He laughs and I move to poke him in the ribs, but he catches my wrist and pulls me into a hug. I breathe him in; his evergreen scent cocoons me, making me feel safe and wanted and really, really happy.
Our linked hands rest on the seat between us the whole way back to our neighborhood, where Max parks in his driveway. “Stay there,” he says, opening his door and hopping out. He circles around to open my door for me.
“Just like a real date,” I joke, standing beside the truck, where it’ll hopefully shield us from the wide-open view of my house and his.
“I owe you dinner, remember?”
“Have you been holding on to your Bunco winnings all this time?”
“I have, actually.” He steps closer, circling his arms around my waist. He’s looking at me like I’m a galaxy of twinkling stars. “So, how ’bout it?”
I can’t believe he thinks I need time to consider. Of course I’m going to let him take me out, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep our outing on the down low, at least until my parents quit it with their nightly blowups. In good conscience, I can’t add another layer of strife to their dynamic. I’ll tell my dad about Max and me when the time’s right—like, when I move out, because I’m not sure he’s ever going to understand these feelings of mine.
“If we go to dinner,” I ask, “will you kiss me good night after?”
Max smiles. “I can probably manage that, although I kind of want to kiss you right now.”
“But there’s no mistletoe,” I say with mock solemnity.
He leans in, letting his nose brush mine, and whispers, “Like I give a shit.” His kiss is sweet and lingering, a pulled-taffy kiss, and when he moves away, he’s grinning, arrogance personified. “You working tomorrow?”
“After lunch.”
“Come over for breakfast?”
I think of Ivy, who can set ice water to boil with a single scathing look. My connection to Becky’s heartbreak has planted me firmly on her shit list, and there’s no way she’s going to welcome me to the Holden family breakfast table. I’m about to raise my concerns with Max, but then I look into his ocean eyes and warmth spreads through me. I’m sinking … smiling … reaching for his hand.
“Okay,” I say as he tugs me into him.
He dips his head and presses his mouth to mine, and a solitary thought makes a cinnamon swirl through my head: I will never, ever get enough of this.
26
THE NEXT MORNING, I PEER NERVOUSLY AT the Holdens’ house from our front window. Their driveway looks like a parking lot. Marcy’s and Ivy’s cars are there, alongside Max’s truck, and Brett and Zoe’s minivan. I groan; it’s going to be a full house.
Dad’s out—shocking—so I let Meredith know where I’m headed. She smiles sort of knowingly and waves me off. Pulling my hood up over my head, I dash across the street, dodging raindrops. Max meets me at the front door in a chartreuse T-shirt and faded jeans. He’s hatless, which doesn’t happen enough, in my opinion. Before I have a chance to comment, he tugs my hood back and pulls me into a hug.
“Morning,” he whispers.
I duck away, worried Ivy will walk into the foyer. It’s bad enough that she’ll most certainly report my presence at breakfast to Becky. I’m not about to give her the added ammunition of witnessed physical contact.
Max gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t stress, okay?”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Seriously. We’ll keep it low-key.” He grins, a sun-cresting-the-horizon sort of grin, and I want to lock it up and keep it forever.
His family is gathered in the kitchen. Marcy’s at the stove while Brett and Zoe sit at the table with Bill. His mouth is turned up in a slight smile as he listens to the conversations floating around him. He’s a fan of the big weekend breakfast. He used to swear he needed a full gut for game day, but we all know the truth: Bill’s happiest when he’s with his brood, and nothing brings them together like a home-cooked meal. I give him a wave, inhaling the scents of bacon and maple syrup. My stomach rumbles, but my appetite diminishes when I make eye contact with Ivy, who’s leaning against the counter.
“Look who’s here,” she says, snarky.
Max flips her the bird, steering me to the kitchen table. He sits beside me and Ivy claims the spot directly across from us, like she’s our chaperone or something. She takes her phone from her pocket and, eyeing me over its top, taps out what appears to be a lengthy message. To Becky, I’m sure.
When she finishes, she says, “Nobody mentioned you were coming over, Jillian.”
“Uh, I did,” Max says.
“Not to me.”
“Didn’t know I needed your approval.”
“Would’ve been nice,” she says, tossing her hair.
He lowers his voice. “You know, you’re not Becky’s informant. It’s not her business what I do, so how ’bout a little loyalty?”
Ivy’s opening her mouth to respond when from the stove, Marcy calls, “We’re always happy to have you, Jill.”
“In fact, you should come more often,” Brett says, defusing the tension. “It’s nice to have another outsider at the table.”
Zoe prods his shoulder. “You’re not an outsider.”
“But I’m not a Holden, and Jill’s not, either.” He winks at me. “Solidarity.”
“You’re all welcome for breakfast anytime,” Marcy says, dusting her hands off on her apron. “I think we’re ready.”
Oliver bounds into the room, a sippy cup of what I hope is diluted juice grasped tight in his hand, and sandwiches himself between his parents. Zoe cuts a pancake and a banana into tiny bites for him. Marcy tops off mugs with coffee from a carafe, and Brett uses a remote to turn the small kitchen TV to ESPN. He and Max debate defensive strategies while Bill follows along, contributing a bouncy nod here and there. Ivy picks up her phone to respond to a newly received text, simultaneously rolling her eyes at the way Zoe hovers over Oliver like a helicopter. We devour plates of buttermilk pancakes and crispy bacon, and all in all, things couldn’t be more normal.
My attention remains divided between my breakfast, which is delectable, and the attentive way Ivy feeds her father. Bill’s kind of a mess when it comes to eating now, but his fancy-pants daughter seems unfazed. She uses a napkin to dab gently at his chin; selfless acts on her part are so few and far between, I’m mesmerized.
That is, until Oliver tosses a piece of banana onto the floor, grinning expectantly at his audience. Max laughs, breaking the food-induced hush. Zoe frowns at her child, then shoots her brother a reprimanding look.
Max, still laughing, shrugs and says, “What?”
“Grow up,” she scolds, though she looks more amused than upset.
“Never.” He tosses a piece of bacon and nails her right in the nose.
The meal continues, and aside from Max sliding his hand along my leg—low-key, my ass—this morning’s breakfast turns out not so different from the hundreds of other meals I’ve shared with the Holdens. By the time I get up to help Marcy clear the table, I can’t remember what I was so worried about.