Chapter 10
Damn Shame What They Did to that Dog
Eli
Max is quiet.
Completely silent.
It’s the quietest she’s been since the moment she crash-landed into my life, and I hate how much I notice it. How much I feel it.
Because the silence isn't peaceful. It’s loaded.
I haven’t known her long but I know quiet is not her default setting. She begins and ends with…MUCH.
I don’t know why or even what it is about her, really, but I like her. She’s the quirky kind of chaos that suggests you might end up in a jail cell if you let her take the reins. She’s not afraid to sexually harass me, even though I’m essentially a stranger to her. And she’s loud. Annoyingly loud.
Like I said, I don’t know why, but I like her.
Then, throwing Vanessa into the mix? That wasn’t just a spark, it was a damn match in a room full of gasoline.
And because I am, admittedly, a troubled man, pride stirred in my chest as I watched Max square up to her like they’d been rivals for years.
I guess a few hours was long enough for her to decide I was worth defending.
I didn't ask for it, and I certainly didn’t need it, but seeing how fiercely she claimed space on my behalf made my curiosity sharpen into something else entirely. It told me this woman wasn’t just chaos wrapped in confidence. She was something much more dangerous.
Max is trouble.
The good trouble. The type of trouble that makes a man lean in instead of backing away. And that’s exactly what I did.
I’m sure I scared her—grabbing her like that, pressing her up against the truck.
But this woman is testing every nerve I’ve got, and instead of keeping my distance like I know I should, I snapped. I pulled into her.
Now I’m sitting here with her silent beside me and my own thoughts screaming louder than ever.
Vanessa and I… we have history. We used to run in the same circles and eventually became partners.
As a sustainable housing developer, I design and build homes for the future—projects that actually benefit the environment.
She manages the kind of high-end architectural firm that handles the projects I despise: the ones that gentrify established communities and drop redundant mansions where they aren’t needed.
Our partnership was built on a calculated exchange.
She introduced me to billionaires looking for “sustainable” vanity projects, and in return, I gave her access to clients who cared only about obscene profit margins.
It was a symbiosis that worked until it didn’t.
These days, she’s moved beyond collaboration; she’s developed a rival firm specifically designed to dismantle everything I’ve built.
When we were working together, we began to clash over the direction of our projects.
The company she kept—oligarchs and power brokers living in the shadows—forced me to start playing my cards close to my vest. When she realized I was shutting her out, she found a different way in: my brother.
She exploited our relationship, using his knowledge of my inner workings to steal trade secrets and build a rival firm.
A sustainable construction firm that mirrors my own but serves all the wrong interests.
My resentment toward her isn’t about a broken heart.
We were never that kind of couple. I despise her for what she did to my family in the fallout—for the way she fractured us.
My mom hasn't been able to have her sons over for a real family dinner in two years because my brother, Elliot, refuses to believe she used him. He can’t see that she’s still using him just to get to me.
But Max has no idea about any of this, and it’s unfair of me to take it out on her—even if she was the one who pushed into my space and tested me.
As long as she doesn't do it again or try to pry into what happened, I'm good. I have zero interest in talking about Vanessa or the firm any further, and I don’t need Max testing my limits. I’m honestly more interested in whatever insane thing my dark chocolate passenger might say next.
“You hungry or something?” I ask, not exactly out of kindness. The sound that just came from Max’s stomach was not human. It sounded like a damn grizzly stowed away under her dress.
“I could eat, I guess,” she shrugs, like her stomach didn’t just growl loud enough to rattle the dashboard.
I shake my head, already steering us toward the answer. “I know a place. You want to stop before we get to my house?”
She gives me a noncommittal shrug. “Sure.”
A few turns and one winding road later, we pull up to Tiny’s—the best damn vegan soul food spot north of the border.
It’s been here since the town was nothing but dust and stubborn farmers.
And when I first moved out this way looking for land that would actually give back, grow fresh produce, everyone pointed me here and said Tiny was the one who’d know the soil, the people, and the truth about the land.
They were right.
Tiny’s is sacred around here. The restaurant itself and the goddess who owns it.
We walk inside and it’s like stepping through a time machine straight into the heart of the 90s.
The walls are plastered with framed photos of R&B legends—Aaliyah, TLC, Brandy, Boyz II Men—all in vintage gloss and grain.
There’s a corner jukebox glowing in neon pink with a handwritten sign taped on the side that says, “No skipping Mary J. Blige.”
Cassette tapes line the hostess stand like museum artifacts, and there’s a mural of Biggie and Tupac painted side by side on the back wall. Even the ceiling fans creak to the rhythm of 112 playing overhead.
And just as we cross the threshold, the entire room erupts.
“Welcome home, Eli!”
It’s not just me they greet like this. They greet everyone this way. At Tiny’s if you’ve been here once, you’re family. Twice, and you’re home.
Max mutters under her breath, “Another establishment where everyone seems to know who you are…”
Mo, the hostess, walks over with a big grin and a side-eye she doesn’t bother to hide.
“Hey family,” Mo says. “Table for two?”
“Yes, Mo. Just us two.”
“Mmm hmm,” she hums, her eyes darting between me and Max.
I take a breath.
Here comes the nosiness.
“Welcome to Ti—” Tiny stops mid-sentence as soon as she looks up and sees me being seated with a woman.
She gets cozy very quickly. “Welcome to Tiny’s. I’m Tiny and who might you be?” she says, looking directly at Max.
Max extends a hand to Tiny. “Maxine Palmer, but you can call me Max.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Max. And such a pretty thing?” She says, looking at me now. “What will we be having tonight?” she asks with a wink.
“I’ll have my usual, Tiny.”
“And I’ll have the vegan mac and cheese, ox tails and collard greens.”
“Excellent choice,” Tiny beams. “I’ll go put that order in right now. Can I get you two something to drink? Maybe wine or champagne? Celebrating anything special?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “That will be all, Tiny.”
“Actually,” Max interrupts. “I’ll have a glass of wine. It’s been quite the day.”
“Red or white?”
“Red, please. I want it to be the color of blood.”
“Coming right up, sweetie."
Max watches me and I can tell she has a million questions behind those eyes of hers. It’s the first time I’ve sat across from her and really gotten a look at her. Round, plump lips against brown skin that matches mine. She looks like she was built for me.
And this is why. This is why saying yes to her coming home with me was the worst thing I could have done.
I could have so much fun with her.
“So,” Max starts, trouble in her tone. “Are we going to address the fact her name is Tiny and she’s… not?”
“No,” I say flatly. “That would be fatphobic.”
She grins, undeterred. “Okay. Can we at least talk about the fact she only has one leg?”
“Nope. That would be ableist.”
She leans in, whispering like we’re conspiring. “Any chance you know how she lost her leg?”
“None of your business.”
“Fine. Tell me about Vanessa.”
“No.”
“She’s pretty. I bet you guys made a really cute couple–”
“Fine. I’ll tell you how Tiny lost her leg.”
“Yesss!” she hisses, bouncing a little in her seat.
I don’t bother correcting her about the couple thing. It would only invite more questions.
“It was a hunting accident.”
Her face falls into intrigued suspicion. “I’m gonna need more context.”
“Her and her husband were out hunting. She got ahead of him, wouldn’t respond when he called out. As he searched deeper into the woods, he spotted something in the distance. Tiny was kneeling, trying to get a good shot on a deer.”
I pause, already feeling the laugh bubbling up, even though I know I shouldn’t.
“Old Rufus thought…”
I have to stop and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to keep it together.
I break off, trying—and failing—not to laugh.
Max narrows her eyes. “Are you about to laugh?”
“I’m not proud, but yes.”
“Why? What happened?”
“She was bent over, and her husband thought she was…a bear.”
Max hollers so loud the table shakes. “I know you are lying to me!”
“I wish I could make this up.”
“Damn shame what they did to Tiny,” Max says, straight-faced, shaking her head.
And that’s it.
We both lose it—laughing so hard the table rattles again.
It hits me a second later, the reference sliding into place. Coming to America.
“Damn shame what they did to that dog,” I mutter through a laugh, and she nods, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
I see Mo approaching the table and I tell Max to calm down before we get kicked out. Mo drops off Max’s wine and a glass of water for me.
Max takes her glass, lifting a brow. “You really must not have wanted to tell me about Vanessa.”
I exhale. “Let’s just say it’s a touchy subject.”
“I noticed.” She takes a slow sip of wine, throat bobbing, lips glistening—Stop it, Eli.
I shift in my seat, clearing my throat. “So, what brings you to Canada again?”
“A romance novel conference. I’m a nerd in the worst way, so my escape is smutty romance.“
I raise a brow. “Smutty?”
“Love stories with really good sex. Spicy sex. Nasty sex—”
“Okay,” I say, nearly pleading for her to stop saying sex. “I get it.”
She smiles. “So yes, that’s what I do when I want to shut down and escape. No code to write, no security breaches to monitor. Just hot men, badass women, and the chaos that gets them to their happily ever after.”
“Tech nerd, huh?”
“Yeah. Surprising?”
“A bit.”
She cocks her head. “Why?”
“You seem too…you. Loud, messy. Fun. Free-spirited. I thought most tech nerds were boring.”
“Stereotype, much?”
I chuckle. “I’ve just never met a tech nerd who can manage to make even the most stoic of people uncomfortable.”
“Well, now you have and apparently you think I’m fun?”
I roll my eyes. But I want to keep talking to her. “Whatever. What got you into romance?”
“My boss and her friends have a wild book club. They kept coming back from meetings with these insane stories about mafia weddings and spicy mountain men. I got curious…then hooked.”
I like how she keeps using the word spicy. It’s exactly how I’d describe her.
“And now you roam the woods looking for unsuspecting book boy toys, eh?”
“Book boyfriends,” she corrects. “And no. You were a bonus. Though I’d happily make you my toy.”
I huff a low laugh. “Yeah…I’m no book boyfriend or whatever.”
She raises a brow. “Then what are you?”
Not opposed to being a toy for you, that’s for damn sure.
“I’m a lot of things.”
She groans. “You’re either being intentionally vague, or you’re just this hard to connect with.”
“Maybe both.”
“Can you tell me one true thing?”
I lift a brow. “And you’ll stop asking questions for a bit?” I ask, even though I’m the one who started us down this path. It’s just easier talking about her than me.
“I’ll try.”
“Lies.”
She grins. “Maybe. You won’t know unless you answer.”
I exhale. “One true thing?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Alright. I don’t trust easily.”
“That’s obvious. Give me something else. Something I couldn’t read off your beautiful face.”
Woman. You better stop this.
“I’m a sustainable housing developer,” I confess. It’s nicer than saying the true things that are flowing in and out of my mind every time she flirts. Or swallows. Or breathes.
Her eyes brighten. “Like…you build bamboo houses or something?”
I smile, taking a sip of my water. “Or something. I design and build homes from salvaged materials—train cars, buses, fire trucks. I repurpose them into fully livable homes for low-income individuals or families.”
She smiles. “That’s impressive, Bear.”
“Thanks,” I say, grinning. “Drake actually builds furniture with bamboo.”
She raises her glass in a toast. “Cool points for ethically-sourced Drake.”
I laugh. Hard. “That’s actually what I call him.”
She pauses, surprised. “Really?”
“Yes. No lie.”
The look she gives me…it’s genuine. Surprised, amused, maybe even a little impressed.
It’s…endearing.
Before I can say more, the food arrives. Vegan oxtails, greens, sweet potatoes, cornbread—the works. She takes a bite like she’s been starving for days and lets out a moan that makes me have to look away.
“This is amazing,” she says around another bite, eyes closed like the food’s taking her somewhere spiritual.
I hum in agreement, trying to focus on my own plate, when I catch it—a slow trail of sauce sliding from the corner of her mouth down to her chin.
And before my brain can stop my body, I lean in and swipe it away with my thumb.
She freezes.
So do I.
Everything shifts.
And suddenly, it’s not about food anymore.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I…don’t know why I did that,” I say. Only, I know exactly why. I’ve got a thing for taking care of what’s mine.
And for reasons I can’t begin to explain, I wonder about what it would be like to make her mine.
We sit there in the thick silence, her wine glass halfway to her lips, my hand retreating knowing I just crossed a line.
She stares at me.
I stare right back.
And for the first time all night, she’s the one who breaks.
She drops her gaze, takes a long sip of wine, and turns her attention back to her plate.
I just watch her, quiet, curious, and wondering what’s going to happen now that we’ve moved an inch closer to the kind of thing that should be left in the pages of her stories.
Because once it’s off the page, once it’s in my hands and in my bed, I’ll write the best story never told all over her body.
With my tongue.
But she just looked away. It's the first time she’s backed down from a challenge. Which makes me curious. I want to know why.