Chapter 14
MAX
The midday sun beat down mercilessly on two men, broad-shouldered and imposing, as they made their way around the drive. The cicadas buzzed, the sound slowly drowned out by Liam’s conversation.
“Max,” he called after me.
I met him at the black sedan.
“I’m taking Sean to Chicago with me. I need his help translating now Cillian is gone.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what he needed to translate from Italian, especially in Chicago.
“Rosalie. She’ll be needing a ride in about an hour. She has that, uh, art thing with her mother.”
Refusal wasn’t an option, but a silent rebellion simmered within me. “Actually,” I interjected, “perhaps I could be of assistance in Chicago.”
Liam’s gaze met mine, a look of surprise on his face before he said, “I don’t think you speak Italian,” with a gruff laugh.
There was certainly a right answer here, and it wasn’t the truth. “Nah, I guess I don’t.”
Lying was the thing I hated most in this world, yet I didn’t know anyone who did it more than me. Especially to this man.
“Chicago shouldn’t take too long. A few days, tops.”
This was a very bad idea, but there was no one here to stop me. Liam would kill me if I ever overstepped his boundaries. The only problem with boundaries was, I tended to cross them when I saw his daughter.
Despite the burn I felt, I managed a weak nod, forcing the words past my gritted teeth. “Not a problem.”
And with that, Liam left.
My hand hovered over the cool, polished wood of the door. Despite myself, I rapped my knuckles against the surface. I could already hear her loud mouth jabbering through the door.
That pitchy sound—I couldn’t seem to escape it.
I needed to prepare myself. Rosalie’s words were always impulsive, constantly catching me off-guard. She never failed to talk too much. Her mouth had an endless supply of coal that kept her lips running like a machine that could never break.
And yet her voice drew me in every time, without fail.
I wasn’t so sure I had the strength to be here, to talk to her, or to see her. No one had ever made me this nervous. Only her.
Eventually, the door swung open, and of course, it wasn’t locked.
She stood there proudly at 5’5”, with her hair up in a bun, wearing nothing but a towel.
Perfect.
“You’re not Sean,” she said flatly.
My gaze traveled down the length of her exposed legs, then back up to meet her narrowed gaze. Christ. Did Sean ever see her like this? That made me feel something I’d much rather ignore.
“And you’re not dressed,” I countered.
“Careful, Max. If you stare too long, I might get the wrong idea,” she teased.
“Why don’t you get dressed then?”
“Why are you here?”
“Your father and Sean had a last-minute flight to Chicago.”
She slouched. “So I’m stuck with you tonight?”
“Yep.”
She let out a noise that sounded a lot like a scoff as she wandered off into the apartment, leaving the door hanging open with an unspoken invitation. I hesitated then stepped inside. The scent of her flowery shampoo clung to the air.
Pulling the door shut with a soft click, I glanced at the lock—the same one she never bothered to use.
My gaze darted to the window across the room—wide-open, just like it was every other time I visited.
Then my eyes landed on the stove. The clock displayed a time a few hours behind what my watch read.
She watched me with a strange expression. “Well, you’re here kind of early,” she said, running a hand self-consciously through the stray strands of hair that fell freely from the bun. “I still have to do my hair.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s six. The art showing starts in fifteen minutes. Better hurry.”
She knew how impatient I was, and she hated that about me. “The remote is on the coffee table—make yourself comfortable. I’ll be taking my time.”
Fidgeting was useless. As the minutes passed, I didn’t bother using the remote. Instead I wandered the room looking for a distraction.
On a bookshelf crammed with novels and travel guides, a photo frame held a faded picture of two younger girls, their arms wrapped around each other.
It was her and Daisy, I was sure. Across the room, a record player sat nestled in a corner, a worn copy of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumors” resting on the turntable.
After half an hour, the blow-dryer had finally shut off, but a loud noise seemed to be continuing. Only, this time, the loud noise was Rosalie.
“Hey!” she shouted. “I’m in need of your opinion!”
I turned to the door as she opened it.
“Come here, would you? We don’t have all night.”
Funny.
“Be quick,” I murmured as I took a few strides across the room, meeting her at the doorframe. Her bedroom was small, but she pulled me inside anyway.
“I’m stuck between two dresses, and since you seem to pay attention to the ones I wear, I’ll be needing your opinion.”
“Oh,” I started, but she shut me up quickly, as always.
“Here—sit,” she said, placing both her hands on my chest and forcing me to the edge of her bed. It creaked beneath my weight. I was nervous I’d break it.
What the hell was I even doing here? This felt too close. I was in her bed. How the fuck did I find myself here after taking so many precautions to avoid situations like this? How could this get worse for me?
I ran a hand over the back of my neck, trying to ignore the tightening knot there. “I . . .” I began, but I stopped when she wandered into her closet. Why was I even agreeing to this?
“Did you say something?” I heard her muffled voice yell.
“Nope.”
This whole night was ridiculous. Sean was supposed to be here.
Sean, her actual . . . whatever he was to her.
Not me. I was just the poor guy caught in his place, the extra set of hands.
Except now I wasn’t just a set of hands.
I was sitting here, in her room, on her bed, while she picked out a dress for me to . . . what, approve of?
Her closet door was barely cracked, but every now and then I’d catch a glimpse of her moving, pulling hangers aside. She wasn’t wearing a towel anymore.
Jesus.
I glanced around the room, trying to ground myself in something—anything—else. I shouldn’t be here. Should never have agreed to this.
I didn’t trust myself near Rosalie.
She was my kryptonite. She made logic take a flying leap out the nearest window.
Responsibility and restraint were foreign concepts to me when she was near.
When I was with her, all rational thought was replaced by something far more controlling.
She made me irresponsible. Reckless. She made me stupid, and stupid was a terrible place to be.
Keeping my mouth shut was my only option.
Rosalie had been a constant thorn in my side—still, which was annoying—but what was even more annoying was how easily she could manipulate people.
With just a smile and a few well-placed words, she could get anyone to do her bidding.
Grown men fell over themselves just to please her.
It was sickening, really, and very unfortunate for me, considering I, too, was one of those grown men.
I was no better than the desire that gnawed at me, feeding on my every thought.
“Option one,” she said, stepping out in a dress. It was modest, which I liked, but I also liked seeing her skin. I liked the latter more, and I was sure other men did too.
She was wearing her gold earrings. Chanel. Her favorite brand. Every Friday, without fail, she wore the same perfume. I’d forgotten that small detail—almost as much as I’d forgotten how much I liked it. Her hands, delicate and smooth, ran through her perfectly shiny cinnamon-red hair.
Her full, baby-pink lips parted. I constantly thought about her lips and how they tasted like cherry. I hated that I knew what they tasted like. All that did was make me want to taste them again.
I swallowed. “It’s nice,” I said. I thought she was beautiful. I didn’t give a fuck about the dress, no matter how good she made it look.
She held up her hand. “I think you’ll like the other one more,” she said with excitement. “Can you help me with the zipper?”
My breathing shallowed as I held my hand out, trying to keep her at a distance, but she stepped between my legs anyway, forcing my attention onto her.
My hands felt stiff.
Somehow, the situation had gotten worse.
The confidence I’d had only seconds ago vanished the moment she touched me. What was she doing to me? Did she understand my infatuation with her?
I cleared my throat and lifted my fingertips to her back. She shuddered under my touch before relaxing her shoulders. My free hand fell to her hip, holding her waist steady while I unzipped her dress. My fingers couldn’t help but grab onto her slightly.
Slowly stepping away, she grabbed a dress off the hook. She knew I was looking at her, and she knew I couldn’t stop.
But I needed to.
She had so much control over me, yet this was all a game to Rosalie.
I was a game. She was messing with my feelings, completely ignorant of how difficult it was for me to remain professional.
I knew not to read too much into it—Rosalie had a strong tendency to flirt with everyone, kiss them too.
She didn’t have any romantic feelings for me.
For all I knew, this was how she spoke to every man.
A kiss from Rosalie could ruin me entirely, while it would be nothing but a greeting to a woman like her. How badly I wanted to be special to her was beyond me.
I slammed my eyes shut, trying to gain any sense of composure I had left. I was hanging on by a fucking thread. She’d been doing this to me for months, and I was so close to snapping.
Where was her self-respect? Where were her morals?
She paraded herself in front of me, teasing me discreetly. I needed to get out of her hold. I could already feel what she was doing to me. It was a feeling that was nearly impossible to break free from.
It took forever to get Rosalie out of my mind. It didn’t even work—the woman lived there rent-free. Trying to get her out of my head was nothing but a waste of my time.
“Okay! Option two. What do you think?” she asked.
I lifted my gaze to hers. She spun in a circle, placing her hands on her hips.
What do I think?
I thought I was about one good look away from losing it entirely. One more second of her standing there looking at me like that, and I’d be done for. She had me tangled up in knots, twisted in ways I didn’t know I could be twisted, and she knew it. She had to know.
I wanted to pull her lips close to mine again, and I was out of my goddamn mind to think I could do that without having to deal with the consequences. This was a very bad idea.
What if Valentina was right? What if Liam was testing me?
Oh, but the dress. I thought I’d forgotten about my fascination with green—more specifically, her in green.
“I think it looks nice.”
“Nice?” she mocked. “That’s something you’d say to your grandma. Really, Max, how do I look?”
She was trying to trap me again. She loved to do that to me. I was once an honest person, but Rosalie was going to make a liar out of me.
Truth be told, I thought she looked beautiful, but I couldn’t admit that out loud.
I didn’t want to give her any more encouragement; didn’t want her pushing this game of hers even further.
She already tested me enough as it was, like she didn’t realize how much was at stake.
My life was on the line if I crossed clear boundaries.
She didn’t seem to care about my life. I was caught between wanting to be anywhere but here and needing to stay exactly where I was, and she knew it.
There was nothing stopping her from toying with me, seeing how far she could push me, because to her, my hesitation and caution probably just made it all the more entertaining.
Nothing I did could repel her. Smoking didn’t even faze her. In fact, it made her want to smoke too. And insults? She fed off those like fuel.
But I had to try. Had to find some way to get through to her—to push her away for the sake of my life.
“I think you look like a whore,” I said, forcing the words out, hoping they’d carry the sting I intended.
Then the woman smiled. “A whore you’ll never be able to afford.”
Just as I expected.
“Right. Wouldn’t want to sell yourself short, would you?”
She shifted her weight onto one leg with a scoff. “I am a very expensive woman.”
I am a very rich man.
“Why don’t you quit yapping and finish getting ready, yeah?” I asked, looking down at my watch. When I looked back up, I saw her turn on her heel and strut off to her closet.
Eventually, Rosalie came back out with two pairs of heels in her hands. She held them up, but I was still looking at her dress. She was confident to the point she seemed fearless. She knew how to make me think about her body until it was the only thing on my mind.
“Max,” she called.
My attention drifted from her legs to her shoulders, then to her eyes.
“Are you ignoring me again?”
Ignoring? Ignoring someone like Rosalie was impossible.
“No. I think the black heels look the best,” I assured her.
“With or without the straps?” she asked, combing her fingers through the ends of her hair again.
I had a feeling if I held all these thoughts about her in my head, I’d go mad. I feared I might be already. No one could possibly understand what I’d do for this woman.
“I like the straps,” I confessed, my fingers instinctively raking over the scruff on my chin.
I also liked my sanity, but I couldn’t like both, it seemed.
She watched me as she finished tightening the strap around her ankle.
Shit, she looked good in those heels—the ones I’d helped her pick out. They showed off her white, well-manicured nails and made her calves look defined.
“Good. Me too.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ready, macho man?”
God, I hope so.