“I brought you a Coke,” Max says, nodding toward the huge lidded cup in the holder.
“Wow.” I pick it up and take a sip. “This must be, like, sixty ounces of soda.”
“Yeah, I figured you might need a boost. How are you?”
“Tired, I guess. You?”
“I’m good.” He traces his finger around the blue Ford logo on the steering wheel, and I can tell he’s gearing up to say something heavy. “Listen, Jill, I feel like shit about last night. There are rules about this stuff. It shouldn’t have happened the way it did.”
It shouldn’t have happened.…
I climbed into the truck intent on telling him some version of the same thing, but hearing my words fall from his mouth bruises my heart.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice as insubstantial as meringue. I sit up straighter, attempting to gather the shattered bits of my dignity. Itshouldn’thave happened, as evident by Kyle’s confusion and my dad’s displeasure. I say, “Therearerules. You have a girlfriend.”
“I know.” He scrubs a hand over his face, mumbling, “I’m such an asshole.”
“It didn’t even matter, Max, okay? We’ll forget it happened.”
He shakes his head, clenching his hands into fists. “Like that’s possible.”
Silence stretches out between us, and not the comfortable kind. The truck’s cab is like the inside of a teakettle. The water’s boiling. The pressure’s building. There’s nowhere for it to go.
I whisper, “I’m sorry,” to break the silence, and because I truly am. Despite the obstacles standing between Max and me, I hate to see him hurting. He cheated on his girlfriend—he’s obviously shredded—and here I am, a freaking consolation prize, spewing pointless apologies the morning after. I feel like Cinderella after the ball: unremarkable and defeated.
“You shouldn’t be sorry,” he says, hard and cold.
“Well, I am.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Maybe, but—”
“Jillian! Just don’t, okay?”
I stare at him and he stares back, so abruptly hostile I’m at a loss for words.Hewas the one who showed up at my house on Halloween.Hewas the one who suggested drinking last night, who initiated the flirting, who pointed out the mistletoe. He nudged me into a zillion bad decisions, and then he showed up here to rub my nose in them.
If anyone has reason to be bitter, it’s me. At least he has Becky to fall back on.
“You don’t have to be a jerk,” I say, harsh.
He looks at me with wide eyes, like he’s been lost, wandering for ages and just stumbled upon the compass he didn’t know he was missing. “I’m not trying to be a jerk,” he says, suddenly repentant. “It’s just…”
My chest squeezes as his unfinished thought fades into the music, but I push the feeling down, away. Self-preservation says Max doesn’t deserve my compassion—not today.
I reach for the door handle. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
He cuts the ignition. “I’ll walk you.”
I want to be away from him, far, far away, but I’m too rattled to protest.
It’s a quiet twenty-yard trip across the parking lot. When we reach the shop door, I toe the pavement with my shoe, frustratingly reluctant to tell him good-bye. He stands very still, watching me, ratcheting my pulse up, up, up. Then, before I have a chance to deflect him, he steps forward and folds me into his arms.
It’s startling, yet immediately comforting, likehome.
I bury my face in the softness of his sweatshirt and his arms tighten around me, the heat of his body sheltering me from the frosty air. He sighs deeply, contentedly, and an idea arrives so suddenly and with such precision, I can’t force it away.…
My body fits perfectly against Max Holden’s.
