“I have my moments.” I hear humor in his voice as he goes on, “Remember when you had that horrible summer job walking the Rolons’ dog?”
They hired me a few years back to take their grouchy terrier around the block once every weekday while school was out. It was a thankless job full of ankle nips and poop scooping, worsened by the fact that it was one of the hottest summers on record. “Ugh. Yes, why?”
“Remember how I used to walk with you?”
“I do.” Max’s company was the only thing that kept me from strangling that dog.
“Do you know why I walked with you?”
Curious, I fold my hands across his chest, drop my chin, and work to make out his features through the darkness. “Why?”
“Because I thought I was in love with you.”
I laugh out loud, only quieting when I remember I’m in Max Holden’s bed in the middle of the night, down the hall from his sister and a floor away from his parents.
“Seriously. I was convinced you were, like, my soul mate.” He pauses, smiling at the memory. “Even back then, watching you drag that shitty little dog down the block, I thought you were the most beautiful girl in the neighborhood.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I say, only able to recall braces, knobby knees, and a flat chest.
He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my palm. “I still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the neighborhood.”
I wriggle up so we’re face-to-face and run my fingers through his hair; it’s deceptively soft. “Do you think it’s weird that we know each other so well, even though this”—I gesture between the two of us—“is new?”
“No way. I like that I know everything about you.” He gives me a lazy grin. “Makes you easier to put up with.”
“You don’t know everything,” I say, indignant.
“Wanna bet?” He plows ahead without waiting for an answer. “I know you like soda best from a fountain, and I know your cookbook collection’s the first thing you’d save in a house fire. I know you drink your coffee with cream and a shit-ton of sugar, and I know your favorite book is The Giver. I know you like dark chocolate more than milk. I know you have a tiny freckle on the inside of your left wrist.” With the pad of his thumb, he grazes the spot he’s referring to. He sits up and trails his fingers down my spine, over my hip, and along my thigh. With his eyes locked on mine, he wraps his hand around the back of my knee and says, “I know this is the only place on your body where you’re really, truly ticklish.”
I giggle and squirm until he stops, then work my way back into the crook of his arm. He tilts his head and waits for me to brush my lips against his. “Saturday,” he says. “You figure out dinner, but I’ve got the rest.” The hopeful timbre of his voice, the impish gleam in his eye—they’re very cute.
“Deal.”
He kisses me again, softly, then sprinkles kisses all over my face—across my cheeks, along the line of my jaw, and once on the tip of my nose. He finds my mouth again, and his lips taste of seawater, the last evidence of my tears.
29
I’M ROCKING ALLYSON CLAIRE IN HER ROOM Saturday morning, trying to give Meredith a few minutes to herself because, of course, Dad’s nowhere to be found. Ally’s dozed off and I’m feeling very proud of myself, having lulled her to sleep for the very first time, so when the doorbell rings, I wait for Mer to get it. I listen as she and Max greet each other, then smile when he peeks around the corner. “Almost ready?”
I nod. “You can come in.”
He does, leaning up against my sister’s crib, sorely out of place among the chic white furniture and frilly pink linens. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid button-down in shades of blue, and he’s hatless again, which I love.
I lay Ally in her crib. She does that funny twitchy thing Meredith calls startling, and Max does a poor job of stifling his laughter. I drag him out of the nursery before he wakes her.
He stops me in the hallway. “You’re the greatest big sister ever.”
“Oh, really? What would your big sisters have to say about that?”
“Who cares? They were borderline abusive when I was a kid. Ivy still is, sometimes. You’re, like, gentle and caring and sweet.”
“I can be gentle and caring and sweet with you, too.”
“Yeah? Prove it.”
I lift up on my toes to kiss him. Pressing his hands against my back, he eases me closer. He lets go of a sigh when I tease his mouth open, and then we’re full-on making out in the hallway—until the dainty sound of Meredith clearing her throat interrupts us. Max shoves me away like I’ve burned him.
“Just checking on the baby,” she says, breezing past. She avoids my eyes, but she’s biting her lip, hiding a smile.
Max tugs me toward the front door, muttering, “So much for sweet and gentle.”
Out in the truck, he cranks the key in the ignition. “Islands in the Stream” blares from the speakers. I wince. He waves his hand toward the stereo. “Go ahead.”
I fiddle with the music while we drive north on I-5. When I can’t find anything I like that won’t send his head into a spin, I turn the radio off. “Quiet’s better than Hank or Johnny or Merle.”
“You shouldn’t talk about the legends that way. I’ll convert you to a country girl one of these days.” He combs his fingers through my hair. “Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.”
“Thanks, Holden. Back at ya.”
“What’d you do this morning?”
“Made fondant.”
“What the hell is fondant?”
“Heated powdered sugar and water, like Play-Doh for decorating cakes.”
“Teach me how to make it someday?”
I laugh. “Okay, but I’m not sure you’ll ever use the knowledge.”
“Oh, I definitely won’t, but you’ve educated yourself on all things football. The least I can do is get a handle on fondant. Despite my recent track record, I can be a pretty decent boyfriend. You’ll see.”
My heart skips a beat, but I keep my voice light as whipped cream. “Oh, you’re my boyfriend now?”
He pulls his attention from the road to blink at me. “Uh, aren’t I?”
“I guess? I wasn’t sure we were doing the boyfriend-girlfriend thing.”
“You don’t want to?”
“No, I—”
“Because I can look somewhere else,” he interrupts, reaching over to tweak my hair. “If you’re not willing to step up to the plate, there’s gotta be someone who is.”
I roll my eyes. “You can be really idiotic.”
“And you can be really dense. Are we on the same page?”
“Officially.”
He lifts the center console out of the way. “Then get over here.”
Blissfully, I scoot into the middle seat and rebuckle. I lean into him as I say, “In case you’re unaware, our fellow freeway travelers probably think we’re a couple of rednecks.”
“I could give two shits,” he says, taking my hand.
*