“What do you paint about?” she asked, her tone interested as opposed to nosy. She kept her eyes on the path ahead.
“Stuff,” he replied petulantly. He noticed the exasperated look she threw him. “I vent,” he added. “About things that I went through. When I was . . . in rehab, I attended art therapy sessions. It helped me express what I couldn’t in group or with my shrink.”
Max surprised himself with the outpouring of information and the fact that he didn’t feel vulnerable sharing with Grace. He didn’t know her all that well, and to share so freely was new for him. She didn’t respond but she didn’t look anything other than attentive, which she always did when he spoke.
“It’s great that you have that,” she said eventually.
They reached the boardinghouse, climbed the stairs to the first level, and stood at their respective doors, once again awkward and fidgety.
“I enjoyed today,” Grace said, tapping her finger on her door handle. “Thanks.”
“Me, too,” Max replied, and, weirdly, it was the truth.
“We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
“Sure.”
“Maybe tomorrow?”
“Why not? Tomorrow.”
In fact, tomorrow’s run turned into a run the day after, and the day after that, and the day after that. Every afternoon of the following two weeks, once Max was finished at the site, or in the morning before Grace went to work at the bar, they ran the same route, through the forest and down by the stream. They ran, Grace photographed some more, and they talked, but never about anything too deep or serious. It was banter and it was fun.
Over the days that followed, Grace learned that Max had lived in New York for most of his life. His best friend was getting married at the end of the summer, and Max was going to be the best man. He loved cars and owned a body shop, played acoustic guitar, loved rock music, and, despite his modesty when it came to his artistic talents, he knew about colors and techniques, better than he let on. She knew he was an orphan, but didn’t push on the details and steered clear of anything to do with his rehab, although she knew his therapist’s name, and he talked about his sponsor, Tate, frequently.
Since he’d knocked on her door, shocking the hell out of her with his apology and a chocolate muffin, Grace had started to see more of Max O’Hare’s sunnier side. With each day that passed, he became less dark, more relaxed, and that smile she liked so much started to come easier. She liked making him laugh, too—the sound forever wrapped around her like a warm hug—and tried to do it as often as she could. He looked so much younger when he laughed, less weighed down by life.
Unlike other men Grace had come across since her ex-husband, Grace didn’t feel anxious around Max. On the contrary, in Max’s presence she felt calm and safe. She couldn’t deny the night he’d been so abrasive at the bar had been horrible, but the more time she spent with him, the more she came to understand how out of character his mood had been. She knew too well how the mood swings of addicts were unpredictable and erratic and, if she and Max were going to be friends, she had to be prepared for that.
Maybe she was a lunatic for wanting to know him better, just as Kai had exclaimed on the phone when she’d mentioned Max. Maybe she was a glutton for punishment getting involved with a man who was a recovering drug addict, but she couldn’t find it in herself to worry or care. The truth was she liked him. He was handsome, funny, and honest.
One particular afternoon, as she took more photographs of her house, which was mere weeks from completion, she caught herself watching him and the way he moved. Unlike when he was running, when his jaw was hard, his dark eyes focused, and his muscled arms and legs propelled him forward with speed and certainty, on the site his broad shoulders were looser, his hips similar. He was graceful, light, and, admittedly, sexy as hell.
He’d dip his chin if she caught his eye, a familiar acknowledgment, which always made Grace smile. He wasn’t entirely indifferent to her when they weren’t running, he was still unfailingly polite, but he did keep his distance. And Grace liked it. She liked knowing she had access to another side of him when it was just the two of them. She liked that they had something that was theirs and no one else’s. It wasn’t a secret, but she accepted that, should anyone hear about their meetings every day, they would assume something more was going on. Something dirty and impure, and that would spoil everything.
“That’s a pretty smile,” Deputy Yates commented from his stool, as she poured him a beer at Whiskey’s that evening. “Who’s it for?”
Grace shrugged and placed the glass in front of him. “Life’s just good right now,” she replied. “My house looks amazing; I’ve made some great new friends.”
The deputy nodded and sipped his drink, leaving a small line of white foam in the hair over his top lip. “You seem to like that O’Hare fella a whole lot. I saw you together at the coffee shop last week.”