Chapter 2
ROSALIE
Five minutes.
Five whole, agonizing minutes of silence, and I was already regretting my decision to get into this car with him.
It didn’t help that Max didn’t even try to entertain the idea of talking. His lips looked sealed shut no matter how open they were. He was fully capable of having a conversation with me, but he simply didn’t care to. He never entertained any kind of conversation that didn’t benefit him.
That didn’t stop me from trying. “We should play some icebreakers,” I suggested, leaning my weight forward on the center console.
Max turned to face me, his scowl still present. I worried it was permanent. I smiled. Was I already talking too much? I knew how much he hated that—a habit of mine he despised for some reason.
He turned to face the road and said, “No.”
Right . . .
Talking to a brick wall would be more stimulating than this. Conversation wasn’t exactly Max’s forte. Or maybe it was the constant bickering. He was easily frustrated. I’d already started to think of ways to cure him of “the grump”—purely for my sanity, not his.
“And why not?” I pressed.
“Entertaining you is not in my job description.” He couldn’t find a comfortable position for his legs—they were too long and didn’t fit in the car easily no matter how hard he tried.
“Silence it is,” I mumbled, sending him a sideways glare that did very little to faze him.
And silence it was.
We drove in it all the way to my apartment. The ride wasn’t terribly long, but it stretched on in my mind. When he pulled up in front of my apartment building and turned off the engine, he didn’t say anything as he got out of the car and began to follow me inside.
Was he making sure I got inside safely?
I wasn’t sure.
I’d never had Max as a driver before. It had always been Sean’s job. I much preferred Sean’s cheesy smile over Max’s permanent scowl.
Or did I? I couldn’t quite decide.
The entryway was small and dimly lit. Max let out a low groan as he approached, his scowl deepening into a full-blown grimace the moment he realized he had to duck under the doorframe to enter my apartment.
He was acting like I was at fault for his height.
As if I’d personally designed the doorway to torture him.
I heard him grumble something incoherent before ordering, “Wait here.”
He didn’t bother to wait for a response, instead walking in as if he owned the place.
Sean didn’t do this. He didn’t check every nook and cranny to make sure my apartment was safe for me, and I never expected him to.
Max cared differently, I guess, in his own special, brooding way. I had to give credit where credit was due. I didn’t have a scratch on my body because of him. I normally refrained from complimenting him due to his massive ego, but he knew how to do his job, and he did it well.
Stuck in the chilly hallway, I stood there with my arms crossed, tapping my toes. My stomach did a nervous flip as I heard Max walking through my bedroom. Had I left anything out? My underwear, my bras—oh god . . . my vibrator.
Had I left that out? No, I wouldn’t have.
Crap . . . did I?
It was embarrassing, really, but I’d had no way of knowing I’d have Max here. No idea I’d be bringing home a stray puppy.
Finally, he reappeared in the doorway and tilted his head in a silent gesture for me to follow.
He didn’t say a word, but I could feel him judging my space.
His eyes scanned every inch of my apartment, taking note of the mismatched furniture, the blankets stacked in the corner, and the massive collection of plants near the window.
“It’s a bit small,” I said with a defensive shrug.
When Max had been looking after me, I was still living with my parents.
This was his first time seeing my apartment, and it was a mess.
I walked into the kitchen, which was decorated perfectly with used dishes in the sink and dark ring stains on the counter from the wineglasses left out from the night before.
He shot me a sideways glance. “It’s tiny,” he corrected.
I looked at him. Hmm. I guess he did make the space look small. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but notice how the fabric of his Armani suit slightly strained against his arms.
I stood there with my arms crossed over my chest while he continued to stroll through my apartment.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and he raised an eyebrow as if he’d stumbled upon something amusing on the shelf containing my collection of snow globes and travel souvenirs.
Then his eyes swept from the overflowing shelves to the windows, which were bare of curtains. He shook his head with disappointment. “You live in the sketchiest part of the city—do you know that?” he remarked, peering out the window to scrutinize the view of the street below.
I didn’t. It wasn’t a sketchy neighborhood; Max was just a safe person. He’d live in a floating house if he could, I was sure of it. He was always so cautious.
“It’s not that bad,” I protested.
Max had always had the tendency to exaggerate danger, especially if it was anywhere near me. I wondered what that meant.
“You can afford Chanel,” he argued, with a finger aimed accusingly at the coat rack beside him, “but you can’t afford a decent security system?”
What? My new bag? What did my new bag have to do with anything?
“It’s vintage,” I corrected with a frown, stung by his accusation.
“So what?” he countered.
“So what?” My voice oozed with sarcasm. “Vintage Chanel.”
“What’s the difference?” He finally turned to face me completely. “The price?”
“Bingo,” I said with a smile. “And it’s handmade.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Doubtful,” he droned on. “I saw a woman down the street with one just like it.”
“Down the street?” I scoffed. “Are you sure? Maybe it was a similar style, but this is a classic double flap, with the gold chain and the . . .” My voice trailed off as I passed Max, pushing him to the side to reach for it.
My fingers grazed the bag. “Hold on,” I mumbled, unzipping the inner compartment.
Hidden deep in the pockets was a small, stitched-in label.
It was faded, but the barely-there gold lettering was unmistakable.
“Chanel, Paris, 1986.” I sighed, relieved. “See?”
He watched me. He blinked. The poor man, he was so confused. He leaned in, squinting at the label, then studied me for a long moment. “You sure about that?” he asked.
“Positive,” I declared. This bag wasn’t just a splurge. “Besides,” I added, “even if there were another one down the street, mine would still be unique. After all, it belongs to me.”
He chuckled quietly. The corners of his eyes crinkled like crow’s feet. They made him look dreamy, but I’d never let him know that. Instead, I rolled my eyes each time.
“You are an expensive woman, aren’t you?”
“Call it what you want. I have taste.”
He nodded. “I see. Well, a woman with taste is likely to become a victim if she continues to keep her windows open at night, especially with a ‘Chanel, Paris, 1986’ purse, with a classic double flap and the gold chain, instead of a security system—”
“It’s safe, Max. You’re just being a ridiculous man.”
He squinted when he saw the snack basket I kept near the couch.
“My apartment isn’t that bad,” I said, trying to remind myself as well.
Max’s brow furrowed in concern as he looked at the window. He cleared his throat, the sound hitched with hesitation. “From the sidewalk, I’d be able to see your shower,” he said, pointing to the window facing the street.
He sounded worried, as if he were afraid someone would hurt me. I liked how he cared. Of course he’d use his job as an excuse for caring about my protection, but I knew deep down there was a part of him that enjoyed watching me.
“And how do you know that? Experience?” I arched an eyebrow.
His jaw clenched, and he took a deep breath in. Had I struck a nerve? Now, what nerve could that be? Was it my flirting?
Interesting . . .
“No jokes,” he snapped, his voice final. “None like that. This is my job, and I take it seriously. My only concern is your safety. Jokes and personal matters are off-limits.”
Who said anything about a joke? Not me.
I stood there bored out of my mind. “I think you’re too serious sometimes.”
“You think I’m too serious?”
“Yes,” I admitted, tilting my head playfully. I watched him walk toward the windows and lock every single one of them. “Overprotective too.”
“You run your mouth too much,” he mumbled underneath his breath as he met me by the door.
“Gosh, you’re grumpy.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips, then his eyes.
Dimples.
Two of them.
“Stay out of trouble,” he said, his voice softer.
“Never.”
“Lock this door behind me,” he instructed over his shoulder. “I’ll be seeing you.”
“And it’ll be too soon,” I teased, watching him leave.