"Yes," the man says with a quick nod.
"Good." Max carries me up the staircase to the second floor and then the third.
As we continue through the house, I notice that thefixed décor is always black, white, and beautiful redwood. It's simple and masculine and Max.
I look out through the vast windows and over the top of rooves, spotting the moon glowing large just above the skyline. I count the doors as we pass by them in the hallway. Five. We bump into Bronson, shirtless, wearing only boxers with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth. His eyes light up when they meet mine and he fist pumps the air as if re-enacting the closing scene fromThe Breakfast Club.
I run hot. "Stop it, Bronson."
"I can't help it." He saunters off down the hallway towards one of the other doors.
I look at Max, who sighs, seemingly exasperated by his brother. "Why is he so excited?" I ask.
Max shakes his head. "I've never had a girl here before."
My jaw drops open. Then I curl my lips together to stop from smiling and tense my body to stop from jigging. "Never?"
"No." He shrugs. "Why would I bring a girl back here?"
"Ah, to hang out with her?"
"Yeah. Why would I want to do that? I fuck them at their house so I can leave."
"Max, that's horrible."
"Don't act surprised," he exhales as he walks me into his room. He lowers my feet to the ground and kicks the door shut. "I did the same to you once."
My mind drifts to the first time he came to my house. He'd disappeared out the window. The second time, he'd tried to ditch me after we'd dressed, but I'd shamelessly begged him to stay. Now though, I'm shuffling nervously in his hotel-style room on sacred ground no other girl has touched.
My eyes bounce around his personal space. "So this is wheretheMax Butcher sleeps." I giggle nervously.
Stop being nervous.
It's Max.
My Max.
His room is neat and mature, with sweeping windows that display Connolly from above. There's a rack of dumbbells in one corner and a boxing bag hanging from the ceiling beside it. A sixty-inch wall-mounted television is hooked up to a PlayStation and an Xbox. The walls are exposed brick, which adds an extra level of masculinity to the space. I like it.
After hobbling over to his large bed, I slowly pivot to face him. I rise onto my toes, scooting backwards along the mattress. As I flex my fingers over the soft black sheets, my breathing labours. Max is staring at me from across the room. My pulse kicks up a notch at the sight of his heated glare. It's serious and menacing. The phrase, 'I do like to chase and eat little animals' comes to mind.
I press my knees together. "So you've never had sex in this bed?"
He smirks. "I'm about to."
Peaceful
I waswrong about love not being peaceful and content.
It is.
I am.
Every morning, Max drops me back at my studio and kisses me goodbye with no future plans set. But then every night, usually quite late, he picks me up and drives me to his house. I never say, 'I'll see you tonight' just in case I jinx it or he feels I'm poking fun at the fact that we're acting inseparable. It's been like this for two weeks now. At my house, my bed is always made. At his house, his bed is messy and full of memories and laughter. I'm becoming accustomed to his study and work routine. He's an early riser even if we've been up all night. While I snuggle naked beneath his sheets, he hits the gym. Then we have breakfast and shower together before he drops me home at eight a.m. so I can get to ballet class for nine a.m.
On the third Sunday morning, I pull my favourite skinny jeans up, jumping a little to stretch the denim over my bum.I can feel Max's eyes lingering on my backside as I grab my white long-sleeve crop top off the floor.
After putting it on, I turn to acknowledge his eyeballing. "Yes, Max?"
