Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
MAX
My eyes keep flicking to the clock on the wall, its black hands crawling toward one o’clock with agonizing slowness.
Each tick is a pulse in my chest, a reminder that I’m due home soon, to welcome Amelia for lunch, to sit across from her as a family.
The thought sends a jolt through me, a mix of anticipation and dread that’s been knotting my stomach all morning.
I was a wreck when I sent that text a week ago, half-convinced she’d reject Sara’s invitation due to my reaction.
But she agreed to come. Relief followed a quiet thrill.
She’s coming to my home, to my table, and…
God, how I want it—want her near—even if it’s a dangerous game only fools and mad men will play.
I’m no fool, so I must surely be the latter.
Tom’s voice cuts through my haze, sharp and expectant. “Max, we’ll need your sign-off on the revised timeline.”
I pull my gaze away from the clock. “Yeah,” I say, my voice distracted. “Looks fine. Run it.” I wave a hand in a gesture of approval.
He nods, but his brow furrows, and I know I’m not fooling anyone. I don’t care, though. My mind’s already out of this room, racing toward home, toward her.
I considered taking her out for lunch, just the two of us, somewhere quiet where I could talk to her, really talk.
But I stop, and the thought that comes next is cold and practical.
If I’m serious about keeping her in my life, seeing her as my half-sister, then I must draw the line very clearly in the sand.
I can’t have my cake and eat it. I can’t be alone with her.
Not when every glance feels like a spark, every touch a fire I can’t control.
So I’ll do this right—lunch with Sara and Jason, a family setting, safe and contained.
It’ll be the only way to keep myself in check.
Even before the meeting wraps up, I’m out the door, my briefcase forgotten, my strides long and urgent as I head for the elevator.
The drive home is a blur, Chicago’s streets a smear of gray and glass, my pulse a steady thrum of nerves.
When I pull into the driveway, the sight of my house—sleek and stylish with clean lines and wide windows—does nothing to calm me.
I step inside, the cool air hitting my face, scented with lemon polish and something meaty wafting from the kitchen.
Sara’s voice calls out, bright and welcoming, but it’s Amelia I see first, standing in the foyer… and my heart stops.
Brotherly love is going to be a hell of a lot harder than I imagined.
She’s in jeans, casual and fitted, hugging the curves of her hips in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
A simple jacket, open just enough to reveal the soft swell of her breasts beneath a white shirt.
Her blonde hair spills down her back, catching the sunlight streaming through the windows, and her lips, lightly pink, curve into a hesitant smile.
She’s gorgeous, every inch of her, and I’m fucking floored, my breath catching in my throat.
I try to control it, to lock down the heat surging through me, but it’s a losing battle.
Half-sister, I remind myself—and I hate how that word does nothing to stop the want clawing at my chest.
I move toward her, my steps automatic, and pull her into a brotherly hug before I can think better of it.
My arms wrap around her, and her scent hits me—lavender and something softer, uniquely her.
My heart begins to race, a wild beat I can’t slow.
I press a kiss to her cheek and move back hastily so I don’t accidentally linger.
“It’s good to see you,” I murmur.
Her lovely eyes meet mine, and I see the flicker of something—surprise maybe, or something else.
“You too,” she says softly, her smile steadying me even as it shakes me.
Sara’s voice breaks through, cheerful and oblivious.
“Jason has gone up to wash, so come on, Amelia, I’ll give you a little tour of the kitchen before we sit down to eat.
” She gestures toward the dining room, her smile wide and welcoming.
I have to be honest, Sara has surprised me.
The way she has welcomed Amelia is impressive and unexpected.
She has gone up in my estimation. I never took her for a family person.
“I’ll go wash up too,” I say awkwardly. As I walk away, I can hear Sara pointing out the house’s features—the open kitchen, the skylights, the art on the walls.
In the mirror, my eyes glitter dangerously. No wonder Amelia gave me that look. I look almost feverish.
We settle at the dining table, a long slab of Marquina black marble that Sara fell in love with and had to have.
Maria, our housekeeper, bustles in and lays out a rustic spread that fills the air with savory warmth.
Garlic and herb-crusted chicken, rosemary roasted potatoes, and salad vibrant with greens and cherry tomatoes, and a basket of freshly baked rolls that steam when broken open.
Dessert waits on the sideboard, a rich chocolate tart dusted with powdered sugar.
I watch Amelia as she takes a small bite of chicken, her lips closing around it, and a smile flickers across her face, full of genuine appreciation.
She looks happy, lighter than she did at the funeral, and it warms my chest, a soft glow that spreads through me.
She’s here, in my home, and for a moment, it feels right, like she belongs.
But fuck, I love her.
I love her so much it is a physical ache, like an infection that poisons my gut and makes me feel bad.
My eyes trace her—the curve of her cheek, the way her hair falls over her shoulder—and every nerve in my body hums with want.
I force myself to eat, to focus on the plate, the clink of cutlery, the familiar sound of Sara’s chatter, but it’s no use.
Amelia’s presence is a fire, consuming me, and I’m burning up in it.