“Look at you,” he murmured. “So sexy. I love that I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”
Grace couldn’t be sure if the hint of covetousness in his voice was real or of her own imagination. His dark gaze settled on hers before he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss at the corner of her mouth. It was the closest he’d ever been to kissing her properly and Grace’s breath caught.
“You okay?” he asked, pulling back and helping her turn around while she fixed her skirt.
She smiled and nodded, watching as he bent down and picked her panties up from the floor. He held them up, looking at them with a hint of dark playfulness.
“What?”
“I’m a little torn,” he confessed. “I want nothing more than to put these in my pocket and take them with me, so I can touch them while I’m away from you.” Grace gaped. “But the idea of you being pantyless while you’re working with Deputy AssCrack sitting at the bar makes me want to rip his eyeballs out of their sockets.”
He handed them over with a small smile edged with embarrassment. Whether it was because of what he’d just admitted wasn’t clear, but Grace couldn’t have cared less. His words made her feel nothing but blissful and altogether shameless. Take her panties with him? Christ, the man knew exactly what to say to make her insanely hot.
It was such a strange paradox. Rick had, during their marriage, been a controlling, possessive asshole who continually told Grace that she belonged to him, that she was his to treat as he wanted. It had been awful, degrading, and had caused Grace to feel worthless. But when Max allowed his possessiveness to slip out, as he had each time they’d been intimate, it created a smolder within Grace, a deep heat that settled in her bones and made her want to take him to bed and help him see that he could love again if he just let her in.
She felt anything but worthless when Max looked at her.
She pulled on her underwear and fixed her clothes as best as she could. Max snickered behind his hand.
“Stop it,” she chastised with a smirk, knowing that she would still look thoroughly humped no matter what she did. Not that she cared. If the bar patrons hadn’t heard them, they’d been gone long enough for them all to figure it out. She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the cold outside of Max’s embrace. “What time do you leave in the morning?”
“Six.” Max pushed his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “I’m gonna head back to the boardinghouse, get some food, and call it a night.”
Grace nodded. “Okay.” She watched him carefully as he opened his mouth and then closed it again.
“You’ll be okay getting home on your own tonight?”
He usually took her home when she worked late at the bar. She smiled and nodded. “Can I . . . while you’re gone—can I text you?”
The side of Max’s mouth lifted. “Sure. Call if you want.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed. “I . . .” He paused, uncharacteristically fidgety. He wiped a palm across his forehead and an uncertain laugh burst from him. “Shit, okay, I’m outta here.” He half-turned away from her. “Are you sure it was all right that I, that we— You’re fine?”
His rambling never ceased to endear him further to Grace. “It was very fine.”
Max licked his lips. “Damn straight, girl.” He grinned and turned fully. “Speak to you soon,” he called as he took the cellar steps two at a time, only to be greeted by rapturous applause, cheers, and catcalls when he pushed his way through the door and back into the bar.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Adore.
Adore who?
Adore is between us. Open up!
Grace. Seriously.
Knock, knock.
Really?
Come on. Knock, knock.
Who’s there!?
Harry.
Harry who?
Harry up, it’s cold out here!
That’s it, I’m blocking you.
You’d never.
You’re probably right.
Grace grinned down at her phone before sliding it into the front pocket of her apron. She’d been abusing Max with her dad’s old knock-knock jokes for two days and he was still humoring her, God bless him. It was Saturday and, after her run, Grace had locked herself in her darkroom to work on her gallery collection, the deadline for which was looming quietly.
She hummed and bobbed her head slowly to Marvin Gaye’s Trouble Man, her favorite album for when she was developing photographs. She picked up one particular shot with her tweezers and let the developing solution run off it. It was a favorite of hers, taken of Max, unaware that she’d taken the picture. It was July Fourth while they were hanging by the lake. He was smiling, his eyes creasing in that adorable way of his, his laughter almost audible from the print. There was no hint of the pain or struggle that Max had endured. He looked truly peaceful, truly beautiful.
Grace fastened it to the line that hung from one corner of her darkroom to the other with a small clip and stood back, observing the shots she was to use in her collection as well as those she’d decided to hide and keep for herself. The latter were mostly of Max. That man had a face made for film.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Max.