“No, Bo. It’s always the same with Berg.” Willa’s voice was blunt. “He’ll be in touch when he’s ready. Besides, it’s going well with me and Scarrow. I can’t think about Berg right now.”
Bo nodded. Where Berg was concerned, she knew better than to argue with Willa. After Bo, Berg was Willa’s best friend, maybe even her soul mate, if such a thing existed outside of the movies. They’d starred together in the unexpected hit filmthat skyrocketed Willa’s career and turned Berg into everyone’s favourite tortured heart-throb, and they’d been friends ever since, bound by the strange and glittering world of Hollywood neither of them had really been prepared for.
Bo had never joined Willa on the red carpet. The bright lights, borrowed gowns and flashing cameras . . . that was Willa’s world, not Bo’s. Not that she needed to play Willa’s plus one, when Berg was at Willa’s side. They always looked so good together, the kind of beautiful that made sense, the kind that sold magazines and stirred whispers of an off-screen romance.
And maybe those whispers would be true, if it wasn’t for Berg’s addiction, Bo thought. If it wasn’t for the relapses and rehab and constant heartbreak, Bo was certain Willa and Berg would have already found their way to one another. As it was though, Willa and Berg were steadfast friends, and she’d been there for him through everything, the good and the bad. Lots of the bad.
“Okay,” Bo replied, releasing Willa’s hand. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. Besides, this isn’t about me and Berg. This is about you and Mr Two out of Ten.”
“Max,” Bo corrected her.
“Your new employer slash landlord slash co-inheritor,” Willa added. “Be careful around him, okay?”
“I’m always careful,” Bo said, and she nudged Willa playfully with a laugh. “You know me.”
“I do know you,” Willa replied, but she didn’t laugh back. “You’re soft-hearted, kind and you get attached easily. A man like your Mr Two out of Ten—”
“Max.”
“—could really take advantage of you.”
Bo sighed. “That won’t happen. I’m going to be sensible here. Three months’ work and then I’m out. I’ll take my half of themoney from the sale of the house and then I’ll never have to see him again. I promise to be careful, okay?”
“See that you are,” Willa said, and her voice was firm. “Find out what this guy does, make sure he’s trustworthy and then keep your distance. Professional boundaries, Bo.”
“Willa—”
Willa’s face stayed firm. “Professional boundaries, Bo. If nothing else, remember that.”
* * *
She came home to find the entire contents of Geoffrey’s study packed into boxes and sitting on the pavement. It was a clear evening without any rain, but still, Bo’s stomach lurched when she saw all of Geoffrey’s beloved books exposed to the open sky, his furniture stacked without real care for its history or value. Geoffrey had spent years collecting those books, searching out old and rare editions of classic novels as well as hardback copies of political biographies Bo knew had been signed by the author. Furious, she went to pound on the front door only to find it wide open, delivery men moving about inside, while Max stood in the hall, watching them disinterestedly with a coffee in hand.
For the crime he’d just committed in Bo’s eyes against Geoffrey’s books and precious things, he looked casual in the extreme. His hair was in his eyes, his glasses perched on his nose, while he was wearing, of all the things, socks and sandals under a pair of chino shorts in a shade of beige so colourless he nearly blended into the wall. His button-down shirt was open at the collar, and he looked at her warily when she immediately stalked up to him, jabbing her finger into his chest so that he leaned back against the wall.
“You,” she said furiously. “You really have no respect at all, do you?”
“More respect than you’re showing right now,” he bit back. “I’m not a block of Swiss cheese. Do you want to stop poking holes in me?”
Bo made a frustrated noise, but she dropped her hand all the same. “Those are Geoffrey’s things,” she told him, stepping back and clenching her hands. “His things, and they’re all over the pavement outside.”
“So?”
“So?” Bo felt another wave of pure fury rise within her and she began to poke at Max’s chest once more. “So, they’re his things, and they’re special, and important, and you . . . you . . .”
“Ow, do you want to stop that?” With his free hand, Max grabbed Bo’s, closing his fingers tightly around her own. There was a strength to his grip which was surprising, even in her fury, and she froze, temporarily rendered quiet. She watched as he took a sip of his coffee, infernally calm and collected, his gaze steady on her face. “They’re not Geoffrey’s things, not anymore,” he told her. He took another sip of his coffee before putting the cup on a nearby shelf. “He doesn’t need them now, Bo.”
“That doesn’t matter. Not to me. They were his things, Max. They were his, and they’re special,” Bo replied, her sadness betraying her, and for a moment, Max’s eyes locked with her own. He was trying to read her, she realized. He was looking deep into her eyes, trying to work out what to do and say next. She felt open and vulnerable and exposed, and she shifted uncomfortably in front of him, though his hand still held her own with that damnably strong and — damn him — damnably attractive grip.
“You really did love him, didn’t you?” Max asked quietly, and there was a kind of wonder to his voice which made Bo pause.
“Well, yes, of course I did.”
“I’m glad. I’m glad he had someone to love him in his final years.”
The timbre of his voice had dropped, drenched as it was with honesty, and there was a moment of quiet between them. Max’s grip on her hand slackened slightly, so that he held her hand with an almost tender grasp, and his thumb rubbed over her own gently, the movement slight but loaded. Bo’s heart picked up tempo, and her mouth went dry.
