“Well,” Henry says, clapping his hands, “I’ll leave you to it.” He turns to Max. “I was wondering if you’re free this afternoon to discuss the artwork Gemma’s found that might be suitable for the hotel.”
Max gives a firm nod. “Sure.” He shakes his wrist, checking the time. “How’s two o’clock sound?”
“Perfect,” Henry replies, standing.
This time I fixhimwith adon’t leave melook, which he responds with ascrew thisexpression.
To be honest, I can’t blame him. If I could flee the scene, I would. The tension is so thick, even a blind man could grope it.
I watch as Henry makes his escape, my focus returning to Max.
“Well. If that’s all…” I say.
He steps forward, my heart beating in time with each one.
Wordless, he places the coffee and pastry bag in front of me and steps back.
I take in the green stamp and my eyes widen. “How do you know about Lance?”
“Who is Lance?” he asks, his face turning stormy.
“My barista.”
His eyes shift to the coffee and his expression relaxes. Jesus, this man is broody. “His prices are extortionate.”
“He’s having some financial trouble,” I say, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms across my chest. It’s defensive, but I feel better having a barrier between us. “How did you know where I get my coffee from? Are you following me?”
His face is unreadable now. “Lucky guess.”
“Should I be flattered or concerned?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.
“That depends,” he says, taking the seat Henry just vacated. “Are you still pissed at me?”
I take a sip. “I’m not pissed.”
I am pissed.
“Bullshit,” he says.
I wait a beat before responding. “Fine. I’m pissed.”
A smirk plays at the edge of his mouth. “I figured as much.”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “What did you expect? One minute we’re… you know…”
“Having sex,” he finishes for me. The way he says it makes me remember exactly how it felt when he whispered filthy things in my ear on Saturday night.
“Right. And the next you’re apologizing like it was some terrible mistake. Let’s not forget—this whole thing wasyouridea. If it doesn’t work for you anymore, then maybe we need to be honest about that and rethink the arrangement.”
There. I’ve said my piece, and strangely, I feel lighter for it. Because the truth is, we both walked into this with open eyes—or in my case, legs. We knew what it was. But this—this is exactly why I stopped dating. It never stays simple. It always finds a way to twist and before you know it, something good turns to shit.
I have other things I can do besides worry about Max Fucking Browne.
Like reiki.
“That’s not—”
“You literally said, and I quote, ‘I’m so sorry for putting you at risk like that. We shouldn’t have done this at all.’” I mimic his deeper voice, badly.
