“Yes.”
“And rearrange the pebbles on the path? So they’re not all kicked around?”
“Yes, mygod.” Max rests my foot on his lap, right between his thighs. The warmth is cozy and inviting. “Stace and I have it covered.”
“I know, it’s just…” I shift my attention to a loose thread on the couch. “I like doing it myself.”
“You like being in charge.”
Except in bed with you,the voice inside my head says.Then you can do whatever you want.
Max rests a hand on my knee, and I have the feral urge to spread my thighs a few inches and see where this could go.
His thumb rubs once, then twice, but he pulls away like a spell has been broken. “What should we do for dinner?” He taps my calf so I lift up my legs, and the absence of his body makes the couch its own vast desert landscape.
I must be imagining that our time together edges on something deliciously dangerous. Clearly, Max is managing just fine with me in the house.
He stalks to the kitchen and starts opening and closing cabinets. “Pasta? We’ve got tofu in the fridge. Or should we order a pizza?”
“Indian.”
“Okay. You call the order in, and I can do pickup.”
“I’ll go.”
“You’re cute, thinking that’s even in the realm of possibility.” He walks back to me with a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I say as I sit up halfway. “I forgot.”
“Busy worrying about everyone and everything else, and not taking care of yourself. Stay here and relax.” Max stands beside me, looking down while I tilt my head back and dry-swallow the medication. “Drink. All of it.”
I’m acutely aware of how close I am to the fly of his pants and how a single zipper is all that separates us from another evening ofjust tonightpromises. My heart can’t handle anything more than what he and I are right now, in this moment—but that won’t stop my imagination from running wild with reminders of that night.
I empty the glass gulp by gulp, never losing eye contact with him. Max tracks my every move. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he wipes some of the water from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
“Good girl.” His words send a current of longing straight to my core, and too soon, too quickly, he pulls his hand away. As he heads toward the door, I’m left yearning for all the things I shouldn’t want.
When Max said we landed some television press, I expected something small. A camera person and a host, maybe. This is a full-on production, complete with lighting people—people, as in multiple—a makeup artist to dab our faces, someone holding the mic, numerous other tech people, and another person walking around looking highly professional with a clipboard.
“We need more light from the left side.” The cargo-pants-clad woman behind the camera points to her screen. “Can someone pop a reflector over there to fill the shadow?”
“This is a lot for the news,” I say to Max as a lighting lady zips past us.
“It’s a special segment, so they go all out. Sure you want me on there?”
I nod. The series highlights women business owners, but he’s part of this team, too. This museum wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for him.
I’m so glad Max is here.
Also, I might throw up if I have to do this alone. We’ve gotten publicity for The Mirage before, but that happened via email or phone call. Nothing on camera.
The host, Ysabelle, strides over from the other side of the barn in her sky-high heels. She looks effortlessly glam—far more suited to go get drinks and dance the night away than chat in a two-minute segment with us.
“Sixty seconds,” the camera operator calls, prompting Ysabelle to jump to her mark.
“Remember what Dawn told you,” Max says, rubbing my lower back. It causes my insides to growl. “Be natural. Keep it short and sweet. It comes off more confident.”
I steal a glance at him. He’s probably done this a billion times before. I’ve even seen some of those interviews over the years, thanks to my internet sleuthing, and he has a way of reeling a viewer in and answering questions that’s patient and kind. I must look like a child in an elementary school talent show in comparison.
