, sliding them and herself down his body. Craving his taste as much as the feel of his body, she stopped to lick his pre-cum before taking him deep into her mouth and throat. His groan could probably be heard down Bourbon Street.
He slid his hands into her hair, pulling slightly, turning her on even more. As if he couldn’t help himself, his hips rocked. Unable to take all of him, she wrapped a hand around him and worked the rhythm and pace she knew he loved.
The curses and sounds from him were nearly feral. His tugs a little harder on her hair. She reveled in both. “Stop,” he grunted, “You feel too fucking good. But this isn’t going to end until I’m buried inside you, and you’re coming apart around me.”
One hundred percent in love with his plan, she gave him one final suck that ripped another guttural groan from him and then she kissed her way up his body. Laying on him, she traced the line of his jaw with trembling fingers, her heart racing from desire and a certainty thrumming through her veins. This was Max—her Max, who studied gardens with the same care he studied her, who chose flowers that told their story, who flew across states to fight for them.
“I have a condom, but I’m on birth control . . .” she whispered against his lips, the words carrying all the trust she’d found in his steady hands and patient heart.
He looked into her eyes. “I’ve never not used a condom.” Rolling her onto her back, he settled between her legs and asked, “Why do you want to go without?”
“I’ve also never not used one, and it is probably too soon to tell you this, but I’m all in with you. I believe with all my heart you’re the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with, and because of that,” she drew a finger down his chest, “I want to be as close to you as possible.”
He thrust slowly and gently inside her. Then stilled, saying, “Magnificent mind, inside and outside of the bedroom. I’m the luckiest man.”
Every inch of her body was alive where his gaze roamed over her. Desire darkened his eyes but softened them into something deeper that reached beyond hunger. He drew her close, wrapping her in his arms as his hands slid over her back, his fingers making her skin hum. Each touch was a promise, his breath against her neck igniting a heat that left her aching and restless. She pressed closer, craving the sensation of his heartbeat thrumming against hers.
Her need quickened as his hands moved over her with a reverence that took her breath away. He knew exactly where to linger, where to draw out her sighs and soft gasps, stoking her desire until it built like a slow, sweeping tide. She melted into the sensations, letting go of the guarded distance she’d held, surrendering fully to their love.
Their mov ements became a cascade of urgency, each kiss, each touch drawing her deeper into the steady rhythm they created together. She clung to him, solid and real beneath her hands, grounding her as her breaths grew shallower, in sync with his. Their heartbeats blurred, lost in each other as everything beyond them dissolved. Her release crested and broke, a wave that left her gasping, every nerve sparking alive in its wake, just as his own shuddered into being. Their bodies found a breathless symmetry.
They melted into each other like watercolors bleeding together in the velvet silence that followed. His palm found a home over her heart, his thumb painting drowsy patterns across her skin. She traced the familiar landscape of his jaw, marveling at how a simple touch could hold entire worlds within it.
“How did you find out where I was staying?” She indicated the room, where bright afternoon sunlight streamed through the open French doors, highlighting the faded pattern of the once-elegant wallpaper, its edges curling slightly near the crown molding.
“I called Felix. He told me.”
“But why didn’t you wait? My dad had said at dinner this would be a quick trip.”
The mattress shifted as Max propped himself on one elbow, the antique bed frame creaking softly beneath them. “I’ve been to your house. I saw the bookshelf full of romance novels and figured you appreciate the ‘grand gesture.’”
She rolled onto her side to face him, impressed and intrigued, as a burst of laughter from the street punctuated the moment. The gauzy curtains danced in the afternoon breeze, carrying the sweet, warm scent of pralines from the shop below. “How do you know about the ‘grand gesture?’ Your mom?”
“Wow, t hat’s sexist.” He pulled her closer, making her squeal as he tickled her ribs. The ceiling fan wobbled slightly as it spun, its chain tinkling against the dusty glass shade. “I’ll have you know Jackson and Asher got me into them. His sister, your friend, Hope, dared them to read one. They did and liked them. Now, she’s their book dealer with the best recommendations. They might have passed a few my way.”
She kissed both his cheeks, relishing the taste of salt on his skin and the solid warmth of his body against hers. “I’ll have to thank her.”
Curled into each other, their heartbeats steady and sure, she smiled against his chest. She’d believed she was too much—too intense, demanding, and hungry for life and love. But Max didn’t just handle her fire; he matched it, stoked it, and made it burn brighter. She wasn’t too much at all. She was exactly enough, exactly right, for the one person who mattered.