I make my way toward him amid a smattering of applause, face flaming, feet clumsy. He gives a phony grin while Meredith hands me an envelope in which two ten-dollar bills are tucked—hardly a prize worth listening to my father use my name and the word booby in the same sentence.
I pass the better part of Max’s family on my way back through the crowd; Marcy squeezes my hand in congratulations, Zoe and Brett give me twin thumbs-up, and Ivy points her nose in the air. Typical. I let her snub roll off my shoulders, listening as the prize for third place is announced: Mrs. Tate, who pumps her fists in the air like she’s just completed a marathon. She hugs Meredith, then my dad, nearly knocking him into the wall as she throws her arms around his neck.
Max muffles a snicker and slides behind me. The crowd hides our closeness, his solid chest pressed flush against my back. He’s gravity, binding my feet to the floor. Lucky, because I’m perilously close to floating into the stars.
“Are we almost done here?” he whispers.
My heart beats loud as thunder. “Mm-hmm.” And then, because I’ve lost my inhibitions and apparently my mind, I say, “Want to hang out after?”
A split second of torturous silence passes before he answers, “Definitely.”
10
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF HIS CONSENT SLAMS INTO ME.
Dad’s still talking, announcing the prize for second place, a faceless neighbor I take no notice of. I’m too consumed by what’s to come when this godforsaken ceremony is over.
Max is presented with first prize, and Meredith hands him an envelope stuffed with money. He grins and bows to a round of applause, confident and gracious all at once. My dad looks on, irked.
The party dies down after the cash is distributed. Guests trickle up the stairs and out the front door. Officer Tate hauls Mrs. Tate to the foyer, because she’s apparently too sauced to walk on her own, and Brett has his arm draped around Zoe as if she’s a human crutch—she looks annoyed as she drags him across the street to where their minivan’s parked in the Holdens’ driveway. Meredith makes a pot of coffee and distributes mugs to Dad, Marcy, and Ivy, who are milling around with almost-empty platters of food, Bunco supplies, and trash bags full of greasy paper plates and sticky cups.
I’m exhausted and dreading my early shift at True Brew, but I linger with Max in the kitchen, sitting beside him at the breakfast bar, watching him drain his beer and devour leftovers like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Meredith buzzes around like a housefly, cleaning single-mindedly: scraping trays, sweeping crumbs from the stove, clanking empty bottles into the recycling bin, anything that doesn’t require heavy lifting.
Max gives her a dubious look, then shovels an entire brownie into his mouth. He chews discerningly, then asks me, “Did you make these?”
“Obviously.” As if Meredith is capable of such delicacies. “Kyle helped.”
“They’re incredible.” He grabs another before she pulls the plate out from under him. I roll my eyes at her back.
“The secret is to add a little coffee to the batter,” I tell him. “And for the chocolate chunks, I buy the best bars I can find. Belgian, usually. And cocoa powder—the darker the better. It makes the brownies much richer.” I’m rambling, I realize, about baked goods. I snap my mouth shut.
Max licks a bit of chocolate from his finger. Drunk Jillian has the almost overwhelming urge to point out that if he’s trying to be provocative, he’s succeeding.
“Oh, go on,” he teases. “I could listen to you talk desserts all night.”
Meredith glances at us, amused, and says, “Basement cleanup is going to take a while. I’d better go supervise.” She totters down the stairs and starts giving instructions to Dad, Marcy, and Ivy, who was surely coerced into helping by her mother.
Max looks my way. “Well?”
We can’t hang out in the open. I wouldn’t mind disappearing behind the closed door of my bedroom, but Dad’s voice echoes in my head: I don’t want him in your room—not tonight, not ever. While I don’t care much about pleasing my father tonight, I don’t want him to slaughter Max.
An idea strikes, and I smile at my brilliance. “Come on.”
In an attempt to lead him down the hall, I stagger and shoulder the wall. He catches my hand and pulls me to a stop. Laughing, he says, “Who put that there?”
“Right? Stupid wall.”
He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “You really committed to getting crazy.”
“Thanks mostly to your mixology.”
“Yeah, well, it was cool having you as my partner in crime.” He glances at the ceiling and his face changes. He takes a slight step to the right, eyes alight. He gives a nod, indicating I should shift too. I do, confused but intrigued. He looks up again, meaningfully. I follow his gaze.
A sprig of green with waxy white berries, attached to the archway with a festive red bow.
“You know what this means?” Max asks slyly.
I give a laugh that comes out sounding more like a bark. “Mistletoe is a parasitic shrub,” I say, because that’s a fact he needs to know right now. “It’s also poisonous—eating it can make you really sick.”
“I’m not offering you a taste, Jillian.” And then, incredibly, “You don’t want to kiss me?”
I prop a hand on my hip. “How drunk are you, Holden?”
He gives my question a moment’s consideration before saying, “Not nearly as drunk as I was last time we kissed.” He rubs his hands together, like he’s prepping to discuss plays in a midfield huddle. “Let’s do this before someone comes upstairs.”
God, he’s serious. “What about Becky?”
He snorts. “Since when do you care about Becky?”
I don’t care about her, but when I think about what Max and I did on Halloween, I feel guilty, and ashamed, and I wonder why he’s pegged me a willing collaborator in his two-timing.
Partner in crime, he said. Is that who I want to be?
Just as I’m remembering my morals, deciding to put a stop to whatever the hell this is, I make the mistake of looking up. Max is sort of gorgeous with his hair all spiky, his lips turned up in a hopeful grin. All kinds of alluring. All kinds of kissable.
I’ve had a lot of rum.
I shut out the siren in my head, the one that’s wailing, Bad idea! Bad idea!, and take a tiny step forward. Mistletoe—it’s tradition. Besides, tonight’s about letting loose, right?
Oh, Max smells good, very good, a clean, woodsy scent that reminds me of pine needles and hiking and moonlight. His eyes are smoky like always, but there’s something different about them, too, something inviting. He blinks languidly and everything—my knees, my pulse, what’s left of my resolve—goes weak.
“Jesus, Jilly, you look terrified. We don’t have to.”
“No, I’m fine.” And I think, maybe, I am.
He rests his hands on my shoulders. “You’re sure?”
I nod.
I close my eyes.
I wait an immeasurable moment.
Max’s lips touch mine.