I pushed against his chest lightly. “But you do bite, Max.”
He chuckled against my neck, which caused my skin to erupt with goose bumps. “Only when necessary.”
“And what if I like it?” I challenged.
He smiled against my cheek. “Then I will be late to my meeting.”
And late he was.
CHAPTER 55
ROSALIE
As the days went by, I realized being a married woman wasn’t much different from being a single one. There was no grand honeymoon. We’d returned to our usual routines almost immediately. The transition from single to married life had felt seamless—almost too seamless.
Max was a creature of habit and predictable to a fault. He was still the same grumpy guy who took his coffee black and wore a watch as if he were the clock himself.
He’d get out of bed each morning at the exact same time, regardless of the day, and find something to busy himself with. The man would wake up at 6 a.m. sharp, not one minute earlier or later, and head straight to the bathroom. The sound of the shower running, the soft hum of his electric razor, and the faint smell of his aftershave was my favorite alarm clock. I’d lie there half-awake, listening to his every move.
Once he’d emerged from the bathroom at precisely 6:30 a.m., his face freshly shaven and his hair still damp, he’d dress in his usual attire—a crisp dress shirt and tailored trousers—before putting on his watch. That was when he’d come to kiss me. It was always a soft press against my forehead or my cheek, but I’d stay awake for those thirty minutes just to kiss him back. He’d leandown to kiss my forehead, and I’d pretend to still be half-asleep, but he knew better.
“You’re up early,” he’d murmur.
“Just waiting for my morning kiss,” I’d tease.
His smile would be small but genuine. “Consider it delivered.”
I found myself craving his time. His attention.
I’d started to notice little things about him that would make me smile. The way he’d tilt his head when he was deep in thought, or how he’d rub the back of his neck when he was annoyed. His laugh—that maddeningly rich and addicting sound—often filled the room, becoming my favorite sound. I loved that small, almost invisible smile that would appear on his lips when he knew I was right but didn’t want to admit it. Even the way he’d pace back and forth while on the phone, gesturing adamantly as if the person on the other end of the line could see him.
Max may have been infuriating, impulsive, and often reckless, but I’d learned he was also fiercely protective, surprisingly kind in quiet moments, and gentle in the loud ones. Our late-night conversations and the way he looked at me with those honey-brown eyes made me happy, not scared. It was as if he’d peeled back my defenses and cracked through my composure. I realized I wanted more time with him, and that could only mean my feelings for him were growing despite the years I’d spent trying to hate him.
The sex certainly didn’t help, and we’d had a lot of it. I couldn’t even remember how many times it had been.
But there was more to it than just the sex. It was in those quiet moments after, when we’d lie there tangled in the sheets, that we’d talk. Max would trace lazy patterns on my skin with the tip of his finger as he shared stories from his childhood and how he’d become a made man. I could see him clearly then—not asthe made man everyone feared, but as Max, the boy who’d grown up too fast.
“Did you ever think, back then, that you’d end up here?” I asked one night as his fingers lightly grazed my arm.
“Here?” he repeated, thoughtful. “Married to you?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t respond immediately—he just continued tracing patterns on my skin. Then, quietly, he said, “I never thought I’d be lucky enough to be next to you,mia cara. Men like me dream of women like you.”
At breakfast—which we shared together more often—he’d finish his morning puzzle and listen to me ramble on about things he didn’t care about or have time for. He tried anyway. I figured it was the effort that counted.
On Saturday mornings—well, early afternoons—we’d made it a habit to visit the local farmers’ market. Max wasn’t a big fan of the crowd or the dogs that weren’t Duke, but he indulged me because he knew how much I loved fresh flowers and handmade decorations—or, as he liked to put it, “clutter.” He’d trail behind me with Duke, carrying the bags with a fake look of irritation that never quite reached his eyes.
Every now and then, Max would cook dinner, though he wasn’t much of a chef. His specialty was pasta (without a hefty helping of salt), which he made with more enthusiasm than skill. I’d watch him from the kitchen counter, trying not to laugh as he attempted to follow the recipe step by step, tasting the sauce.
“Is it supposed to look like this?” he asked one night, holding up a spoonful of sauce.
I peered at it, trying not to laugh. “I think it’s supposed to be a bit thicker.”
He sighed, setting the spoon down. “I don’t know how Bianca does it.”
It never turned out perfect—never like Bianca’s anyway—but I always told him it was the best pasta I’d ever had.
