I knew what she’d say, of course. She’d parrot back exactly what I’d told her the last time we’d talked. That it was bad business to sleep with the boss, and a one-way ticket to homelessness. But she hadn’t met Max. She had no way of knowing what a difficult choice it was, how impossible it was to look into his dark eyes and not give him everything he wanted.
Opening my eyes, I reached for my loofah and scrubbed until my skin was pink and tingling.
I hadn’t called Lara because I didn’t want to hear her, just like I didn’t want to hear the part of my brain that told me not to imagine what it would feel like to be lying on a bed, naked and exposed to him, and to have his hot, muscular body braced over me. To feel his thick shaft rubbing against my entrance, to feel him move inside me with all the command and force I knew he would.
My nostrils flared and I tilted my head back, allowing the spray of water to coat my hair and rinse away the stubborn bits of Play-Doh still stuck in it.
The real problem here was Dylan. Dylan came first. Even Max had agreed to that.
But there was no way of knowing how things would turn out, and in turn, affect her. And if Max changed his mind about wanting things to be casual . . .
Then Dylan could have a mother again. I would be her mother.
Warmth rushed through me at the thought, but I beat it away. I was getting ahead of myself. All I had to do was get out of the shower, get dressed, and make a choice about tonight.
I knew what I wanted to do, and I knew what was smart. But at this point, it looked like Max and I would find out at the same time, because I still had no fucking clue which I would choose.
I turned the tap until the water stopped, then dried myself off and slipped into the soft cotton dress I’d brought into the bathroom with me.
It was unusual for me to dress in anything other than pajamas after a shower, but after all Max had done tonight, I wanted to look nice for him.
Not because I was going to say yes, but because this sort of felt like a date. Not that it was a date either, it was more like . . .
I sighed. I was confusing even myself now. God only knew how it would sound when I tried to explain how I was feeling to Max.
In my bedroom, I sat in front of my vanity and whipped my semi-wet hair into a bun on top of my head. Normally, that would do it, but then . . .
He’d cleaned and cooked for me. He’d been so sweet.
I glanced at the tiny pink makeup bag, then opened it and pulled out a few essentials. A dab of concealer, a coat of mascara, and lip balm, and I was ready.
Was this why he’d done everything around the house? Because he wanted me to feel beholden to him? Like that might convince me to sleep with him?
I shook the thought away.
That was something Greg might have done—if, in fact, he’d had any interest in sleeping with me. He used to manipulate me all the time to get what he wanted, but that didn’t feel like the kind of move Max would pull. He was just trying to make me feel special, and I wanted to make him feel special in return.
That was all.
I took a deep breath and stood at the top of the steps, willing myself to move. Downstairs, I could already hear the gentle chords of a familiar song, though I couldn’t name it off the top of my head. Steeling myself, I walked down to find Max sitting in the living room, a fresh bouquet of roses and daisies on the coffee table in front of him.
“Wow, those flowers are beautiful,” I said.
“They’re yours. Something to say thank you for everything you’ve done for Dylan and me.”
I smiled. “If you’re going to get me weekly gifts for doing my job, then—”
“It wasn’t your job to redecorate her room like that. I just wanted to show you how much I appreciate it.”
I drew my bottom lip between my teeth, sucking hard. “It was no problem at all.”
“Then it won’t be any problem accepting the flowers either.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do you want more coffee or . . .”
“There’s a bottle of wine uncorked and ready for you in the kitchen, if you want it.”
“Right.” I nodded. “Thanks. Do you want—”
“I’ve already got some. Hair of the dog, and all. I just didn’t want to ply you with alcohol unless you wanted it.”
Wanted it? I was pretty sure that was the only way I was getting through this night. I rushed into the kitchen and poured myself a healthy glass, focusing again on the music. The voice was crooning and sweet.
When my glass was ready, I walked back into the living room. “I thought you were strictly a Bob Dylan guy. You like Elvis Costello too?”
“I like all good music.”
His gaze met mine, and I had half an urge to hightail it back up the steps. He was looking at me like he was a lion and I was a gazelle. Or, more particularly, like he was a starving man and I was a juicy slice of cherry pie.
I swallowed and then settled in beside him on the couch.
“You didn’t send me any messages today. I was convinced you and Dylan had fled to Peru,” he said.
“We talked about it, but Dylan wasn’t interested. She had some spit bubbles to blow and a ladybug to try and eat. Maybe tomorrow.” I laughed.
He chuckled and took a sip of his wine. “So, what else did you guys do?”