“You’re late,” I argued.
“And you’re gorgeous.”
I turned to face him fully. “You’re just like Vincent—you know that?”
His lips curved into a slow smile. “Is that so? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Flattered if you think it’s a compliment. Offended if you realize what I really mean.”
“Vincenzo and I may share some traits, but don’t mistake us for the same kind of man.”
“You seem to have the same taste in women.”
Max looked at me strangely. “What, outrageously dramatic women who look like they want to kill us?”
“Yes.”
“Only when they’re worth the trouble,” he murmured, his voice so low I almost didn’t hear him.
“I heard that.”
“That’s because I wanted you to.”
I took in a deep breath. “Ugh, maybe this night would be better if you left.”
“You want me to leave? But you seemed to care about my absence.”
I crossed my arms, trying to act as if I didn’t like to argue with him, but I did. “I didn’t say I cared. I just noticed. There’s a difference.”
Max’s lips curved upward. “Noticed? That’s quite the step up. Careful—if you sweet-talk me any more, I might think you like me.”
I rolled my eyes, desperately trying to calm the pounding of my heart. “You really do have an inflated sense of self-worth, don’t you?”
Max took a step closer to me, lifting my chin with the edge of his finger. “It’s only inflated if it’s not true. And from where I’m standing, it seems you like me—even just a little bit.”
Heat rose to my cheeks, and I quickly turned my head to hide the blush I knew was spreading across my face. Why did he always have this effect on me? It was annoying, how easily he could unravel me with just a few words, a single touch ...
The truth was, I didn’t like him; I loved him. I was scared to be the first one to say it. Those three words. Those stupid eight letters I’d kept deep in my heart for years.
I’d loved him the moment he commented on my shoes. Those achy blackValentinoshe chose for me. That was years ago, before there was anything resembling a romantic connection between us. But he’d carried me home and said he didn’t want to hear me complain. I knew now it was because he’d wanted to hold me.
“Okay,” I admitted with a careful smile. “Maybe I like you alittlebit.”
Max smiled—a slow, genuine smile that made me blush even more. “Finally,” he admitted as he pulled me in for a kiss.
The night moved on, and soon, it was time for everyone to move from the house to the gallery, which was just a fifteen-minute drive away.
As Max and I got out of the car, following many people inside, I gathered myself, smoothed down my dress once more, and took another deep, calming breath.
Max’s grip on my hand tightened as he led me through the crowd of people, most of which I recognized as my relatives. They were standing across the room, mingling with his. I never thought I’d see them get along like this, considering their history of disagreements and feuds, but the new art hanging from the walls seemed to keep their insults to a minimum.
Max led me near the bar and ordered himself a glass of whiskey, neat, before ordering me a martini (of course) with an extra olive. I hoped I could handle a second.
The gallery was stunning, just like last year. The high ceilings gave the chatter an echo as everyone started to walk around admiring the pieces.
As I walked through too, I saw men with earpieces in sharp suits scanning the crowd. I remembered how one of them had thought I wanted to steal the art last time. I fought that battle still, especially with the pastel colors Brooke had used this year. I wanted every single one of these paintings, especially the light green one.
“Is this the one you like?” Max’s voice cut through my thoughts. He stood beside me, hands in his pockets, a smirk playing on his lips.
