Chapter 2
“Oof,” I grunt, slamming my head against a brick wall.
Well, not a brick wall. But he might as well be one.
Seriously, why is it always Max Callahan that I run into?
Couldn’t it be someone else? There are more than twenty guys on this team.
Countless others employed by the Raptors organization.
Yet I only seem to run into Mr. Grumpypants.
I have zero issues working with anyone on the team … except for Max. His assholiness brings out my sass, and it becomes a perfect storm of attitude. So, of course, I gave him the perfect nickname. “Oh. Hello, Sunshine.”
“You need to stop calling me that,” he growls. Good lord. I hate his voice. It’s deep and raspy and makes me wonder how it would feel to have him talking me through an orgasm while his face is between my thighs. Definitely inappropriate to think that about a colleague.
“Why?” I say lightly, picking at nonexistent specks on my shirt. “It fits.”
“I’m the opposite of sunshine, Layla.”
“So, you’re saying I should call you Nighttime? Moonlight?” I gasp. “Oh! I can call you Midnight Shadow!”
“Don’t you even think about it,” he says, pointing a finger at me. A perfectly manicured finger. Rounded nail, trimmed cuticles … what the hell is up with this guy?
“Old bear? Curmudgeon? Sourpuss?”
“Why can’t you just call me Max?” he asks, exasperated, as he throws his hands in the air. “I haven’t heard you call one other guy a nickname. Why me?”
I shrug. “Because it irritates you, I guess.”
“Lovely,” he mutters, stepping around me. “Guess I’ll need to come up with a nickname for you then.”
“Good luck!” I call out as he stalks down the corridor. When he doesn’t reply, I continue on my way.
Why did I start calling Max “Sunshine”? Because he glared at me as soon as he met me, and that pissed me off. My mom used to always tell me, “You get more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, my sweet Layla-girl. But sometimes, it’s more fun to give an asshole too much sugar.”
It is indeed fun.
But also really frustrating, because I’ve never been this despised by someone for no apparent reason.
I’m a friendly woman. I’m nice to everyone.
I was raised in South Carolina, where southern manners are a very important part of every girl’s education.
I can hold a conversation with a wood door if needed, honestly.
If I’m forced into a chat with someone who claims to be the most introverted person in the world, I’ll have them smiling by the time I’m done with them. But not Max Callahan.
He does the grumpy bit extremely well. He’s got that whole tall, dark, and handsome vibe going on, with eyes so dark they’re almost black.
His skin is perfectly bronzed, but the worst part is the damn curls on his head.
Perfect curls that I desperately want to feel and twirl around my fingers.
I’m not too proud to admit I’ve had dreams about his hair, where I’ve been jarred awake right as I was about to get my hands into it.
We’re quite the dichotomy. He looks like the poster child for a bad decision that would feel oh, so good, whereas I’m the perfect blonde woman who knows how to appease everyone.
I’ve definitely been taught never to raise my voice …
but that’s a southern staple I really struggle with.
I know how to wine and dine, ways to redirect someone without an argument, and when I need to keep my mouth shut.
Momma raised me to be respectful, but also to know my place in society.
Speaking of, when my phone blasts Redneck Woman by Gretchen Wilson, I giggle to myself. My mother’s smiling face stares back at me from the screen as I put it to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“How’s my favorite daughter doing today?” she asks in her singsong voice.
“I’m your only daughter.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true, my little Peach Pie.”
I groan. “You know I hate that nickname.”
“Why? It’s always suited you.”
“No,” I sigh. “It hasn’t. I don’t even like peaches. I don’t like peach-flavored anything for that matter. You could just use my name, or call me something normal.”
She scoffs. “Normal? Child, have you known me to do things in a normal manner?”
She’s right. I may have been raised southern, but my childhood was anything but normal.
By the time I was five, I’d lived in six different states.
My parents never married, insisting the institution was archaic and another way for the government to control women.
We lived in a commune of sorts, with a large group of similarly-minded people who, until I was ten, I honestly thought were relatives.
Our little slice of home, on the outskirts of Orangeburg, was just a group of trailers spread out in a circle.
I don’t remember there ever being a time when children weren’t playing something in the center, or when someone wasn’t manning the grill for a quick meal.
I had no idea how stressed my parents were about making ends meet, or that every family there felt the same way. I only knew love.
It was only after my dad died, during my freshman year of high school, that I had a rude awakening about finances.
Granted, I recognized we weren’t rich. I could see differences between our family and that of my peers, even as a young kid.
But after his death, and all the expenses that come with a long hospital stay, I became horrifyingly aware of how poor we were.
In some ways, I love knowing my parents kept things from me.
They clearly wanted me to have a childhood free of fear and stress.
But, had I known, I like to think I’d have acted differently.
I wouldn’t have bugged them into paying for me to play soccer, or take me to the overpriced Nutcracker performance in Columbia.
I’d have made do with clothes and shoes a little longer, and taken care of things more.
Hell, I didn’t even know my dad had cancer until he was put into hospice three weeks before he died.
I was a typical self-involved teenager, blissfully unaware that the rock of our family was slowly withering away in front of me.
Even with insurance, chemotherapy is fucking expensive.
And all the medications he had to take? Ridiculous.
Honestly, if there’s one thing I regret from childhood, it’s how oblivious I was.
No one takes ten prescription medications per day unless something major is happening.
Twelve-year-old Layla was dumb. Fourteen-year-old Layla was in denial.
Fifteen-year-old Layla watched her dad’s burial, and should have known life would never be the same.
Thirty-year-old Layla recognizes that now.
Because my dad was the breadwinner — the only one making money for our family — changes were made.
Even the trailer was out of our price range, and my mom and I moved into a studio apartment in a sketchy part of Columbia.
My mom got a full-time job working as a janitor at the neighborhood high school where I was enrolled.
The teachers there were basically just trying to survive each day.
Needless to say, once the other students realized my mom was the custodian, I was bullied pretty relentlessly.
I tried not to let it bother me, though, and got a job working every night at the fast food restaurant down the street.
It was there that I discovered how absolutely appalling the American food system is.
Why are there so many chemicals involved in our food production?
Known pesticides that cause cancer still being used on our produce?
Why is fast food cheaper than organic? It’s all complete bullshit.
I hated every moment working at that restaurant, walking home smelling like the fryer, and feeling like there were layers of grease caking my pores every day.
Each shift, I grew angrier. This shouldn’t be the way so many were forced to eat.
Preservatives, carbohydrates, and fats. Nothing in moderation.
And the actual restaurant? Disgusting. Chemicals stored next to bags of fries, and directions on how to hide the presence of rodents.
I promised myself I’d never eat at a fast food restaurant again, and I’m pretty damn proud to say I’ve stuck to that promise.
“Did I tell you I had a date last night?” Mom says, jarring me from my trip down memory lane.
“No? Maybe. I can’t remember,” I admit. I love my mom, but sometimes she rambles, and I can’t keep up.
“Well, his name is Carl, and he is the assistant manager for the Publix over on Maple. He took me to a miniature golf course where all the holes have big animal structures,” she gushes.
“It was so much fun! I think he let me win. Or maybe he’s really bad at miniature golf?
Then he’d packed a picnic, and we ate in the back of his car. ”
Good Lord. “What kind of car?”
“Hmm,” she muses. “I’m not sure. Some kind of hatchback.”
“Like a Subaru, or a Pinto? Major difference here, Mom.”
“I don’t think it was a Subaru. That’s more for your neck of the woods than mine, Peachy girl. We don’t need to worry about those kinds of roads in Florida,” she says with a laugh. She moved to Fort Myers after I graduated from high school and was on my own. “Plus, it looked like an older car.”
“So it’s possible he has a really old car, and he packed a meal because he couldn’t afford to take you out to dinner?” I ask pointedly.
“I guess it is possible …” she trails off.
“Mom.”
“Don’t get that tone with me, Layla Marie,” she snaps.
“You’re making assumptions. I thought it was cute and genuine.
He asked me what my favorite sandwich was, and he made it for me.
He also made pasta salad from scratch, remembering that I’d said I didn’t like olives.
He was a gentleman the entire time and didn’t even attempt a good night kiss. So stop assuming the worst.”
As usual, my mother puts me in my place. “I worry about you, Mom. You’re incredibly trusting and always see the best in people. I don’t want someone to take advantage of you for how genuine you are.”
“That’s sweet, Layla, but you also need to recognize that I’m a big girl, and I can decide if I want to trust someone or not. At least I’m dating,” she points out.
“We aren’t talking about me.”
“Maybe we should. When is the last time you went on a date?”
“I —” I pause, trying to think. “Honestly, I don’t know. It’s been a while.”
“Let’s worry a little less about my dating life and focus on yours instead,” she says cheerfully. “Come on, Peach Pie. I’d like a grandbaby or two eventually.”
I groan. “I will think about dating if you promise not to call me anything peach-related.”
“I will take that into consideration. Love you bunches!”
“Love you too.” I end the call, then chuckle. I don’t even know why my mother called in the first place. Our conversations are always a little chaotic, but typically, I can discern the reason for her call. No such luck today.
“Who calls you Peach?”
I jolt, tossing my phone into the air, and a hand whips out to catch it. I find the dark brown eyes of Max Callahan regarding me above his outstretched hand. “Jesus. Where did you come from? How long were you listening to my conversation?”
“Long enough. Who calls you Peach?”
“No one has ever called me Peach.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, we’re going with that minor detail? Okay. Peaches, Peach Pie, Peachy-girl? Any of those?”
My eyes narrow as I feel a growl emanate from my throat. “My mother.”
Max tilts his head to the side as he gives me an exaggerated wistful smile, his lips making a quivering motion. “Well, isn’t that just adorable. And what does your dad call you?”
“He’s dead, so he doesn’t call me anything,” I snap.
Max’s eyes bug out of his head before he lets out a loud bark of laughter. “Damn. Didn’t expect that out of your mouth.”
I attempt to grab my phone from his hand, but he snatches it back. “Give me my phone.”
“No. What’s with all the peach names? Do you love peaches?”
“No, I hate them, actually.”
“Hate is a strong word for a fruit.”
“So?”
Max rests his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his massive chest. “Why do you hate them?”
“No reason.”
“Doubtful.”
“Can I have my phone now?”
“Not until you tell me why you hate a fruit.”
I huff out a loud breath, rolling my eyes.
“The pit is too large. The skin is fuzzy, and that bugs me. Frankly, I don’t like the color.
If you get one that’s even slightly underripe, it’s almost crunchy.
Who the hell wants a crunchy fruit? On the flip side, if one is overripe, it’s almost gooey.
Once you’ve tasted an overripe and borderline rotten peach, you’ll never want to eat another peach again. ”
“Huh.” Max looks thoroughly amused. “Peaches it is.”
“Uh, yeah?” I ask sarcastically. “That is what I’ve been talking about. Have you taken too many balls to the head?”
A slow smile graces his face, and his eyes sparkle. If I wasn’t so confused, I’d probably smile in response. It makes me wonder how often Max can get his way just by smiling at someone. From what I’ve seen, a Max Callahan smile is a rarity.
“Haven’t taken any balls to the head.”
“Then why are you reminding me what I’ve been talking about?”
“I wasn’t reminding you of that. I was talking about your nickname.”
I stare at him incredulously. “My what?”
“Your nickname. It’s Peaches.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“You’ll find I’m serious most of the time. See ya later, Peaches.”
“Don’t call me that!” I shout as I watch him turn to stride back down the hallway, where I never saw him approach. “Seriously! Max! Don’t call me Peaches!”
He spins to give me a devilish grin. “Too late, Peaches.”
God dammit.