Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
W hen they’d entered the private plane for their return trip to Maine, Sloane had taken the seat next to Ivy. It faced toward a table, the two chairs on the far side of the table, and beyond that, the plane’s nose. Max had opted for the chair directly across from Sloane’s. Which she hadn’t thought much of at the time.
But now that they were thousands of feet up and coasting smoothly through the sky, Ivy had accepted the pilots’ invitation to visit the flight deck. Based on the excited snippets of conversation floating back to Sloane, Ivy was asking a thousand questions, and the pilots were giving Ivy answers so in-depth that the girl would soon be prepared to teach a physics course.
Which was great and all. Except that it meant Sloane was stuck in a seat that faced Max squarely. And the two of them were alone back here.
As if her life depended on it, she was trying to focus on reading and replying to email on her phone. It was just that, like when she had her morning devotional time at the café table, she could feel Max’s attention. And that didn’t permit space in her head for anything else.
“Ivy seems okay to me,” he said, voice pitched so their conversation would remain private. “Do you think she is okay?”
Lifting her face, she set her phone on her thigh. “I do. I talked with her once we were back at the hotel packing our things.”
He waited for her to elaborate.
“I was afraid,” she continued, “that the fact that Seth didn’t express interest in building a relationship with Ivy might have hurt her.”
“And?”
“I think that was just me, projecting the hurt I felt from my father’s disinterest in me onto her. She seems fine. We have to remember that Ivy was raised in a wonderful, close-knit family. She’s already as treasured as a daughter can be, which means she’s much more well-adjusted than I was at that age.”
His face held understanding. So much so, the unexpected pressure of tears suddenly pushed against the backs of her eyes.
“It sounds like our investigative team of three now has a twin sister to find,” he said.
“It sounds that way.”
Things had shifted between her and Max on this trip. He’d chipped away a bit of her animosity toward him. How? It wasn’t just one thing, but the sum of all the things. His outstanding treatment of Ivy. And her. He’d been helpful and kind and funny. He’d taken on the travel arrangements and the expense of the trip—which would have fallen on Sloane’s shoulders if not for him. Yesterday, he’d protected her when she’d come close to stepping into the street. He’d arranged meals for them. He’d asked Seth smart questions.
In general, Max had been an asset this weekend, just the way he’d been during their years of friendship. Which meant the old dynamic between them—the Sloane and Max rapport—was rising to the surface after years underground.
She didn’t know what to do with that.
Ignore it? Make peace with it? Resist it?
So much time had passed. She’d be returning to California in early November, so what good was reestablishing a rapport with him now? Also, a rapport might lead to more time with him. And she couldn’t afford more time with him. Because just the few days she’d spent with him this weekend had turned up the dial on his physical appeal.
Like right now, for instance. She was wearing a travel pantsuit and a knotted headband made of floral fabric. She was dressier and more presentable than he was. So why did he look so wholly, painfully desirable to her? He had on basketball shorts, a black T-shirt, and a black baseball hat that read Porsche across the front. Dark hair curled against his neck at the base of the cap.
She couldn’t let his desirability sway her.
This was Max. The one who’d come at her with so much anger the day of her panic attack, when she didn’t show to give her presentation. Max, the one who’d forced her out of Libri. Max, forever desired by women, but never captured by them. Elusive, conniving, ungettable, self-centered Max.
“There are times when something happens in life,” he said, “and you have no idea while it’s happening how important it will be.”
“Are we still talking about Ivy?”
“No. We’re talking about us.”
“There is?—”
“Don’t say there is no us ,” he interrupted, reading her mind.
For once, she didn’t argue. It felt disingenuous to claim there wasn’t an us when she’d just been pondering the undeniable existence of that very link.
“There are times when something happens in life,” he repeated, “and you have no idea while it’s happening how important it will be. Or how much it will change everything that comes after. The day we had our last argument, the day of the annual general meeting, was like that for me. I had no clue how much damage our fight would do. I definitely didn’t plan at that time on running Libri alone. Or that I wouldn’t talk to you again for four years.”
She nodded.
He angled forward, forearms on the table. “I should have realized that you were overwhelmed. I’m sorry that I was so hard on you. And I’m sorry that I pushed you out of Libri. I wish I’d been understanding . . . and more of what you needed.”
She couldn’t have been more surprised had a unicorn cantered down the center of the plane. Max had just said he was sorry. He’d coldly informed her when she’d moved to The Gables that he wanted an apology from her. But now he’d been the one to give that very thing to her.
Those words were powerful.
His I’m sorry began to soften something that had been jagged in her for a long time. “Thank you for saying that.”
He held her eye contact.
It was too difficult to be locked with him in such a raw moment, so she looked out the plane’s window at the sea of white cloud below.
Several seconds passed before he spoke. “If you could go back in time and change what went wrong between us, would you?”
Slowly, she turned her chin back to him. “That’s a complicated question. So complicated, that I don’t know the answer. On the one hand, I’m grateful for my life in California and for my new business. On the other hand, I mourn Libri and the life I had. It’s been hard to live with the mistakes I made because they ended up costing me so much.”
“If I could go back, I’d change the mistakes I made.”
“How so?”
“I’d change my behavior in all the ways needed to make you stay.” His eyes were pale jade pools beneath the shade of his hat’s brim. “We built Libri together. Only the two of us know what that took.”
“True.” Her memory sped through a reel of images. Their late-night planning sessions in college. All the coding they’d done in the earliest stages. Meticulously putting together their business plan and presenting it to investors. “The fact is, my time at Libri ended the way that it ended. Imagining it happening differently changes nothing.”
Ivy returned and began passing on her newfound knowledge of flying to Max.
Sloane resumed her attempt to catch up on email.
What was the status of her relationship with Max now? She didn’t know the answer to that.
She could no longer stick him in a box labeled “enemy.”
Yet placing him in a box labeled “friend” felt like too big a risk.
On Tuesday, Max’s entrance into his grandparents’ home set off the usual commotion. Everyone hurried over, some of them flapping their hands, most of them talking. He had cousins on his mom’s side of the family both older and younger than he, but he’d always seemed to be the cousin who generated the most attention. Maybe because his other cousins had siblings, but he was his mother’s only son. Maybe because of his notoriety due to the scandal and later, success.
“You’re here!” His stout grandmother embraced him. His grandparents had been raised in Greece before emigrating to America and having their children here. They were bilingual but still spoke English with a thick accent.
“Hi, Giagia.”
“Let me at him,” his grandfather demanded, giving Max a hug that finished with back slaps.
“Good to see you, Pappous.”
Max greeted his mother, aunts, uncles, and cousins. They all remained crowded into the small living room.
“Have you been presenting the Cirillo name in a good light?” His grandfather asked Max this question every time Max saw him.
“I have.”
“We are proud of the Cirillo name,” Pappous said, like a coach giving a pep talk to the team before the final game of the season. “We are a close family. We have dignity. We have integrity. And so many accomplishments.” He went around, pointing at each person and listing their achievements. When he got to Max, he said, “You own a company and employ many, many people.” Which, in Max’s opinion, was a mile above the accomplishments of the others, which included things such as “a bachelor’s degree!” and “good at giving manicures!”
“Max,” Giagia said, “Groomsport’s Pumpkin Festival is coming up in October and the Greek Heritage Society will take part in the parade. You should?—”
“Yes!” Pappous interrupted her, as he had a habit of doing. “You should be in the parade with us.”
“Sounds interesting,” Max lied, because he’d been taught to respect his grandparents and not to disagree with them outright. “What is the Greek Heritage Society doing in the parade?”
“Dressing in traditional clothing—” Giagia began.
“And marching in the parade, waving Greek flags,” Pappous finished.
There was no way that Max would ever dress in a pirate-style white shirt, vest, sash, white skirt, and white tights. “Hmm,” he said.
“I’ll call you with the information.” Giagia patted his cheek.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Pappous asked.
“That reminds me!” Max’s mom crowed. “I forgot to tell you all that Sloane Madison has come back to Maine.”
“Sloane!” his grandparents, aunts, and uncles said in unison.
The Cirillos had treasured Sloane and had never been shy about telling him so. After his mom ran into Sloane at the party the other night, she’d scolded him for not notifying her that Sloane had returned and was living at The Gables.
“She’s staying in Max’s garage apartment this summer with her niece.” Mom seemed to be enjoying delivering this information without a care for how many questions about Sloane he’d now have to field from this group.
Giagia bounced up and down, clapping. “Living on your property?!”
“I’ve always thought Sloane was the one for Max,” Mom stated. “Now they can marry.”
“ Yes ,” Pappous agreed wholeheartedly.
“She can march in the parade with you,” Giagia suggested. “I’ll tell Sloane she can borrow my costume?—”
“You should marry that girl. Don’t waste this chance.” Pappous thumped him on the shoulder.
Then everyone was talking at once about how he should propose to Sloane.
Until just a few days ago, Sloane hadn’t even been able to look at him without glaring, but there was no point wasting his breath trying to explain that to them. When they got like this, they had zero interest in reality.
“Mom?” he cut in. His visit today had a goal: fulfill the favor Fiona Camden had asked of him. “May I speak with you outside for a minute?”
Her expression turned inquisitive. “Okay.”
He led her away from the chaos.
His mother had been hired by Fiona Camden a few months before Jeremiah’s birth. Which meant that, at the point in time when everything blew up, Mom had been working for the Camdens for sixteen years.
Many of Fiona’s wide circle of friends had been shallow women as wealthy as she was. Fiona, who’d come from humble beginnings, had relied on Mom not just as her maid and grocery shopper and cook, but as Fiona’s favorite confidante.
As a kid, he hadn’t fully clued in to the touchiness of Nicole’s friendship with Fiona. For one thing, their friendship hadn’t been all bad. He remembered his mom and Fiona sharing laughter and after-hours glasses of wine on Maple Lane’s back porch. For another thing, his mother had never bad-mouthed Fiona to him.
Looking back now, he was better able to understand why a friendship between two women so unequal in power had not been an easy thing. Especially for Mom, the one with no power. She’d probably been dealing with undercurrents of hostility for years.
In return for the job and the friendship Fiona extended to Nicole, Fiona had expected the utmost in loyalty and effort.When he was fourteen, his mother had overheard Fiona telling her friend that she was worried Nicole’s work was slipping because Nicole was becoming complacent.
Perhaps Mom had been exhausted that day, in a terrible mood, dealing with a splitting headache, overwhelmed, overworked. The specifics of the reason had been lost to time. What was certain—the undercurrents of hostility had boiled over and washed away all the things about her work that she was usually grateful for. An excellent, rent-free house. Fair pay. Steady employment. A flexible schedule.
Nicole had confronted Fiona, telling her that she’d overheard the conversation and demanding to know why Fiona hadn’t come to her and talked about these things with her to her face. Fiona, who could be fiery herself, had stood by the criticisms she’d articulated. At that point, his mother had voiced all her criticisms of Fiona. Long and loud.
Then his mother had stormed back to their house, called the town newspaper, and informed a reporter that her son, Max, had been fathered by Felix Camden.
It had been an act of mutiny toward Fiona. Only after Nicole calmed down did she realize there would be no recovering from her rebellion. That she had, in many ways, sabotaged herself.
Now, Max and his mom stepped into his grandparents’ backyard. Quiet met them. The garden was tall this time of year with neat rows of vegetables and fruit. He came to a stop on a patch of grass lined by ripe tomato plants.
“What do you need to talk to me about?” Mom asked.
“Fiona Camden.”
Her eyes flared, then narrowed.
“She came by the other day to say that she’d like to have a conversation with you.”
Mom crossed her arms. “Why would she want to have a conversation with me?”
He explained that Fiona was seeking to resume communication with Isobel, who’d informed Fiona that she’d need to mend fences with Nicole first.
“Mend fences!” Mom scowled. “What does that involve?”
“Fiona is asking for one brief, civil conversation. She’d like to tell you that she forgives you and snap one picture of the two of you together that she can send to Isobel as proof of the meeting.”
“I’ve never asked for her forgiveness.”
“Even so, it might be nice for you to hear her say that she forgives everything that happened, right?”
“Fiona herself had an affair with Felix when he was married to Isobel, her own sister . Now she wants to forgive me like a queen on high for doing the very same thing she did?”
“In short, yes. You’re the one who had an affair with Felix when Fiona was married to him.”
She screwed up her face. “Why would I want to help her have a relationship with her sister again? Why would I want to help her in any way?”
“You could help her as a nod to the fact that you and Fiona were friends once. I remember that there were good times between you.”
“She was the person who wrote my checks. If I’d been choosing a regular friend, I wouldn’t have chosen someone so pampered.”
“She has flaws just like the rest of us. But she also has strengths. She’s supportive of her sons. She’s generous. She runs a successful business.”
“Are you, my son, singing Fiona Camden’s praises to me?”
“Your son is encouraging you to talk with her for a few minutes. That’s it.”
“I planned on never seeing her again.”
“I get it. But here’s what I know about you. You are strong enough to handle uncomfortable things.”
She kept stubbornly quiet.
“Because of Jude and Jeremiah, I’m around Fiona from time to time,” he said. “It would be helpful to me if you could find it in your heart to honor this request of Fiona’s.”
Still, she did not agree.
“Just think on it,” he said. “All right?”
She gave a grudging nod. “Did you find the tiara you were asking about a few weeks ago?”
“Not yet.”
“You can bet Fiona has it.”
“She says she doesn’t have it, but she might. I haven’t ruled out that possibility.”
She moved to the back door. “You coming in?”
“I’ll be there in a second.”
He remained outside alone, trying to relax, trying to find a sense of contentment inside himself.
In Boston, he’d been part of things with Sloane and Ivy. He’d enjoyed every minute of his time with them. Technically, he belonged here with the other Cirillos. It’s just that he could only take them in small doses and didn’t find it as simple to enjoy himself in this setting as he had with Sloane.
Since they’d returned to Groomsport, Sloane and Ivy had continued living life as a pair and he’d resumed his familiar role as an outsider. He didn’t fit with them the way they fit together, just like he hadn’t fit with Jeremiah and Jude after he’d left Maple Lane.
He’d taken to spending a stupid amount of time looking from his giant house toward Sloane’s much smaller apartment. Doing so made him feel, irrationally, as if he’d gotten the shorter end of the stick.
In the town of Waldoboro, Sloane was dealing with a parent of her own. “I’m here to pick you up and take you to your doctor’s appointment,” she reminded her father on the threshold of his apartment. “Remember?”
“I wish you hadn’t scheduled that appointment.” He fussed with the hem of his old sweater. “I hate going to the doctor. And I don’t need to go. I’m feeling okay.”
“This is a regularly scheduled appointment with the doctor who’s treating your emphysema. Going to these appointments is an important part of maintaining your health.”
“It’s a waste of money. I don’t have health insurance, and I can’t afford to pay for it out-of-pocket.”
“I will pay for it out-of-pocket, so you don’t have to worry about the financial piece. Now, come with me so we’re not late.” It took a fair amount of cajoling before she had him in the SUV and they were on their way.
“It seems like it’s easy for you to pay medical bills,” he commented as neighborhoods blurred by. “You’re flush with cash these days, huh?”
“My income is stable.”
“It must be nice to be flush with cash.”
It’s certainly nicer , Sloane thought to herself, than the way Harper and I spent our childhood.
“I got a hot tip on a horse,” he said, “but I need to pay off fifty grand before I can make that wager. Would you front me fifty grand?”
The resignation she experienced whenever she interacted with her father settled over her like a suffocating blanket. “No. I don’t think it would be wise to front you money for gambling.”
“It’s a sure thing.”
“You can count on me to continue to help you out weekly the way that I’ve been doing.”
She was here to give to him the things she’d once needed because this was what she heard the Lord asking her to do. Nowhere did it say that giving to others would always be easy or rewarding.
Hoping for that—that this would be rewarding to her—revealed that she was somehow still putting herself at the center of this. Yet her efforts on her dad’s behalf weren’t about her at all. They weren’t for her. Giving others what you need was about them .
Her involvement with her father didn’t feel good in this moment.
But this absolutely was, nevertheless, grace.
On Wednesday morning Max received a text from Seth Taylor.
As he sat reading it in his office, he was glad for two reasons. One, glad for Ivy because this might provide her with the next step in her search for her twin sister. Two, glad for himself because this meant he wasn’t going to show up empty-handed for their second planning session—the one he, Sloane, and Ivy had scheduled for tonight two weeks ago.
The board meeting he had to attend that afternoon ran long. Which ratcheted up his stress as he glanced repeatedly at the time. The second the meeting ended, he jogged to the elevator. If he floored it on the way to his house, he could get to Sloane and Ivy on time. As the elevator carried him down, he checked his phone, immediately stalling on messages from Sloane that had come in while he’d had his phone off during the meeting.
Sloane
Ivy’s friend is performing in a musical tonight and so she’s hoping to reschedule our planning session so she can go support her friend. Will that work for you?
Sloane
You haven’t texted back, which likely means you’re busy at work. Totally understandable. The musical is starting soon, and I’ve told Ivy she can attend. So we won’t be meeting tonight.
Max’s energy left him like water down a sink drain. The elevator doors opened. He passed through the lobby and outside. Ground fog had moved in, blotting out the sun. Once inside the Porsche, he typed a message back.
Max
I just got out of a board meeting. I was going to tell you and Ivy tonight about the message I received from Seth today. The information in it is useful.
He waited, drumming his fingers against the gear stick.
Sloane
What information?
His lips hitched into a half smile.
Max
It’s too classified to share over the phone. In person only. Meet after the musical on my patio?
Sloane
Ivy’s going to a campfire to have s’mores after the musical. I can meet you to discuss. It might be best if I hear the information first anyway, so I can think on it, then pass it on to Ivy in a digestible way.
Digestible way . He’d always liked the way Sloane talked. She wore vocabulary the way soldiers wore medals.
Max
Good. See you in fifteen minutes?
Sloane
I’m out at the moment myself. I can be back at 9.
Max
Are you also at the musical?
Sloane
No.
No? Where was she? Probably at the gym, he assured himself. Out with a friend. At the library.
Max
See you at 9.
A knocking sound caused him to flinch. One of the board members had rapped on the hood of his car and was now smiling through the window. “Have time to grab dinner?” the older man asked.
“Turns out I do,” Max answered.
By the time he reached The Gables, it was 8:50 and fully dark. His headlights illuminated the Suburban Sloane drove, parked in its usual spot to the side of the garage. Her apartment was dark, which likely meant she wasn’t back yet. But her car was? Strange.
He left his Porsche in the garage, the mechanical door whirring downward as he crossed to his back door.
When Sloane had been co-owner of Libri, she’d put her fancy stamp on the culture by insisting everyone wear business casual. After she left, he’d done away with that requirement. Rarely these days did he dress in suits. Today, though, he’d changed into a suit before the board meeting. It wasn’t as comfortable as he liked, yet he resented the time it would cost him to change, so he simply whipped the tie free and unfastened the top button of his shirt.
He paused in his kitchen long enough to dump his keys, wallet, and tie. Flicking on the backyard landscape lighting and string lights, he let himself out through the sliders, then leaned against his outdoor table and waited for Sloane to show.
He didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, he registered the sound of a car engine. A Jeep Grand Cherokee came into view. Sloane exited the passenger side and spoke to the driver. He was too far away to make out their words, but he did recognize the car.
It was Nate’s.
He could actually feel jealousy multiplying inside him like a deadly virus.
The Cherokee drove off and Sloane made her way in his direction, wearing a strapless, pink sundress. It was fitted to her waist, then expanded into a flowy skirt that almost skimmed the grass.
She stepped onto the patio stones and came to a stop. “Good evening.”
“Good evening. Out on a date with Nate?”
“I was, yes.”
“On the night of our planned meeting?”
She tilted her head like, That’s a nosy question . “Not that I’m obligated to explain myself, but grabbing dinner with Nate was a spur-of-the-moment thing after I cancelled our meeting.”
“What’s going on between you two?”
“That’s none of your business,” she said in a cheerful, polite tone.
“Are you a couple?” Answer me , he wanted to insist in the torturous seconds that followed.
“No, we’re not a couple. We’re just . . . getting to know each other again.”
Max would bet anything that Nate wanted them to be a couple.
“You said that you received a message from Seth?” she prompted.
“I did.”
“Which seems strange since I’m the only one who gave him my number.”
What was she talking about? It was hard for him to move his mind off Sloane’s date to anything else.
She was talking about Seth.
“Seth had my number, too,” he said. At this point, he was fine with telling her about his role in setting up the meeting between Ivy and Seth in Boston. It was too late for her to intervene or try to stop him. Also, the steps he’d taken had worked, which reflected well on him.
“How did he have your number?” she asked.
“From when I called him.”
“You called him? But . . . how did you have his number?” Her pretty eyebrows shot up. “Oh my goodness! You got it from my notebook, didn’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Max!”
“What? I own that apartment. You know I have a key.”
“What did you discuss when you called Seth?”
“That I’d pay him five thousand dollars to speak with you, me, and Ivy in Boston.”
“ Excuse me? ”
“He said yes, as he should have, since five thousand for thirty minutes was a sweet deal for him.”
Her mouth formed an O . “You paid Seth five thousand dollars to meet us at the coffee shop?”
“I did. And I’d do it again. In case you didn’t notice, that guy’s pretty selfish. He was never going to help Ivy without incentive.”
“You had no right to butt in on Ivy’s search.”
“I had every right. Ivy asked me to help. So I helped. You should be thanking me because the approach you were taking with Seth was doomed to fail.”
“You’re such a—such a . . .”
“Yes?” He gave her a slow smile.
“Schemer.”
“That’s accurate. Now, are you going to be grateful about the information I received from Seth today or testy about the fact that I was the one who received it?”
“Both? May I see Seth’s message?” She extended a pale palm.
He brought up the text and passed his phone over.
As she read, he studied her bent profile.
Seth
Max, I looked way back in my email to see if I still had anything from Harper and this is what I found. She sent it to me for Baby A. I hope it’s helpful to you. Thanks for the payment you sent.
Sloane tapped the attachment that had come in after the text. That opened a document titled “Voluntary and Unconditional Surrender.” Many of the blanks hadn’t yet been filled out when Seth had received this form. But in the blank labeled “agency or person receiving custody” someone had written Dawson Adoption Agency .
“Oh.” He’d bet she didn’t realize she’d just made that breathy sound. It was one of his favorite quirks of hers. “The name of the adoption agency that placed Baby A.”
“Exactly.”
Into a web-browsing app on his phone, she typed the agency’s name. He’d already done this but didn’t interrupt. An outdated-looking website appeared. Text filled the homepage. Thank you to all of our wonderful families for your support the past 28 years. Rod and I have retired and so we’ve closed the agency. If you need to reach someone, contact our son Mark. A phone number followed.
“I’ll call Mark in the morning.” Sloane swiftly captured a screenshot and texted it to herself. She passed back his phone.
“You can call Mark in the morning, but I’m going to go ahead and call him now.”
“In the morning.”
“I’ve already waited hours since Seth texted this to me. I don’t want to keep waiting.”
“It’s not good etiquette to call after business hours?—”
“And yet we have Mark’s number thanks to the fact that his parents posted it for all to see on this 2010 website.” He punched in the digits?—
“No,” she hissed as if Mark could already overhear.
Max hit the speaker button, and the call began to ring. Sloane made a swipe for his cell, but he held it high above his head.
“This is Mark” came a voice from the phone.
Max thrust the phone in front of Sloane’s face and though she shot him a murderous look, she took it from him. “Hello. Please pardon the lateness of my call.” She spoke in her most mannerly voice. “I’ve just realized that I have a niece whose adoption was handled by the Dawson Adoption Agency fifteen years ago. I saw on their website that they’re now closed but your number was listed.”
“Glad you called,” Mark said happily.
Told you so , Max mouthed.
“What can I do for you?” Mark asked.
Sloane whirled and paced a few steps away. “We’re hoping to contact my niece but have been told by her biological father that it was a closed adoption. Is there any way to gain access to records?”
“I recommend that family members start by checking the Massachusetts Adoption Reunion Registry. It’s a mutual consent registry. Lots of people have gone on that site and indicated that they’re willing to communicate with their biological children or parents or relatives. If she’s open to talking to you, then you might find your niece there. In that case, you’d be off to the races.”
“And if my niece isn’t listed there?”
“There’s the Registry of Vital Records and Statistics. Get in touch with them and they’ll talk you through their options. If all else fails, you can try petitioning the court for the records.”
“Got it. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. All my best to you!”
Sloane disconnected the call and shoved his phone against his chest. It clinked against a button. “Max! I do not approve of you making phone calls against my will . ”
“Sloane.” He slid his phone inside his suit jacket. “Are you going to be grateful about the information we received or testy about the fact that I was the one who placed the call?”
“ You. Are. Maddening .”
“I am determined.”
“You are every bit as stubborn as you used to be.”
He drew nearer to her.
She stood her ground.
“Come back to work at Libri,” he said.
“What?”
“I dare you,” he said distinctly, “to come back to work at Libri.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Try me.”
“I will absolutely not be coming back to work at Libri.”
“I pay well.”
“You imagine I’d come back there as an employee after being a co-owner?”
“It would be a promotion over the work you’re doing at My Fair Lady. You’re far too smart for that job.”
“You’re complimenting and insulting me simultaneously.”
“My specialty.”
They were standing just inches apart now, which forced her to tilt up her face to match him stare-for-stare.
Fierce desire swamped him.
Sloane’s thoughts and emotions tangled together in confusion.
Max in a suit, the shadow of his stubble, his long eyelashes. He was troubling her and confronting her and discomforting her and making her feel . . .
Very swoony.
Her libido had snoozed through her time with Nate this evening. She hadn’t given Nate the signals that would have led to hand-holding or kissing or any other type of physical closeness.
But those hormones that had been absent earlier were now flowing liquid in her veins, heating her from the inside out, turning her breath shallow.
Max moved even nearer. “Come back to work at Libri.”
“No.”
“I insist.”
“I resist. Where is this invitation to work at Libri coming from? It seems totally out of left field.”
“I told you on the plane if I could go back, I’d change the mistakes I made. Since I can’t go back, I want to fix my mistakes.”
“It’s too late.”
“Is it?” He stepped into her personal space.
What was he doing? Was he going to kiss her? His expression, position, and body language all told her he wanted to. But she and Max didn’t kiss each other. They never had. Neither of them had even made an attempt at that.
She could smell his soap that made her think of Greece—sun and ocean. They contemplated each other with gravity, with tension. She swore she could hear his heartbeat. No, that might be her heartbeat.
He wasn’t moving back. She should move back but didn’t want to because heady thrills of sensation swirled against the backs of her knees, soles of her feet, fingertips.
This type of intimacy between them was a terrible idea. Also the best idea. Also the thing she suddenly wanted more than anything in the world in this night-dark, spinning moment in time.
He lowered his head.
And then his lips were on hers, firm and soft.
This could not be happening. And yet it was. The details of the kiss circled Sloane like sparkling constellations. His hands came up to support her jaw on both sides. Her palms met the fabric covering his chest. The kiss turned more intense.
This was revelation, glory, worry. Years and years of history were in the kiss. So were deep feelings—friendship, loyalty, hurt, trust. She was kissing Max . This was the first time she’d kissed a man she knew as well as she knew him. He was, in fact, the only man she knew this well. And that made kissing him lightyears different than the prior first kisses of her life. Kissing Max was unimaginably good.
Guardrails were thrusting up and crashing down inside her. Hard to pay them any mind because she was inundated with her own drugging, wonderful responses.
He made a masculine sound of approval.
He was an excellent kisser. Of course he was an excellent kisser. He’d kissed one million people. He no doubt kissed brilliantly even when kissing someone he didn’t care about at all. He could kiss just for the fun of it. Or to manipulate. Or to persuade. He might have instigated this kiss for one of those reasons.
If so, this has the potential to be hugely destructive, Sloane.
She ignored that voice. This was too addictive to stop.
She was not ordinarily a self-indulgent person, but she dearly wanted to indulge in this. She would deal with consequences later?—
Sloane , her intuition whispered with dire warning. Sloane, you must stop this. Sloane!
She jerked away from him, taking a few steps back. She didn’t embarrass herself by gawking or gasping for breath. On the contrary, she channeled everything she had into communicating cool poise that she did not feel.
He remained silent, his face oddly expressionless. Illumination from the string lights pooled on his wide shoulders. The only thing that gave away any hint of turbulence? His eyes. They were smoky green and dazed.
She armed herself for his reaction. Was he going to laugh? Remark on how obviously she’d enjoyed that? Say something about how unaffected it had left him?
He said and did nothing.
“Well,” she finally said. Then faltered, having no idea how to go on. “I guess we should probably talk about this?”
“If you want to.”
“I don’t, actually.”
It almost looked as though his strong frame was braced against injury. Was she imagining that?
“Let’s just”—she flicked her hands as if clearing water droplets from them—“let it go and move on. Okay?”
A long beat passed. “Okay.”
“Good night.” Etiquette demanded a closing salutation. Now that she’d given it, she hurried toward the apartment as if Kevin and Ricky were chasing her. Once she’d shut herself inside, she collapsed onto the nearest chair and bent her head into her hands.