A strange ache blooms beneath my ribs.
What would it take to convince a man like Max Lark to stay?
The question slips into my mind before I can stop it. Worse, a not so tiny part of me wants to be the answer.
I clear my throat and with it any fanciful notions of this being the first act of my Netflix insta-love romance story. “Well, Mr. Biscuits is the absolute best. Anyone with sense can’t help but fall in love with the furball.”
Candi snorts.
“I don’t know.” His mouth curves into another smile. “He sounds like he doesn’t take his job very seriously.”
“Now that, I can agree with.” Candi crosses her arms, and even I can’t help but glance at her perky cleavage.
“He did abandon his post,” Max concurs with a wink. “No sense of duty. He should be ashamed.”
“He wasn’t.” I grin. “He looked genuinely offended when I came home and interrupted his nap to accuse him of neglecting his security responsibilities.”
Max’s laugh makes my heart squeeze.
“Well then.” Candi huffs, the sound light and airy, though I can practically hear steam hissing out of her ears. “Shall we?”
Max pushes the key into the lock and swings the front door open.
“It’s not much to look at,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just moved in. Still getting…settled.”
My gaze slips past him into the cottage.
The walls are painted a safe shade of move in ready gray. The furniture looks like it came with the rental. It’s all functional and clean and completely devoid of personality. Unopened moving boxes occupy the center of the living room. Blank walls wait for photographs or art or a paint color that reflects something about the resident’s personality. Shelves sit empty. There isn’t a single plant, colorful throw pillow, or quirky knickknack in sight.
I catch the quick glance Max throws toward the boxes before he looks away again.
“I’m a little jealous,” I say, adjusting my grip on the cake stand.
Candi wrinkles her nose as she surveys the space.
“It’s certainly…” She pauses long enough to make the hesitation noticeable. “…a wonderful opportunity.” Her smile snaps back into place. “I would be more than happy to help you decorate. I do hate seeing newcomers live in such temporary conditions.”
Translation: Your house is a wasteland. Both you and it need saving. By my magickal vagina. (Okay, that last part was unnecessary.)
Max, bless his oblivious little fox heart, doesn’t seem to notice. He steps into the entryway and gestures vaguely to theopen concept living room. “You should be jealous. I have a couch that looks like it survived the seventies and a pretty impressive collection of unopened cardboard.”
A laugh bubbles out of me.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m jealous of the blank slate. The chance to start over. You moved somewhere completely new. Nobody here knows who you used to be. They don’t know if you used to eat your lunch in the janitor’s closet in high school or got a black eye when you tried to put your cat in a pet K’tan.”
Grinning, he adjusts the gift basket and leans one shoulder against the doorframe. “I’ve never done either of those things.”
“No,” Candi says with a syrupy smile. “Those experiences are exclusive to our Lila.”
I grin, refusing to take the bait.
“See?” I say, pretending neither of us remembers why I’d been eating ham sandwiches beside a mop bucket instead of in the cafeteria. “Fresh start. Nobody even knows if you’re lying. You get to decide who Max Lark is in Crescent Cove. You get to fill these walls with whatever makes you happy. Start traditions. Make friends.”
My gaze drifts back to the unopened boxes stacked in the middle of the living room.
“You get to decide what home looks like.”
The teasing smile leaves his face. His eyes hold mine, quiet and searching.
