“What’s wrong?” Max asked as we continued up the street.
“Did you have to say it like that?”
“I simply stated the truth. We are having coffee—stop complaining, Logan, and enjoy the moment for once.”
A moment later, we entered the busy Java House, and Max led me to a table in the back. He pulled off his beanie and shoved it in his jacket pocket. And raked his fingers through his hair, causing a tousled, sexy mess. So unfair. Mine usually flattened like a pancake, it was why I didn’t wear hats.
“What would you like?” he asked me.
“Dessert—chocolate.”
He gave me that look, one that made me want to laugh. Max didn’t see chocolate as an important food source. For me, it was.
He headed for the counter to place our order, and my mind circled back to the strange meeting between Max and Kate.Meade-Sinclair?I’d heard that name before, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint where.
“Hey, Max,” the barista said, then he laughed at something Max said. It seemed that he was known in this place, too. But then it was close to the university.
The girls in the queue scoped him out, their gaze settling on his backside. I couldn’t blame them. Not even I could stop myself from checking out his sexy… Very. Sexy. Ass.
Moments later, he made his way back and set the tray down. Three brown rolls with what looked like chicken filling nestled on a plate between two steaming mugs.
I raised an eyebrow. Teased, “I don’t drink coffee.”
“I know.” He pushed a cup toward me and set down a plate with a roll. “They don’t make the type you inhale, so I got the next best thing. Hot chocolate.”
He knew I didn’t like coffee? My heart clipped hard as Max sat opposite me, his spread thighs caging mine, making every inch of my hypersensitive body aware of him. Hastily, I pulled my legs beneath my chair.
“How do you know Kate?” I asked to get my mind off our touching body parts.
He took a bite of his roll and looked at me as he chewed. “I don’t.”
His cell rang. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the display, and dropped his phone beside his cup. Then he took another bite of his roll.
“But she knows you? Is that really your last name—Meade-Sinclair?”
His mouth tightened. He continued chewing but gave a curt nod.
So Max didn’t like to talk about his family. It didn’t take a genius to figure out all wasn’t well at home. Picking up my roll, I took a bite of the chicken and mayo, more curious now about him.
His cell went off again. He ignored it.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“No.”
“It could be important.”
“It’s not.” His expression hardened. “It’s my cousin.” He continued eating. After taking a drink of his coffee, he asked, “What type of work do you do for that woman, Kate?”
“I do window displays for her.” When his brow creased in confusion, I explained, “Window dressing. I design a theme for the type of clothes she wants displayed, get her approval, and show off her garments. It draws customers into the shop. I work on all of her stores in San Francisco. It keeps me pretty busy.”
“You paint, and you design window displays. Both have a creative bent, but what exactly is it youwantto do?”
“To have my own show, eventually.”
“Of what? The portraits? How does that work?” He popped the last piece of roll into his mouth, his green eyes never leaving mine.
“No, not the portraits.” I smiled, taking a sip of my hot chocolate. “My own paintings. While window dressing is fun, it doesn’t pay as much. My client’s work,those I do because I need the extra money,” I said pointedly.
