Chapter 12
Careful, Bear. You Might Mess Around and Get Some of this Honey
Max
Iwake to the sound of my phone vibrating so violently on the nightstand, I’m convinced it’s about to launch itself into another dimension.
For a moment, I just lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, wrapped in warmth and softness. My brain tries to reboot, but everything feels… still. Quiet. No alarms. No late-night crises. No anxiety about the emails waiting for me.
And then… “Oh, shit,” I say to myself. “I slept. All night.”
I can’t remember the last time that happened.
Normally, something always yanks me awake—work emergencies, system alerts, a family situation, or my mind racing through everything I still haven’t fixed.
Rest, for me, is usually something I negotiate with, not something I’ve ever been allowed to fall into.
But one night here with this man and it feels like my body went heavy. My thoughts went quiet. And the night passed without demanding anything from me.
It feels strange. Tender. Intoxicating, even.
I turn my head and finally register the buzzing phone. I don’t remember grabbing it from Eli’s truck. I definitely don’t remember plugging it in to charge.
Because I didn’t.
He must have come in here while I was asleep.
Since I’ve met him he’s been thoughtful in that annoyingly sweet way he pretends isn’t his kink.
And for the first time in a very long time, the idea of a man like him, the thoughtfulness of him, makes me realize how much peace I’ve been living without.
Careful, Bear. You keep creeping in here like this, you might just mess around and get some of this honey.
Groggy, eyes half-shut, I fumble for my phone and unlock the screen to what can only be described as a digital ambush—group texts.
Timantha: You alive? Why aren’t you answering? If this man has killed you, I’m going to feel like absolute trash for missing it because of date night. And after-date night. ??more on that later. Please respond before I call your mom.
Eslin: What. The. Hell. Maxine Palmer. Are you with him?! I thought you were gonna get a hotel? Did he touch you? Touch you emotionally or biblically? BOTH?!
Timantha: If I find out you’re dead I will never forgive myself.
I groan, falling back into the pillow. My friends are having a meltdown, and it’s barely 7 a.m.
I shoot off a quick group reply.
Max: I’m alive. Not murdered. Not trafficked. Still have all my kidneys. Will report back after coffee. If you call my mother I will tell Will about the time you sent all your friends a picture of his penis when you thought the curve of it was abnormal!
Timantha: Okay Nerd-Bitch, that’s how you wanna play it? Now, I hope he clubs you over your big-ass head and sends you off somewhere.
I laugh and toss the phone aside.
I roll out of bed, my feet hitting the cool hardwood floor with a thud that reminds me I’m definitely not in my overpriced Atlanta apartment anymore.
The flannel shirt I begged Eli for swallows me whole, brushing just above my knees and smelling unfairly like him—earthy, fresh, clean with a side of come get some of this.
I shuffle toward the massive windows, parting the heavy curtain just enough to peek out. And then I see him.
Eli.
Outside.
Shirtless.
Chopping wood like an actual African deity moonlighting as a lumberjack centerfold.
His back is to me, muscles stretching and flexing with each heavy swing of the axe. Broad shoulders, that deep dip down his spine, arms that look carved from some kind of divine punishment for women.
The morning light glistens off the sweat on his back and steam rises off his heated skin in the frigid winter morning air. And Lord, help me, the massive flannel I’m wearing tightens with betrayal around my chest.
Who does that? Who chops wood this dramatically at sunrise? Isn’t he cold? My nipples seem to think it is.
Be still my thuggish ruggish heart. Because here I am. Eyes wide. Mouth dry. Legs weak. Panties wet.
Utterly.
Completely.
Wide open for this man.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I had healthy food for dinner last night. Which means I’m beyond starving. I make my way to the kitchen, hoping food will settle my stomach… and my libido.
Eli’s kitchen is what dreams—and Architectural Digest covers—are made of. It’s all sleek matte-black finishes, warm wood accents, and stone countertops so pristine they look almost too pretty to touch.
But they’ll live rent-free in my daydreams as the perfect stage for a feast of a different kind.
I only find the hidden fridge because I accidentally lean on the panel. When it glides open, the thing is so fully stocked it looks like he’s either preparing for the apocalypse—or hosting the world’s sexiest cooking show.
I pull out almond milk, a carton of eggs, fresh blueberries, and what appears to be hand-milled oat flour. I recognize it immediately. My grandmother always said hand-milled flour made the best pancakes and gravy.
Could he be any more perfect? Of course that’s what this man keeps on hand.
As I sift through drawers looking for a mixing bowl, I keep glancing back out the window. And wouldn’t you know it? He’s still out there. Still swinging. Still glistening. Still fine.
As good as I slept last night, and as grateful as I am he came to bring my phone, I wish he would have woken me up.
Instead? Nothing.
I must be losing my touch, because I honestly can’t remember the last time I shared space with a man that I had this much chemistry with and he didn’t at least try to get some. Not even a light graze. A harmless lean. A suggestive “just the tip” moment.
Just a perfectly respectful night’s sleep in a perfectly massive bed, inside a perfectly designed house… hosted by a perfectly frustrating, fine-ass man. A man who refuses to misbehave.
I shake my head as I force myself to look away. I have never wanted a man to disrespect me so badly.
I’m mixing the pancake batter when the door opens.
He’s sweaty. Chest rising and falling. Axe left outside, but the danger still very much intact.
We lock eyes, and I swear the air thickens, like someone cranked up the humidity just to mess with me.
He feels it too.
The tension. The pull. The wanting.
As his eyes trail over me—down the oversized flannel hanging off my shoulders and over the bare skin of my legs—I can feel the war he’s fighting with himself. His jaw tightens. His breath hitches. He looks like he’s seconds away from breaking, and I want to be the very thing that makes him snap.
I hold his gaze, searching for the one word, the one look, the one breath that might tip him over the edge.
Instead, his gaze flicks away.
“I’ve got a tow truck scheduled for later this morning,” he says, voice almost distant. “We’ll get your car sorted so you can get where you’re headed.”
I blink, caught off guard by the chill. “Oh. Okay. Thanks?”
He nods, unreadable. “Figured you’d want to make sure you didn’t miss any more of your conference.”
“Right.”
Okay. That feels beyond cold.
I glance down at my bowl. “I was making pancakes. For you. As a thank you.”
He lets out a low, frustrated sound. Strained. “It’s not necessary,” he says. “Make some for yourself if you want. Maybe put some clothes on.”
I set the whisk down. “Eli, is something wrong? You seem—”
“I’m fine, Max.” His voice is tight. Controlled. “I’m going to take a shower. You need anything?”
I step toward him, careful.. “It’s just that… you seem more brooding than before,” I say softly.
“I said, I’m fine,” he snaps.
Another step. He backs up.
I’m being insanely brave considering what happened the last time I got too close to him. The last time I pushed.
“Why are you moving away from me?”
His gaze drags over me again.
He hisses out a curse. “Fuck, Max.”
Then, without warning, he reaches out and unbuttons the top button of my shirt. Slow. Not revealing anything… except the heat he’s clearly trying to douse.
Or avoid.
“Why do you keep pushing me?” he asks, his voice rough around the edges. “Testing me.”
I smile. “I like the challenge.”
Now he steps closer. Close enough that I feel the cost of it in the way he exhales, like every move he makes with me takes something out of him. His eyes never leave mine.
“Is that a question?” he asks.
“No.” The word slips out soft but certain.
He nods once, jaw tightening. “Here’s the thing, Max…”
My eyes are drawn to the sheen of sweat on his chest, the line it traces downward like an invitation I shouldn’t accept. His gaze sharpens when he notices.
“I’m very attracted to you,” he says. “You’ve got this mouthy, sharp edge—sass wrapped around something soulful that makes it hard not to think about all the ways I’d like to shut you up.
” His gaze doesn’t soften. If anything, it darkens.
“You’re the kind of woman I’d usually disappear into for a while. ”
He pauses, jaw working. “Maybe longer.”
I swallow. “I’m not exactly seeing the issue. That sounds like something we both might need.”
He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s not the point.”
Then something shifts. The edge sharpens. The truth comes out. “Because something about you tells me it wouldn’t stay clean,” he says. “That with you, I wouldn’t know when to walk away and I’ve become accustomed to choosing women I can enjoy without it costing me anything. No fallout. No mess.”
I nod slowly, letting it sink in. “Okay…”
“And you,” he adds, his gaze dropping to my mouth like it’s pulling him in whether he wants it to or not. “You feel like the kind of trouble that doesn’t fade when it’s over.”
He looks at the flannel I'm wearing again, then lifts his eyes back to mine.
“You think it would be too messy,” I say. It’s not a question.
“Messy as fuck.”
My heart stumbles in my chest.
“And that’s why you were an asshole to me just now?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry if it felt that way. It was…” He shrugs. “Self-preservation. The less I do and say around you, the safer it is for both of us.”