She gave him a funny look. “You mentioned trains at the diner, too. Are you one of those guys who chases after trains to take pictures of them?”
“Sometimes. I like trains.”
“Okay. What else?”
“That’s it.”
“Smart, friendly and wants a family? Come on, Max. Brunette? Blonde? Redhead?”
“My previous relationships were with blonde women.”
Tori rolled her eyes. “There’s a shocker.”
“I don’t have a preference as far as hair and eye color. Or height or weight.” He paused, and gave a little shrug. “I’m just looking for a woman who’ll love me enough to marry me and risk having little odd duck kids. That’s pretty much my list.”
Chapter Four
The way Max said those words hit Tori, almost like a physical blow. Somebody had sure done a job on this guy in the past and, once again, she wished she could find that person and slap her—or maybe him—upside the head.
She’d heard the phrase used about him, of course. He was a little different from most of the other guys, and it was a shorthanded way of saying so. But the idea of Max believing a woman wouldn’t want kids like him made her realize that phrase had burrowed under his skin in a bad way.
“What woman wouldn’t want kids with your looks and sense of humor?”
He smiled, and it chased the sadness in his eyes away. “I just need to find her. So where should we start?”
“Well...” It was worth a shot. “It would help if I knew what your job is.”
“It would, huh?”
“What people choose to do for a living says a lot about them.” Maybe if she kept a straight face, he’d believe she had a logical reason for needing the information.
“It’s hard to explain.”
“What’s your job title?”
“It’s complicated.”
She crossed her arms and gave him a stern look, which probably lost some of its effect because she was nestled into the corner of the couch. “Not really. I’m a book cover designer-slash-waitress.”
“I guess it would be easier if I just show you.”
There was no holding back the victory grin as she, somewhat reluctantly, got off the couch. That corner seat was too comfortable for her own good. “I agree.”
She followed him down the hallway to the basement door. When he just looked at her expectantly, she rolled her eyes and then turned her back so she couldn’t see the number he punched into the security panel. “Way to show trust, Max.”
“There’s not much sense in having a security code if everybody knows it.”
“I’m not really everybody.” When she heard the door open, she turned back to him. “Should I call somebody and let them know you’re taking me into your basement?”
“If I say no, will you think it’s because you don’t need to or because, as a serial killer, I wouldn’t want you to do that?”
She laughed. “Good point.”
“Also, you’ll need to sign a waiver to be on camera. Standard porn-studio rules.”
Her mouth dropped open and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. “You heard about that?”
“People have a tendency to forget I’m around. For example, if I’m wandering the aisles of the store and Fran gets talking to somebody.”
She was going to wring Hailey’s neck. Slowly. “That was a joke. You know it was a joke, right? I was trying to illustrate how ridiculous the serial-killer thing is by throwing out another equally stupid story.”
“I’ve heard a lot of theories, but porn studio’s a new one.”
“I know the gossip’s probably a pain, but I promise I can keep a secret. I won’t tell anybody—even Hailey— what you do.”
“Even if it is a porn studio?”
The idea of Max Crawford having a sex room in his basement should have made her laugh, but she felt a flush of heat over her neck. He was a good-looking guy, even if he was totally wrong for her, and it wasn’t hard to imagine him naked.
“It would kill me,” she said, trying not to sound like a woman who was picturing him naked, “but even if you’re making porn, I won’t tell Hailey.”
He flipped a light switch and she followed him down the stairs. When she got to the bottom, she looked around, shaking her head. Trains. The man seriously had a thing for trains.
“I paint model trains, mostly HO scale brass,” he said, as if that would mean something to her.
He went to a shelving unit and pulled out a long, thin green box. After pulling off the lid and peeling back the packaging, he showed her an old steam train engine. It was all brass and, as she leaned closer, she could see it was so detailed, it looked real.
“They usually come to me like this,” he said. “This is a 2-8-0, which means the wheel configuration is...never mind. Anyway, it’s a Consolidation and I’m going to paint it in the B&M livery. In, uh...the colors the Boston and Maine Railroad used. Sorry. That probably makes no sense to you.”