“Who?” Max asked.
“Spiderman.” Peter sighed as if at a loss that Max couldn’t understand this simple logic.
I laughed and explained. “Whatever Peter likes, Spiderman does too.”
“Right.”
“Lemme lick yours.” Peter yanked at Max’s hand. “Lemme—lemme, please!”
“Here ya go.” He held out his mint-flavored cone. Peter took two licks. “Me, me,” Iris demanded, grabbing it from her brother.
“You seem comfortable with kids,” I said, watching Iris demolish his ice cream.
“There was quite a school of them in the village where I lived in Peru. Followed me everywhere. Hard to avoid the ankle-biters,” he teased.
I rolled my eyes, and as we continued up the road, my mind drifted to his comment,“I only hope your life’s better.”Was it really as bad as those few words made me think it was? Nothing showed on his face while he listened to Peter’s chatter. And, as if sensing my stare, amused green eyes met mine.
“So, Logan, ready for a more serious date?” His tone lowered. “We can have desert after, lots of licking and sucking…only it wouldn’t be ice cream.”
Shaking my head wryly, my face burning, I got rid of the ice cream Iris no longer wanted, along with my half-eaten one, and cleaned her messy face. Discarding the used tissues in a dumpster, I realized I enjoyed this playful side of Max. Yes, he had a wicked tongue, and he seemed determined to get under my skin, but he was fun. Devyn had been far too serious—and like being doused with cold water, my happy mood dissipated.
Thinking of Max in this way was a sure trip to disaster. He was young and still enjoying life.
I had commitments. Bills. And a painting career which seemed to be going nowhere. This was my reality. I had to get myself out of this rut and focus.
Chapter Four
Ila
I gratefully entered my quiet apartment after a hectic workday, and Ray dashed out. “Hey, sis, I’m off to Denise’s—oh, and the washing machine’s getting fixed—yay!” And she vanished like an apparition.
It was? Thank God. One less thing to worry about. How Ray had managed to get Mr. Wong here this fast, I had no idea. Didn’t care. I was just happy I didn’t have to lug our heavy bag to the laundromat again.
I’d hardly seen Max since the trip to the park two days ago. It was my doing. I’d been busy and spent most of my time in my studio. However, in the evenings, he’d disappeared and hadn’t returned until well past midnight. I knew because I always listened for Ray’s return when she worked late. My stomach knotted at the thought of where he could have gone—or whom he could have been with.
God. I rubbed a hand over my face, I really needed to step out of this barren life I led and start dating, have a damn one-night stand, anything to block out a certain too-young, inked blond taking up space in my thoughts. It was just as well I’d decided to put some distance between us.
Rolling my sore shoulders, I headed for the kitchen to check on Mr. Wong. As I dropped my bag on the counter, a muffled curse came from the laundry room. I hurried over. “Mr. Wong—” The words dried up in my throat.
The man hunkered near the machine looked nothing like the rotund Mr. Wong, nor did our plumber work with his shirt off. Thank God. The guy tinkering with my machine was the very person I was trying to avoid.
In his crouched position, Max’s jeans slid low, revealing his black boxers with a designer label on the waistband. He didn’t turn at my mistaken use of Mr. Wong’s name. Muscles slipped and slid beneath the tattoos on his back and biceps as he worked on the washing machine. The urge to stroke those flexing muscles, to touch him, took hold. Clearly, I was losing my mind, and my darn body seemed to take pleasure in reminding me that I was still alive.
“What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” I forced myself to concentrate on why I’d darted over in the first place.
“It will hold for a while,” Max said, ignoring my question. “The machine should work now. But you need to get a plumber to check it out soon.”
“Only if we abduct Mr. Wong,” I muttered. “You know about fixing washing machines?”
Unfolding all six-feet-three-or-four inches of his sculpted, tattooed body, he picked up his tote and dropped it on the machine. “I read the manual. It seemed simple enough.”
He still didn’t look at me as he hauled out a bundle of clothes and dumped the load into the drum before I could tell him about sorting the colors. Since he didn’t seem to have any lights, I remained silent.
Moments later, the sound of water rushing into the metal drum filled the quiet. He pulled out a gray, very creased t-shirt from the bag and turned. He frowned at his bruised knuckles.
“Let me see that.” I grasped his hand and studied the bloody scrapes. “What did you do, punch the thing into obedience?”
When he didn’t answer, I looked up and got caught in the intensity of his stare, as if he were memorizing every inch of my face. I dropped his hand. He moved closer, and I found myself with the machine at my back and his warm body in front of me. He didn’t touch me, yet I was held there, helpless. Hypnotized.
