“I am.” He leaned back, picking up his coffee. “Some things are worth waiting for.”
Chapter Fifteen
September 23st, 4:05 p.m.
Paloma pulled up the long driveway of the colonial revival home. The late afternoon sun glinted off Woodland Lake, casting a golden glow across the weathered shingles and wrap-around porch. She parked next to a large motorcycle, eyeing it. She had to search to remember the actual names of the pineapple couple, ah, yes, the Thompsons. Her little inside joke with Max had almost erased their actual names. She shook her head. The Thompsons had told her they wouldn’t be at the house and to leave everything in the library. But the motorcycle said that might have changed their minds.
Her gaze shifted to the trees surrounding the property. Touches of autumn appeared in the sporadic leaves, turning yellow and pale orange at their edges. She closed her eyes, savoring the quiet: the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore and the occasional cry of a wheeling gull. With a deep breath, she opened her eyes.
Okay, get moving. Time to get to work. She’d drop off the updated floor plans and check out the changes made to the main bedroom. And she couldn’t wait to see Max’s progress on the indoor garden: the soft rustle of ornamental grasses, the soothing trickle of the wall fountain, the lush scent of moss and ferns.
She stepped out of her car, and the breeze danced with the hem of her knee-length skirt. Opening the rear door, she retrieved her portfolio and set off toward the house. Each footfall on the cobblestone path seemed to echo with thoughts of Max.
Their other projects and schedules hadn’t lined up since returning from Traverse City, which was a relief—and torture. The physical distance helped dull the constant awareness of him, gave her space to breathe without his presence making her question their agreement to wait. But she missed him, and a week apart hadn’t diminished how her body hummed at the thought of him.
“Deal with today’s problems,” she muttered. “Tomorrow’s will come soon enough.”
Rounding the car, she paused beside the motorcycle. Her fingers traced the iconic American emblem on its tank. She’d always wanted to learn to ride. Maybe next summer.
It seemed the Thompsons had more hobbies than swinging. She grinned, laughing to herself. No, she didn’t have proof, but she’d bet on the odds.
Patting the motorcycle, she left it behind and approached the house. She pushed open the side door next to the garage and stepped through the mudroom. The short heels of her boots clicked along the vestibule floor. She called out, “Hello? Elodie? Bill? Anyone home?”
No reply came, but a noise drifted from the kitchen. Upon entering it, she found the room empty. Then she heard a slicing sound emanating from her favorite feature of the house: the central staircase connecting the second level and the walk-out basement.
She’d originally wanted to knock it down and move it because it ran along the large, three-story window in the front of the house. However, after Max transformed the space into a garden oasis, she was glad he’d convinced her to keep it. Its beauty competed with the view of the lake.
Stepping into the great room, she halted. Had the man she couldn’t stop thinking materialized from her thoughts? Max’s shirtless back was to her. His trowel sank into the rich potting soil as he leaned over the indoor planter, triceps flexing with each careful movement. Droplets of sweat caught the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows, turning his skin to burnished gold. Damn.
A rush of warmth flooded her. Part of it was his obvious physical appeal, but the rest was harder to pinpoint. Something was mesmerizing about the way he worked. It spoke to a deeper part of her she couldn’t understand.
She was captivated by the subtle shift of his shoulder blades as he reached for a branch and the careful tilt of his head as he examined a leaf. This wasn’t merely a job for him but a labor of love. Although she couldn’t see his face, his focus was palpable, and his dedication was evident in every line of his body.
A surge of admiration welled inside her, surprising in its intensity. She respected his professional skills, but seeing him like this, wholly absorbed in creating beauty, revealed a depth she hadn’t expected.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, fighting the sudden urge to reach out and trace the contours of his bare back, to share in this moment of creation. She was drawn to his masculinity but also the care and attention he embodied.
She shook off her fascination and called out, “Max?” When he didn’t acknowledge her, she shouted, “Max!”
He started, then turned around. Her breath caught in her throat. If his back was impressive, his front was downright mesmerizing. Those biceps she’d already fallen for, but now her eyes got to feast on bare broad shoulders and a firm chest with just the right amount of hair. Her gaze followed the tantalizing trail disappearing into his jeans. Her attraction to this hardworking man surged, leaving her breathless and hungry.
He pulled a pair of sleek wireless earbuds from his ears. “Paloma,” he breathed, her name falling from his lips like a caress. “What are you doing here?” His casual tone belied the intensity of his gaze.
She swallowed hard, working to find her voice. “I’m dropping off updated plans for the Thompsons,” she said, tossing the leather portfolio onto the walnut coffee table. It landed with a soft thud that echoed in the spacious great room, its high ceilings and large windows filling the space with late afternoon light. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“Surprise,” he said softly, taking a step closer. The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken tension, and memories of their almost-kiss hovered like ghosts in the space between their bodies.
She pulled her gaze from him, scanning the garden she’d grown to love. Her attention caught on the new additions, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“I like the tree,” she noted, gesturing to the one he’d been tending. “And that pineapple bush,” she chuckled, shaking her head, “it’s ridiculous how well it fits. The Thompsons will love it.”
Her fingertips brushed a petal, savoring its silken texture. She turned to face him, becoming aware of his proximity and his undeniable allure. She needed something—anything—to focus on besides him, and asked, “Is the motorcycle outside yours or theirs?”
“It’s mine,” he replied.
“You keep surprising me. You aren’t supposed to ride a motorcycle.”
“Why? Is this something to do with your nice guy stereotype again?”
