Chapter 44
ROSALIE
ONE WEEK UNTIL THE WEDDING . . .
Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. It would’ve been the perfect way to wake up—only, something was pulling at my legs.
A sharp tug jolted me from my drowsy state, and before I could register what was happening, I was lifted into the air and onto a set of broad shoulders. My world spun around, and I blinked rapidly to clear the sleep from my eyes.
The second I saw the Rolex, I knew it was Max.
“What on earth are you doing!” I shouted.
He didn’t respond, his stride steady and purposeful as he carried me down the hallway. I looked down, my hair cascading over his back as I clung to him to keep my balance. Duke sprinted after us.
Slowly, I remembered everything that had happened last night. Anger, confusion, desire—they’d all swirled together, making it impossible to think straight. How had we gone from yelling and throwing things to . . . that?
When I confronted Max about the bet he’d made with Sean, I was furious. But Max, with his infuriatingly smug smile and those damn eyes that could see right through me, had managed to turn my rage into something else entirely.
The moment I kissed him, I’d felt every barrier break inside of me. All the frustration, all the tension I’d been holding onto, had melted away in the heat of our kiss. I hated him for making me feel this way; for making me want him despite everything he’d put me through.
I was still upset with him for last night. I’d had to finish it myself, and all I could do was picture him in my head, which only made me even more frustrated.
Once we’d made it downstairs, he walked through the patio doors and set me down in one of the chairs.
The morning sun was bright and warm. Max took a seat next to me, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression.
His gaze made me feel exposed and vulnerable. Then he glanced down at his watch.
Max hated when I was late. He was always punctual and precise, exactly like clockwork.
You could set your watch by his routine: 7 a.m. jog, 8 a.m. shower, 9 a.m. breakfast, 10 a.m. work.
I, on the other hand, operated on what you might call a more .
. . flexible schedule. And by “flexible,” I mean utterly unpredictable and mostly dependent on how many times I hit the snooze button.
Obviously, I had some work to do.
Max thought I was testing him, but really, I was just not a morning person. No matter how hard I tried for him, I failed to wake up for my alarms. Those incessant beeps at 9 a.m. were more of a suggestion to my sleepy brain, not a command.
I stayed silent, hoping he wouldn’t bring up the time—or last night, for that matter. My eyes darted around the yard, and I watched Duke roll in the grass as I popped a grape into my mouth.
I chewed.
Sweet.
I swallowed.
He said nothing. Whatever was going on in his mind, he dreaded saying it out loud.
I continued to pick at the grapes absentmindedly, trying to focus on their flavor rather than the flip of my stomach.
Max’s patience was something I admired and resented all at once.
His ability to stay calm and collected, especially now, made me feel even more disheveled.
How was it that he could remain perfectly calm while driving me up the wall?
“I don’t know how to put up with you,” he said in a deep, sexy rumble I desperately tried to ignore.
I failed miserably.
Still, I didn’t know what to say to him. I wanted to say something—anything—but I couldn’t. I was still too angry, too confused, and also sexually frustrated.
So I did the only thing I could think of: I stayed quiet.
I took in a deep breath and picked another grape from the bowl, popping it into my mouth—a green one this time.
I chewed.
Sour.
I swallowed.
My eyes rolled over to Max’s. He was watching me still, his gaze steady. The man had patience for me—he made that much clear. I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair.
“Do I deserve the silent treatment?”
I continued to keep my mouth shut, but my eye roll spoke for me.
He shifted in his seat. “You know, you’re being a little dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” I snapped, unable to hold back any longer. It was like he knew how to get me to finally talk. “I am not being dramatic, Max. You have no idea how I feel.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea.”
I wanted to smile badly, but I held back the strong urge. I found myself torn between emotions. I wanted to kiss him, but a part of me also wanted to slap him. I wanted to hate him, but a part of me also wanted to care for him.
I was confused, to say the least.
“Rosalie, about last night . . .” he began, his voice trailing off as he searched for the right words.
“I don’t want to talk about it. You’ve made your point,” I said, my tone sharp and maybe even a little defensive.
Max leaned in closer, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Oh, have I now?” he teased, his voice dripping with mock sincerity.
“Yes,” I admitted. “And don’t let it get to your head. It was just a moment of weakness.”
“Ah, a moment of weakness,” he repeated, nodding. “I seem to recall you being quite persuasive in the moment.”
I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way my heart raced at his words. “Just because I had a moment doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who you are.” My voice trembled slightly despite my best efforts to keep it steady.
“And who am I, Rosalie?” he asked, his tone challenging. “Enlighten me.”
“An obsessive, arrogant ass,” I shot back.
“And you,” he countered, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, “are a stubborn, infuriating woman who refuses to admit she might actually enjoy my company.”
I didn’t know how to respond to him. His casual admission threw me off-balance, and for a moment, I could only stare at him. He was right. I did enjoy his company, but I wasn’t sure what that said about me. Was I betraying my family?
This marriage between us, it wasn’t about personal feelings. It was about loyalty, history, and the weight of expectation.
My family had always warned me about people like Max.
They’d said the other side was manipulative, dangerous, and never to be trusted.
Yet here I was, drawn to him in a way I couldn’t express, feeling things I’d been taught to suppress my entire life.
It felt like a betrayal—not just to my family, but to the values I’d grown up with.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I finally said.
“Flattery has nothing to do with it.” His voice was suddenly serious. “I just call it like I see it.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re impossible,” he replied. “Which makes us quite the pair, don’t you think?”
I rolled my eyes, refusing to let him see how much his words affected me. “In your dreams.”
“Every night,” he admitted, his smirk returning.
“Must be nightmares then,” I quipped, trying to regain some ground.
He chuckled—a rich sound that drew me in without fail. “Only if you consider it a nightmare to wake up wanting more of you.”
“More of me?” I raised an eyebrow. “You can barely handle what you get now.”
“Oh, I handle you just fine,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto mine. “It’s you who seems to struggle with the concept.”
I folded my arms defensively. “I haven’t had much time to adjust to the changes that have been made since you uprooted my entire life. Everything I knew, everything I was familiar with, it’s all been turned upside down.”
He sighed, clearly frustrated. “I’ve given you more than enough time to adjust, Rosalie. In fact, your five weeks expire soon.”
“Right,” I said with a sharp breath, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on me. “The wedding.”
There was still so much to do, and the days were slipping away faster than I could keep up with.
I mentally ran through my checklist: the final fitting for my dress was in a few hours, the caterer needed confirmation on the menu, and I still hadn’t decided which heels I wanted to wear.
Something other than my Valentinos. They were my most uncomfortable pair, but Max had said he liked them, so I’d worn them.
He stood up, straightening his jacket. “The rehearsal is tomorrow at six. I want your things moved into my bedroom by then.”
“What about our rules?” I asked nervously, biding my time. “We aren’t married yet.”
“Rules?” he asked. “Like the one you broke last night?”
“Well,” I scoffed, “you certainly helped.”
“Maybe, but you broke one first, which means I get to break another. You’ll be sleeping in my bed tonight.”
“What?” I asked. “No.”
“No more excuses, no more delays. It’s time for you to accept the way things are.”
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks—a mix of anger and helplessness I struggled to control. His gaze bore into mine, challenging me to defy him, but I remained silent, my jaw clenched.
I was running out of time. I hardly had any left.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked off, his footsteps echoing through the empty hall. The sound seemed to grow louder, each step a reminder of the control he had over my life.
The thought of moving my things into Max’s bedroom felt like the final surrender, a step I wasn’t sure I was ready to take. But maybe I was ready . . . After all, I’d had my mouth all over his last night.
As the day wore on, I reluctantly started to gather my belongings, muttering under my breath about the unfairness of it all.
I began with the bathroom, figuring if I was going to invade his space, I might as well start with the essentials.
I placed my bright pink toothbrush right next to his black one.
Next, I tackled the closet. It was a huge room, but he’d only filled a small corner of it. Max’s wardrobe consisted of two colors: black and white. He had a suit for every day of the week, and they all looked the same. My heels alone took up twice the amount of space as everything of his.
Moving on to the bedroom, I began meticulously arranging my vanity items on his dresser.
My collection of perfumes, makeup, and hair accessories took up a significant portion of the space, clashing with his minimal setup.
His bedside table had always been sparse, containing only a bottle of his cologne and his watch, which he wore every day without fail.
As I continued to move everything over to his room, a small part of me couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction in the way my things took over his space.
Each perfume bottle, each lipstick, and each hair clip was a deliberate invasion.
It was my way of getting back at him for the bet and for leaving me edged and irked.
He’d always been so composed, so in control, and this was my way of unsettling him; of disrupting his routine.
Each time I placed one of my items on his dresser, I imagined the slight twitch of annoyance that would cross his face. It made me want to act on my impulses even more, just to see how far I could push him.
Later that night, Max guided me to his room.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about sharing a bed with him.
A part of me liked the idea, but I wasn’t sure why.
I was too confused to trust myself in the same bed as him.
I’d already broken the rule and kissed him; I was bound to make another sloppy mistake if I went through with it.
So, of course, I tried to find a way out.
“You’re serious?”
“Very,” he admitted, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “I don’t want to spend another night without you. You know this isn’t just about moving your things—it’s about accepting the way things are.” His eyes met mine.
“And what if I don’t want to accept it?”
He took a step closer. “Then we’ll keep fighting. But you’ll be in this room. With me.”
I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping. “I could just place a pillow over your face while you’re fast asleep.”
“I think I’ll take my chances.”
“No funny business,” I demanded.
“I’ll be on my best behavior.”
When I got into bed, I was determined to stay on my side. I shimmied under the covers, creating a clear boundary between us. But when Max went to lie down, the mattress dipped, and despite my best efforts, I found myself rolling in his direction.
My back was pressed against his chest when he pulled me even closer with his arm. I could feel him hard beneath his pants.
“Is this your best behavior?” I asked.
He chuckled softly, wrapping me closer into him.
“Looks like the bed had other plans,” he teased, his voice a warm whisper against my ear.
It spread chills through my body, making my stomach drop as my core tightened.
Then he lifted the hem of my shirt and trailed the tips of his fingers against my skin.
My breathing started to slow, my mind drifting in and out. I could have fallen asleep with his touch, but his stare kept me awake.
“Are you waiting for me to fall asleep?” I asked, my voice low.
“Yes,” he admitted, placing a small kiss on my shoulder.
“Why?”
“You threatened me with a pillow.”
“Oh, did I?”
“You did.” He continued to trail his fingers down the side of my body—only, this time they went lower, down to the curve of my hips.
“Well, maybe you should take that threat seriously,” I said, rolling my hips slightly. I could feel him pressing against me.
His breath hitched, his grip on my hip tightening even more. “Then maybe you should stop moving your ass against me,” he murmured, his voice husky.
“Sorry,” I lied. “I can’t get comfortable in this bed with you. You take up the entire thing.”
“It would help if you relaxed.” His hand slid around to my front, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my stomach before resting possessively against my hip.
I hated that a man this grumpy could make everything in my body feel dizzy from his touch. How was he able to do that? How could he do that to my heart?
I fell asleep in his arms trying to find out.