“Sometimes,” I admit quietly, “I thought maybe there was a crush.”
“Yeah. Acrush.”
“Hey, you ready?” Ava calls from downstairs.
“Be down in a sec,” Max replies, clipped, before he turns back to me. “There’s history between us. You can’t kiss me one second and then laugh about it the next. It’s shitty.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, regret prickling my cheeks. Max doesn’t deserve to be treated that way. “I’m sorry.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I just—” I don’t know how to explain that this was more than an impulse, but it didn’t help that he was so close, and he smelled so good, and I’ve been dying to taste him and couldn’t resist anymore. “I got carried away.”
Max considers this and runs a hand through his curls. “With what happened at my last job, it’s not the best idea to get involved with a business partner. Might look…not great.”
I don’t blame him for setting some boundaries. This is why I was right to leave romance out of our friendship before—even when the decision hurt. I stand up, straightening my clothes in utter humiliation. I wish I could rewind the last fifteen minutes. While fantasizing about him pushing me against the wall and outlining my every curve with his fingertips, I forgot what he’shere to do and how his entire reputation relies on this. Neither of us can afford to lose sight of the end goal.
“Let’s just keep things professional.” He walks over to me, not toe-to-toe, but closer than business partners. Even closer than friends. “It’s for the best.”
“Right.”
His eyes dart down to my mouth and back up. For a second, I swear he’s going to lean in and sayto hell with what we just agreed. But his hand juts out, waiting for me to grab it as if we’ve just met.
We shake hands, and his palm is hot.Professional. I can do that, no problem.
Chapter Fourteen
Max, Now
I scan the colorful bar littered with tiki paraphernalia. Wooden deity masks, fake palm fronds, license plates from Hawaii. I’d heard about Mai Tai Hideaway growing up but was never old enough to go inside, and I’m appreciating the years away from Harlow—the break lets me experience the town for the first time.
“Well, I think they’re awful,” the mousy young woman to my right says with disdain. She’s an art theory instructor named Susan, and she and a few other people from the art department are discussing the new whiteboards. “They’ve got this thick layer on top, so it’s impossible to write on them.”
Nodding along, I half listen to her claims. I would go home, but after yet another fight this morning with my parents—thistime for using the wrong setting on the dishwasher—I’m looking for any excuse not to sit around at their house.
Or think about Daisy. I wish I could forget yesterday. Kissing her,feelingher—my hands tense, longing for her hips. I wanted to taste more of that freckle below her lip, to lick the saltiness off her skin, to explore the peaks and valleys of her body. Then, like a complete moron, I took us from heavy petting to shaking hands like some suits at a work lunch.
But if I want the job at Tate that Eleanor mentioned, I shouldn’t complicate our situation with kissing, or sex.
That thought sends a fever through me.
Tropical music swells, and the bartender comes around to check on us. I order another fruity concoction bursting with sweetness.
“Watch out.” Frank, the middle-aged man who teaches ceramics, points to my almost empty glass. “Those’re strong.”
“They’re delicious is what they are.” I run my thumb over the cup’s textured skulls and flowers. In Dublin, I’d gotten so used to drinking pints of beer that this goes down like water. “But, noted,” I add, uncomfortable under his gaze. Frank is the only art teacher I had in high school who’s still around. I did an intro to ceramics class one semester and made about twenty awful mugs before deciding that pottery wasn’t my thing.
Eight years later, we’re at happy hour together, bonding over tiki drinks.
“I’ll order some new markers for the team, but in the meantime, try this one out.” The head of the department, Regina, rummages through her bag. She produces a dry-erase marker and gifts it to Susan, who looks like she just won the lottery.
I sip the last of my saccharine-sweet drink, a mishmash of coconut, pineapple, and rum that punches its way through my system and leaves me wanting more. If I close my eyes, I pictureother things I want more of, like Daisy straddling my lap and panting against my skin.
The bartender arrives with my next drink, pulling me back to the present.
“Do you know when we’ll hear about the fall semester?” Susan leans over the table.
Regina chuckles. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
