Chapter 11
An American Pie Lie
Eli
Max is even quiet on the drive back to my place. No snark. No playful jabs. Not even on her phone for a change. She’s either deep in thought or still stewing about earlier. The way I touched her.
I steal a glance at her. She’s staring out the window, bottom lip between her teeth, arms folded.
I clear my throat. “So, what kind of book boy toys do you like?”
I call them boy toys on purpose, just to bait her.
“Boyfriends,” she corrects instantly.
It worked. I smirk.
“My boss and her friends are into billionaires and rich mafia types, but—”
“You aren’t?” I ask, glancing over at her.
“Rich men?” She shakes her head. “No. I prefer the stories about men who actually enjoy a simple life.”
I smile. I like simple.
“My boss is married to an incredible man—straight out of one of our billionaire romance novels. And he happens to be rich as shit. Watching the way he adores her made me think that’s what I wanted too.”
She pauses, then adds, “But after dating a few, I spent most of those dinners seeing how long I could bite my tongue before I drew blood.”
That makes me laugh. She’s really funny.
“The rich men I’ve dated were too self-absorbed. Too arrogant. All money and no substance.”
She goes quiet after that, and something settles in the silence. Something unfinished.
“Where’d your head just go?” I ask, not ready to let whatever she was about to say slip away.
“Well,” she says slowly, “there was this one guy. Nyles. He’s rich. Unfairly attractive. Sexy.”
Okay. Message received. The guy was good-looking.
“He just…” She exhales. “I don’t think he’d ever fully accept all of me. Full-spectrum me.”
I snort. “I don’t know anyone that enters your orbit who’s prepared for full-spectrum Max. I can see that after only knowing you a few hours.”
She laughs. “Either way,” she goes on, “I think rich men have this uptight way about them. They live in a world I have no interest in being a part of. Even though I work in a field where I’m surrounded by them.”
Something about that lands sideways in my chest.
Maybe it’s the way she said it so casually, like money itself is a red flag. Maybe it’s because I built my life from the ground up and I’m damn proud of it. Or maybe it’s because, for her, I want to be the exception.
“Interesting,” is all I manage to say. “What exactly do you do for work that has you surrounded by men like that? I mean I know you said tech but that could be anything.”
“I work for an elite matchmaking company. They just launched a new app last year and I’ve been instrumental behind all the tech.”
“Impressive,” I say as we pull into my driveway.
Her gasp is audible.
And here we go.
“So… you’re rich.”
It’s not a question.
“I’ve made money in my endeavors, yes.”
She leans forward, eyes taking in every detail. “Beautiful home.”
“Thanks,” I say cautiously, wondering what this makes her think about me. “I designed it myself.”
It’s cold, so neither of us rushes to get out of the truck. I watch her instead—how she’s cataloging every detail of the landscape. There’s a gentleness to it at first. Then her brow creases, as if a thought clicked into place.
“Wait,” she says slowly. “What’s…what’s your last name?”
Now it’s my turn to frown. “Shaw. Why?”
She pulls out her phone, fingers moving fast, scrolling with a kind of urgency that should be reserved for teenagers who text nonstop. Then she freezes.
Shit. She’s seen it too.
“You’re this Eli Shaw?” she asks, lifting the screen toward me.
I don’t even need to look. I know exactly what she’s found.
I fought that profile from start to finish—right up until the news crew showed up on my doorstep.
Drake swore it was good visibility for RootHaus, especially with an important business pitch coming up.
And against my better judgment, I let him have his way.
But I refused the staged photoshoot and insisted they captured me in my natural element.
I groan. “Yeah. That’s me.” I run a hand over my face. “Drake—the guy you met tonight—set the whole thing up for PR. Said it would help our positioning ahead of a big business summit we have to attend. I hated every second of it.”
“That sounds about right,” she agrees.
I let out a breath. “Yeah. But he knows what he’s doing from a marketing standpoint,” I add. “So I stay quiet, grit my teeth, and try to trust his unhinged process.”
“Well, I am actually impressed.”
I glance over at her. “Why?”
“Because we’ve been sitting in this car together this whole time and not once did you feel the need to list your assets or flex your net worth. You didn’t try to impress me.” She looks at me then, really looks. “That makes you…different.”
Something piercing cuts through me at that. The fact that she noticed. That she valued the restraint instead of the display.
And it wakes up every predatory instinct I have.
“Come on, Bear,” she says, preparing to get out of the truck. “Show me your den.”
This is the one thing I’m actually not modest about. How I designed this does feel like a cave. Just for me.
The house sits like it was carved straight from the mountain, not built—raw and quietly commanding.
All glass, steel, and stone, it’s organic in its presence, unapologetic in its design.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch in every direction, clean lines intersect with the wilderness around it, and ivy clings to the stone like the mountain’s claiming it back.
Out back, an elegant pool steams in the cold, clearly heated to survive the winter. Beyond it, a waterfall cuts through the landscape like something preserved on purpose, more historic landmark than backyard feature. Snow-capped mountains rise in the distance, stark and immovable.
It’s stunning.
It’s mine.
But even though my home makes me swell with pride, I can’t give her the usual grand tour.
I need to put distance between us as fast as possible.
I let very specific women into my home for very specific reasons, and letting someone like Max get close—letting her actually know me—isn't a risk I can afford.
Despite the rushing desire to talk to her, to strip back the layers and tell her everything in a way I rarely do with anyone, I know better. She’s an enigma, the kind of woman who could make me lose my footing if I’m not careful.
I resolve right then that distance is my only defense. I show her around quickly, pointing out the basics while keeping the tour neutral. Safe. Detached.
When we reach the guest wing—opposite end of the house from mine, intentionally—she glances around with wide, appreciative eyes.
The goal is to keep her far enough away to make sure I don’t do anything stupid.
“This is really…peaceful,” she says, dropping her bag by the edge of the bed.
“Thank you.”
“Can I ask you for something kind of weird?” she asks.
I arch a brow. “That depends, because I already told you my one true thing.”
She smiles then shakes her head. “Nothing like that. Do you have, like…a big flannel shirt I can sleep in? You just seem like a guy who has a collection of them.”
I blink. “You packed a whole suitcase.”
“Yes, but none of my clothes feel like oversized forest-man comfort. And I’m pretty sure you hoard cozy shirts like trophies.”
She’s ridiculous. But she’s not wrong.
Without another word, I turn and head across the house toward my room, whispering curses under my breath.
I should say no. I should absolutely not be picturing her in one of my shirts. But here I am, rifling through drawers like a man on a mission, pulling out the softest damn flannel I own. Deep red and black. Big enough for me, but damn if I’m not already imagining how it’ll look on her.
I’m a little more than excited to see it draped over that smart mouth and daring, petite little body.
As I’m closing the drawer, my phone rings.
I glance at the screen and sigh. Of course.
“Drake. What?” I answer flatly.
“Nothing, bro. Just checking in,” he says, too casually.
I pause. “Since when do you check in? Ever?”
“Since you’re out here playing Canadian Rescue Ranger with the cute girl you picked up off the side of the road,” he replies, amusement thick in his voice.
I suck my teeth. “You’re trippin’.”
“‘You’re trippin’,’” he mimics, like a child. “So, remember a couple weeks ago at the Peppermint Elephant when you were mid-rant about how your favorite American whiskey got yanked off the shelves?”
“Yes,” I snap.
“And how you said, and I quote, ‘all Americans are loud, annoying, and obnoxious? And that they think the world revolves around them?’”
“Where is this going, Drake?”
“I’m just checking to see if your roadside rescue fits that description, or are you about to be knee-deep in some good ole American p—”
“Drake, chill!” I cut him off, sharp.
“Pie!” he laughs. “I was gonna say American pie, Eli. Get your mind out the gutter, man.”
“You are an American pie lie,” I mutter, grabbing the shirt and heading back down the hallway.
“So, it’s just for the night?” he presses. “And you’re telling me you’re not even a little tempted to take out some pent-up frustration on her? Especially after seeing Vanessa tonight?”
I stop walking, jaw tight.
“Nope. Not doing this,” I say, turning toward Max’s room. “Goodbye, Drake. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No you won’t.”
I hang up. Because he's right. I absolutely won’t be calling him.
By the time I return, she’s examining the wall of photos in the bedroom.
“You take these?” she asks, pointing to the framed nature shots—wild animals, running rivers, sunrises so vivid they feel unreal.
“Most of them. The sunsets are my mom’s. She stays in this room when she visits. I like keeping her work up.”
“That’s really sweet,” she says, and she actually means it.
I hand her the flannel. “It’s the softest I could find.”
She clutches it like it’s gold. “Thank you for indulging me, Bear.”
“Whatever.” I gesture to the nightstand. “There’s an intercom on the phone. Yellow button connects to me if you need anything.”
“Fancy.”
“It’s alright. Towels and robes are in the bathroom along with extra toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet.” I place a bottle of water on the dresser. “In case you get thirsty.”
She hesitates, then says, “Thank you for this. I know this is…kind of crazy. And I haven’t been the easiest to deal with—”
“Understatement of the century.”
She smiles. “So again, thank you.”
I nod. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?”
She tilts her head, lips curling into that knowing little smirk. “You sound suspiciously like a man with a kink for taking care of women.”
The words disarm me instantly. Because, fuck. I do.
I absolutely have a thing for taking care of someone once I set my sights on them. For being the place they land. The one who handles things so they don’t have to.
I like making them feel safe.
For however long they choose to stay.
“My mother raised me right,” is all I say, turning toward the door and leaving quickly before she can catch the heat climbing up my neck.
“Goodnight,” I say, not even giving her a chance to say it back. I practically run in the opposite direction.
Back in my room, I kick off my boots and drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard.
Then I freeze.
Because…the windows.
Floor-to-ceiling glass. Clean. Unforgiving. And right now they’re offering a perfect, crystal-clear view straight into the guest wing.
Into the room Max is in.
I forgot to tell her how to draw the curtains. Since my mother is usually the only one who stays here, it slipped my mind that Max wouldn't know about the unobstructed view.
She’s standing with her back to me, shirt halfway off, skin warm in the low light.
My flannel in her hands.
Fuck.
I whip around like the glass burned me, heart pounding like I just committed a crime. This place was supposed to be my sanctuary. My shield. Instead, it’s putting temptation on display with a spotlight.
I move too fast, nearly slipping on the tile, and stumble my way into the bathroom like my sanity is dangling by a thread.
Cold water. That’s the only option.
I crank the handle and step under it, letting the shock slam into me. I press my forehead to the wall and breathe through it and let the freeze bite into my skin.
I deserve it.
Because I’m not just picturing her in my shirt.
I’m picturing her without it.
That’s what has my chest tight, my breath catching, and on the verge of fucking tears.
It’s been a long time since someone made me feel…anything.
And it terrifies me.
I finally give in and let the water warm. It doesn’t mean I’m fine. I’m nowhere near over it. I scrub my face like I can wash her out of my head. Her sharp tongue, those legs, those eyes that see too much and won’t let me hide.
My hand slides lower, and I don’t even pretend I’m going to stop.
I’m already hard. Tight. My chest rising like I’ve run ten miles, and all it takes is the image of her on her knees—looking up at me with that fierce stare, lips parted as I press the head of my need against her parted lips.
She wouldn’t take all of me. Not even close. And that’s the point. Watching her try. Watching her struggle. Feeling her limits break as I push past her boundaries.
It’s addictive.
She’s under my skin.
One second I’m clenching my jaw to keep from snapping at her, and the next I’m a breath away from begging her to do ungodly things to me. To choose me. To stay.
Five fucking hours. Who is she?
I stroke harder. Faster. My jaw locks, every muscle pulled tight as I chase the high like it might burn her out of me. It won’t. I know it won’t. But I’m too far gone to care.
I see her everywhere here. In my space. In my life. In my kitchen—bare legs, my shirt sliding off one shoulder like she belongs in this house…like she belongs to me.
I can see her waking up here and making breakfast. She wouldn’t even make it to flipping a single pancake before I’d have her pinned against the counter. I’d be tasting her, worshipping her, losing myself in her until her breath was punched loose—my hands locked onto her hips.
The thought of her. The idea of her. The sounds of her moans. It’s enough, barely, to give me everything I need for my release.
And then it happens. And the sound that rips out of me is rough and unfiltered as I come—hard, wrecking—every muscle locking and releasing like I’ve been split open from the inside and there’s no putting myself back together afterward.
Because she’s still there. Like a drug. Threaded through my veins like something I never agreed to take but can’t stop needing.
The way she looks at me.
The way she moved without hesitation, ready to shield me when she thought Vanessa had landed a hit.
The way I want to throw her into traffic one minute and pull her leg over my shoulder and feast on her the next.
I still want her.
Too much.
God…Eli, what the hell do we do now?