Max gaped. “I can’t. It’s Sunday.”
“Like I give a shit. Besides, I already called him first thing. He’s expecting you and he’s already on his way. Come on.” Tate stood, clutching his cane in one hand and his coffee in the other. “I’ll drive.”
By the time Tate dropped Max back at the boardinghouse, it was early Sunday evening. The session with Elliot had been as hard as Max expected, although being prescribed stronger meds to help him sleep was a bonus. He didn’t doubt, however, that with his hangover still teasing the edges of his brain and his stomach filled with Mickey D’s, he’d sleep like a fucking baby. Before he dropped fully dressed back into bed, however, Max knew he had to apologize to Grace. He’d spoken to her like a shit and, despite not knowing her all that well, he knew she didn’t deserve his temper. No one did.
So, with an uneasy fidget in his shoulders and nerves in his gut, he knocked on the door of her room.
“Just a minute!” Grace called from inside.
Max rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand and waited.
Why the hell was he putting himself through this again?
Oh, yeah.
Because he was an asshole.
Because Elliot had explained how important it was to apologize for his mistakes, so he could move through life without any regrets.
Because the NA Step Working Guide taught addicts how they had to own up to their behaviors.
Because Grace was a nice girl.
The door opened with a flourish to wide green eyes that were immediately suspicious.
“Hey,” Max said when she remained silent.
She exhaled hard, her shoulders dropping, her face hardening.
That right there was why he had to say sorry.
“Hey.”
Max shifted his weight from foot to foot under her glare, his eyes traveling from the loose ponytail in her hair, to her makeup-free face, and down her body. She was wearing running gear, a pastel pink vest, and tight black running pants that clung to her in ways that should be illegal. She was barefoot, the polish on her dainty toes matching her top.
“I, um, I’m sorry to bother you,” he stammered. “I hope you weren’t busy, but I wanted to give you these.” He held out a takeout coffee cup and a white paper bag.
She eyed them distrustfully, crossing her bare arms over her chest. “And what are these?”
Max shrugged and lifted the cup. “A peace-offering latte”—he lifted the bag—“and an apology muffin.”
Grace frowned, still not taking either. “What are you apologizing for?”
He sighed, his arms falling under the weight of his guilt. “I’m apologizing for being a bad-tempered asshole. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that; I put you in a really awkward position and I shouldn’t have.” He lifted the gifts again, smiling timidly.
She seemed to consider his apology for a freakin’ age before she reached out and took them with a small “thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, pushing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.
“I’ll have them when I get back.”
He gestured to her attire with a lift of his chin. “You’re going for a run?”
“Yeah,” she answered, the usual brightness slowly filtering back into her voice. “I have to fight off the chocolate calories somehow.”
“Sure,” he replied. “I go running, too. There’s a great route down by the stream.”
Her expression became animated, her smile wide and beatific. “Maybe you could show me. I like having company when I run and I’m still learning the area.”
The sound that came from Max’s gullet was not a good one. “I’ll have to pass,” he murmured, toeing the floor. “I’m not feeling too great.”
Grace’s smile fell. “Oh, yeah. Well, anyone who can drink that much whiskey is bound to have the mother of all hangovers the day after.”
Max cleared his throat of the embarrassment that teased it. “Yeah.”
“And your girlfriend, was she feeling crappy this morning, too?”
Max’s head snapped up so quick he almost toppled over. Shit. The blonde. Of course, she saw him with her. He’d told the boys he wasn’t interested in hooking up with anyone, but they hadn’t listened, which was fine because after his seventh and eighth drink an anonymous fuck sounded pretty awesome to him, too.
“I don’t— No, I don’t . . . she’s not, we were just hanging out. Nothing—it wasn’t like that.”
He had no idea why he was rambling or why he felt the need to explain himself. The truth was, the girl had tried to get in his pants, and he’d been quite happy for her to, until she tried to kiss him on the mouth and call him baby. That put the brakes back on his libido right quick. That shit was far too intimate, too close to memories he was working to erase. Besides, it wasn’t as if he could get a hard-on anyway, what with the gallons of liquor sloshing through his system.
He’d walked her home, bought a bottle of Jack and a pizza, and headed back to the boardinghouse, where he’d apparently called Tate a million and one times.