MAX
Irolled my neck, wincing at the sharp ache that kept it from moving any farther left. Sleep had been hard to find—even more so as I’d sat on the hardwood floor outside Rosalie’s door all night. Every creak in the house had sent anticipation through me, and every shadow had played tricks on my sleep-deprived mind.
Sleep didn’t matter. I’d wanted to be there in case she wanted me.
But she hadn’t come. The door had remained closed, acting as a physical barrier from the very thing that had driven me to becoming a madman.
And now I was waiting for her at the table.
A sliver of hope rose in my chest when I heard footsteps approaching the dining room. Bianca appeared, carrying a bowl of fruit that looked bright against the white tablecloth.
Bianca used to look after me growing up. She’d watched me half the time my mother went overseas with my sisters, leaving me with my father. He never cared, of course. He was too busy with his own affairs—both literal and figurative. That was where Bianca stepped in.
Bianca was in her fifties now, her ash-brown hair streaked with silver. Her smile, which had been a constant throughout my childhood, faltered when she glanced at me.
She felt sorry for me.
Rosalie is going to make an absolute fool out of me.
“It’s ten,” she said gently, placing the bowl on the table with a soft thud. Her gaze held a quiet understating that made my throat feel tight.
My attention fell to my watch, the numbers on its face blurring slightly. Ten. An hour had passed since we agreed to meet for breakfast, yet Rosalie was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s all right,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “I’ll wait for her.”
And I did.
For another twenty excruciating minutes, the silence stretched like a tightening cord around my chest. Then, out of the corner of my eye, that damn dog of hers flew down the stairs, expelling loud pants from his mouth.
Rosalie wasn’t far behind him. Red hair cascaded down her back. My traitorous eyes darted lower.
The shorts.
They wereshort. Impossibly short, barely skimming the tops of her thighs. They were tight too, clinging to her curves in a way that made my gaze travel down her legs and then back up, lingering for a second too long on the smooth skin exposed beneath the hem.
This ... this wastorture. Self-inflicted, mind you. I didn’t have to look at her, but I couldn’t get myself to stop.
Her full, baby-pink lips—which had a tendency to run—parted, hesitant to speak. I caught a glimpse of her gold earrings peeking out from beneath her hair, unmistakablyChanel.
“Max, please do not look at me like that,” she said as she approached the table.
“Like what?” I managed, my voice rougher than intended.
“Like you’re upset with me,” she finally said.
Upset?Not exactly. Impatient, maybe even eager.
“You’re late.” I looked down at my watch. “When a man invites you to breakfast, the nice thing to do is to show up on time ...”—I looked her up and down—“dressed.”
She slid into the seat beside me, her choice deliberate. She wouldn’t sit across from me, creating a comfortable distance, but instead right next to me, brushing against my arm as she settled in.
I paid attention to her choice, wondering if it meant anything.
“Noted,” she said, the word dripping with sarcasm.
She left the food untouched. Her gaze darted between the bowl of fruit and the golden stack of eggs and toast. I knew she was hungry, yet refusing to take a bite from the plate I’d set down seemed to be her silent rebellion. I didn’t care for it.
“How’d you sleep?” I ventured.
