Chapter 22
I Want My Thirty Minutes
Eli
I’m pacing. Again.
This office is too damn small for the amount of anger sitting in my chest, and every lap from desk to door and back just feeds it. It builds. Simmering.
She got up and walked out on me. Mid-sentence.
Like I was some intern fumbling through his first meeting instead of the man running this entire operation. Like I didn’t matter. Like what I was dealing with didn’t matter.
I’m not usually an asshole. Most people find me pretty easy to work with. Approachable. But when I’m frustrated or when things go off the rails, I get…short.
And this—this right here—is why I don’t blur the line between business and personal.
I like control. I like knowing that when the day is done, I can go home and burn the tension out of my body the way I always have—through sweat, through motion, through something that answers heat with heat instead of questions.
Especially now after the call I just got.
Vanessa’s pregnant. With Elliot’s baby. And my mother delivered the news like it was something for me to celebrate.
Like I was supposed to smile, call them up, and play the proud uncle.
All it did was made me remember what Vanessa did and everything that’s at stake.
What the hell did my mother expect from me? For me to buy them a gift from the damn baby registry?
Fuck that baby.
It probably isn’t even Elliot’s.
I’m frustrated. I’m restless and the one person I want to reach for—the one person I know could draw this edge out of me—is the very woman who just walked out of my office. She’s laughing with my staff like she’s known them for years, and it pisses me off.
Because it’s not for me.
Not with me.
Yes, I’m quiet. Reserved. I’m not the guy who cracks jokes or lights up a room on command. But if anyone is going to pull that kind of light out of her—if anyone gets that easy laugh—it should be me. At least while she’s here.
Instead, she’s handing it out like fucking candy. All girly and shit. She told me she was going to be an asshole to me. But she can charm them?
I know my logic is completely fucked right now. I know I probably sound like a mad man. But tell that to my fist because it’s hovering a breath away from punching a hole straight through the wall.
I hear Dan’s voice.
Then hers again. Brighter this time.
Is she fucking flirting?
“I’m losing my goddamn mind, and she’s out there hosting the Maxine Palmer Variety Hour,” I say to no one.
Another laugh.
That’s it.
Dan’s fucking fired.
I storm to the door and yank it open like I’m reclaiming the air outside.
“Max. My office. Now.”
She startles.
Good.
Her eyes snap to mine, wide and alert, and for a split second she looks like she’s deciding whether to push back or comply.
I don’t break eye contact. I don’t soften the intensity. I let her feel every ounce of what’s burning through me as she takes her first step.
Then another.
Each one brings her closer, and my gaze follows her like a slow drag of heat down her spine. Not shouting. Not explosive. Just controlled and sharp enough to cut. She moves quickly, like she knows exactly how thin the line is and how badly she doesn’t want to cross it.
Good girl.
She passes me, close enough that I catch her scent, close enough that the tension snaps tight between us.
Angry, yes.
But underneath it, something far more interesting. Heat.
The second she steps inside my office, I shut the door behind her. Flip the lock. Frost the glass with a single press.
Quiet.
Final.
The room changes instantly. Smaller. Sealed. Like the rest of the world just got cut off.
She turns to face me, already bristling. Arms crossed. Chin tipped up. Eyes loaded with attitude, defiance and something else she’s trying not to show.
All it does is make my jaw flex.
“I want my thirty minutes,” I demand.
It’s meant to sound tactful. Professional.
It doesn’t. Not even a little bit.
Her mouth tightens. “You broke the rules.”
I nod once. No excuses. “I know.”
Her brow arches. “Which rule do you think you broke?”
I hesitate. Shit. “There was more than one?”
She shifts her weight and lets out a slow breath. I can feel the edge dulling, just slightly. “I asked for your attention. Undivided,” she says evenly. “And you took it away.”
I don’t comment on the way that lands in my chest. Or how close it sounds to the exact thing I’m guilty of wanting from her right now.
She steps closer, the scent of the peach body oil my mother left for her drifts into my space. It’s warm, sensual, and completely at odds with the anger simmering just beneath my skin.
I’m not a jealous man. I’m not an unreasonable man. I have to keep reminding myself of that, because something inside me is clawing at the walls, reacting to the way she sounds when she’s being entertained by another man.
“I don’t like—” I stop myself before I admit the truth. I don’t like hearing her give what belongs to me to anyone else.
But this is insane. I know it is. So I let my admission die there.
My jaw tightens as need crashes into restraint—two forces colliding with nowhere to go.
I want to break something after my mother called and interrupted my time with Max for news I couldn’t care less about.
I could bite a bullet after Max walked out on me because it was the equivalent of hanging up the phone in my face.
But looking into her eyes and seeing that defiance and danger makes me want to taste her.
Slowly. Thoroughly. As if patience is a skill I’m about to throw out the window.
And she has no idea that all of this is roaring inside me.
She lowers her voice. “And when you were clearly frustrated—”
“Max, you don’t under—”
Her look stops me cold.
Not heat. Not flirtation.
It’s correction. The kind that pulls the reins without raising her voice.
I hate how it works on me.
I hate even more how much I like it.
Okay, Little Mama. I see you.
“When you were clearly frustrated,” she repeats, calm but firm, “you didn’t bring it to me.”
“Max—”
“One week, Bear,” she cuts in. “Burden me and I’ll burden you. Those are the rules.”
I know I agreed to this. I know this is supposed to be like every other time. Every other woman. But the longer I’m around her, the harder it is to ignore the truth. She's nothing like the others. Not even close.
Max moves through my world like she belongs here, she’s already started running numbers and tech through my business with ease, and she has a rare ability I’ve only ever seen in my mother to silence me with a single look.
And the way she’s standing her ground now—not budging an inch—does something unfamiliar to my restraint. Something I don’t have a name for yet.
Something that makes giving in feel like the most dangerous choice… and the most necessary one at the same time.
Thirty seconds ago, we were on the brink of a full-blown argument. Now she’s standing close enough I can feel her warmth, and every instinct in me wants to pin her to the nearest surface and forget where we are.
I don’t.
But I do step into her space. I close the distance slowly, letting her feel the decision behind it.
“I’m sorry, Mama. It won’t happen again.”
Then I pull her into a kiss.
My hand settles at her neck, firm enough to be possessive, gentle enough to promise control. A reminder of the strength I’m choosing not to use. Of the restraint I’m forcing myself to keep.
It’s not an apology.
It’s a warning.
“But just so we’re clear,” I murmur against her lips, my voice calm but edged with precision. “This isn’t over. There are… burdens you’ll be addressing later.”
“Is that a promise?” she teases.
My hand answers for me, sliding into her panties and reminding her—quietly, unmistakably—exactly which promise I intend to keep.
She hisses. Then moans.
I pull my hand away just as abruptly, leaving her soaked and wanting.
“Such a greedy girl,” I rasp against her mouth, teasing her with it.
I slip my fingers between her lips and repeat the promise, softer this time. “Later, Mama. We’ll finish this later.”