Dealer’s choice.
Instead, Max sets his popsicle next to mine and gives my forehead a lingering kiss. When he pulls away, he runs that same blasted index finger down my nose and steals my breath with the softness around his eyes. “Some might call me a hero, others might say I’m a male Florence Nightingale, but the truth is, Nola, I don’t like when you say we can only be friends. That doesn’t work for me. Know why? Because I’m nothing more than a guy who’s falling for his wife.”
20
NOLA
That confession causes a palpable tectonic shift between us. I instantly go breathless as it becomes clear we’re no longer the platonic friends who dove headfirst into a wild attempt at salvaging our careers. Before this moment, I was unsure if he liked being next to me just as much. That ship sailed and now I’m way too aware of his presence this close to me. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. How his right eye is a darker shade of green than his left. The way he makes my heart pound out of my ribcage the minute he walks into a room, and it takes everything in me to stay cool.
Max brushes a loose strand of hair off my face. “And you know what? I’m willing to bet my baseball contract you feel the same way about me too.”
I swallow hard and can’t help the grin that follows. “What do we do now?”
“Well, we get you two feeling better and we go from there.” He stretches out his arm, beckoning me to slide closer. I oblige and he pulls me against him, my head settling into thecrook of his neck. I let all my senses wash over me. The calloused touch of his fingers on my arm. The smell of lemon popsicle sitting on his breath. The hint of hotel shampoo in his hair from earlier this morning. “I can’t make any promises right now, and I’m not expecting any from you, but while I was gone, I did a lot of thinking. Nola, I’m done pretending there isn’t more going on between us.”
I shift and look up, studying his profile. His eyes are trained on the ceiling, his vulnerability keeping him from looking at me. My mind goes back to the first night I met him at the bar. When we’d walked in, he’d caught my eye right away. Hunched over his plate of nachos, shoulders rounded and walls up, he was letting the world know he didn’t need them. Things changed when his old team hit the grand slam and soon he was peacocking around the room in unexpected triumph. Both behaviors were stereotypical machismo. Even during our exchange in the hall, he was guarded in his attempts to figure me out.
However, he could joke aboutHamiltonand something in his sly smile told me there was more to him than he let on. That’s why I kissed him. That and Belle’s dare, but I felt like I’d hit the jackpot, fulfilling the challenge with somebody like him. I can appreciate a guy who’s a little dark and twisted but also redeemable. I’d like to hope I’m seen the same way.
We’ve both seen hardship and have lost loved ones but we’re still standing. That says something right there.
“Are you going to validate my assumption at all?” he asks with a nervous single chuckle. “You get a guy to spill his secrets and then you leave him hanging.”
I wrap my arm across his chest and squeeze. “Turns out I’m in so much trouble when it comes to you.”
He rubs his face with his free hand and lets out a content sigh. “When I moved here, I thought the only good thing in my life was going to be Gin and Bear It. Man, I’m glad I was wrong.”
“Me too.”
Max adjusts to face me and rubs his thumb down my cheek. Where he touches, he leaves a trail of fire. Searching my face, he sighs. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
I scrunch my nose, disbelieving his words, and deflect. “Nice line—you use that on all the ladies?” It’s my natural reflex to not believe him. Belle was always the sought-after one of the two of us, and my late husband wasn’t big on verbalizing things like that. A woman needs to hear those kinds of sentiments from time to time and hearing it now, from Max, is like listening to a foreign language.
“No.” Max doesn’t even hesitate. “That’s not something I say flippantly.”
This surprises me. “Why not?”
“In the past, I’ve found that giving compliments often is attached with a certain expectation from the woman and that was something I was never interested in.”
“You’re so romantic, Maxford.” I huff out with a furrowed brow. The way he portrays himself in such a desired light—that he’s saving women from heartache—it reeks of the ego that initially attracted me to him but also pegged him in my eyes as a playboy. How gallant Maxford Hutchings is. “Why even say it to me, then—if it’s such a troubling thing to admit to a woman?”
He rubs my nose with his and inhales slowly. “Nola, every time I see you—whether you’re passive-aggressively attempting to drown me while dressed as a parrot or coveredin paint . . . dressed up, dressed down, covered in flu germs, whatever—you’re beautiful. I will stand on your roof and shout it to your neighbors if you need me to.”
With another kiss on the forehead, he closes the last gap between us. He doesn’t expect me to say anything. We’re both content. Emma’s footsteps traipse down the hall from my bathroom to her room. I’m not ready to let Max go or ask him to go back to his chair. I’m also not ready to figure out our new normal with an audience. I love Emma to the moon and back, but I’d also like her to magically go to Belle’s or Reese’s house right about now. Max makes no effort to leave his spot next to me—I think he’s waiting for me to call the shots, which I appreciate and loathe all at the same time.
Emma’s drawers open and close with gusto and soon she’s wandering back into the living room, wet hair wrapped in a towel. Without a word, she goes into the kitchen and opens the freezer. When she returns, she climbs over us with a handful of popsicles to her nest of fresh blankets on the couch. Unwrapping her first treat, she holds up her phone and says, “Smile.”
We both watch, stoic, as her thumbs tap against her phone in rapid succession, multiple photos taken.
“What are you doing, kid?” Max raises a brow. “Somebody offer to pay you for pictures?”
“No,” she giggles, taking a bite of her popsicle and talking around it. “Aunt Belle bet me a hundred bucks you two were never going to make any kind of move in front of me, and I really want some AirPods. I can’t wait for her to pay up.”
With a barked cough of surprise, I ask, “Feel better after your shower?” I wiggle my way out of the happiest place on earth, and Max lets me go but playfully pinches my side. I squirm. “Stop!” I hiss at him, biting back a laugh.
Emma ignores us and attempts to turn the music video back on, but Max gets up, grabbing the remote from her. “Can I show you two something before we keep watching?”
I move into a sitting position with my back against the couch and Emma mumbles, “This had better be good.”
