Most women say they can handle that. Few actually can. They struggle with the way I compartmentalize. With the fact that I can love them deeply…and still let them go. That I don’t hold on the way a possessive man should. Because to me, love isn’t about convincing someone to stay. If they want you, you never have to ask.
I’ve never encountered anyone I wanted to ask to stay.
But there’s something about Max.
Something that tells me she’s too dangerous to play that game with.
I just need to keep my distance.
It’s one night, for crying out loud.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
I risk a look to my right.
She’s staring out the window, fingers fidgeting in her lap, bottom lip caught between her teeth like she’s holding back from saying something outrageous…which means it’s absolutely about to come out anyway. And damn it, I want to know what it is.
That mouth never stays quiet for long, and I’d really like to fill it with—
Fuuuuuuck.
Yeah. I’m in trouble.
I Thought Canadians Were Cuddly
Eli
Iam a nice guy. The one who helps his friends move. The one who’d give the shirt off my back if it meant someone else stayed warm. Giving back actually makes me feel good.
But if you asked my former partner, she’d say I’m too nice. That my bleeding heart is a liability if I ever want to build an empire. That one day, someone will inevitably take advantage of my kindness. Or worse, latch on to it like a spider monkey.
And right now, as I glance to my right and see annoyance personified sitting in my passenger seat, I’m starting to think she might’ve had a point.
This woman has been in my truck for exactly forty minutes, and I already feel like I’ve aged a decade.
If she’s not talking—rapid-fire, unfiltered—she’s on her phone, scrolling, tapping, flipping through screens like stillness makes her itch. She carries tension the way some people carry purses and her energy annoys the hell out of me.
It also does something else.
Because every time she pauses, rubs her temples, exhales without realizing she’s doing it, I clock how tired she actually is. How she never seems to shut off.
She’s a force of nature—loud, witty, and possessed by a relentless energy. She also doesn’t seem to know how to relax. Against my better judgment, I feel that familiar pull; the instinct to slow her down and take care of her kicks in before I can tell it to mind its damn business.
She’s an enigma.
And I don’t like how much I want to figure her out.
Max.
Fuckinghellcat. She talks like she’s paid by the syllable and flirts like she’s testing me for sport. Every look, every smirk, every damn smart-ass comeback feels like a trap I willingly walk into.
I need her out of my head and out of my space.
Drake and I have the biggest pitch of our careers in a little more than a week, and we still have kinks to iron out in the business plan before we’re ready. This…Max…is the last thing I should be dealing with right now. A distraction with legs. And a mouth. And laugh. And…
No. Focus.
