Page 84 of Unstitch

‘You know what I think? I think I should come over later on Friday. I think you and Max need some time alone together to figure stuff out when he’s not blindsiding you in the shower or ambushing you in your office. Hmm?’

His face falls. ‘But I want you there. I’m scared of seeing him—I was counting on you being there.’

‘I’ll be there,’ I say. ‘Later. I promise. But if you’re scared of seeing him then I can’t be some kind of buffer. You need to spend some time together when you’re not feeling vulnerable and defensive. Give him a chance. He’s so amazing.’

‘If you promise you’ll turn up at some point,’ he says, feathering my jaw with kisses. ‘I want it to be the three of us.’

‘I promise,’ I say again. I really want this talk to be done so he can kiss me, dammit. But I have one more thing I have to get out, because Dex is damaged and scared, and he’s on the defensive. He’s already given me ample proof that he’s not thinking about how his actions might go over with us. ‘But listen to me, okay?’

‘What is it?’ he murmurs against my neck.

‘Just give us both a chance,’ I say. ‘Don’t armour up too much. This all works both ways—you’re not the only one with skin in the game, you know?’

He lifts his head so he can look me in the eye. ‘Oh, God. I know. And I’m so fucking sorry, angel. I’m still kicking myself. I won’t hurt you again if you give me another chance, I promise.’

I cup his dear, beautiful face in my hands so I can make sure he’s paying attention. ‘I wasn’t just talking about me,’ I say, and I catch the flare of shock and, I think pleasure, in his astonishing eyes when my words hit home.

57

MAX

The yoghurt, salted last night and left to leak through a muslin for the past twenty-four hours, is now labneh, rich and delicious and adorned with lemon zest and crushed pistachios and torn mint leaves.

The aubergine, charred to within an inch of its life over the industrial-grade hob in this fancy kitchen until it was a pulpy, smoky mess, is now shot through with tahini and crushed garlic to form the most delectable moutabel.

The tabbouleh is prepped and heavy with fragrant herbs. I’d forgotten how conducive the dicing of endless vegetables is to a quiet mind.

The excellent Lebanese red is aerating in its decanter. The tiny roast potatoes are crisp and thyme-encrusted. The fish won’t need more than five minutes under the grill to render it tender and flaking.

Everything looks to be in order as I glance around the kitchen. Which is good, because I want this evening to be perfect. I’ve been at home since five, taste-testing and tweaking garnishes and faffing endlessly. So when the intercom finally sounds, it’s a rush of relief and a burst of adrenalin all at once.

‘Send him up,’ I tell the doorman, and then he’s knocking, and I’m walking—striding—to the door, and he’s here.

And he’s flawless, even with the violet shadows that sully the fine skin under his eyes and hint at the toll I may have taken on him. Even then, he’s faultless.

There’s no obvious way to greet someone like him when your last encounter was like ours was. I mean to approach him like I would a skittish, traumatised rescue puppy. No sudden movements. Don’t invade his personal space. Show him he’s safe with you.

Easier said than done, given my past form with him.

‘Good to see you, mate,’ is what I go with, accepting the bottle of champagne he’s brought and resisting the urge to touch him.

Mate.

So laughably inadequate.

I lead the way through to the main living area, trying not to look at him. Trying not to take my fill of those eyes and that hair and his fucking ramrod straight posture and the easy, athletic way he moves his body.

‘Bloody hell,’ he says, stopping and staring at my flat. ‘This is insane.’

‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘Perk of the new job.’

‘Did you just move in?’

‘Few weeks ago. It’s bland as fuck—I’m well aware.’

‘But the views are incredible.’ He stands and takes in the vista of Hyde Park on a hazy summer’s evening, and I stand behind him and take him in.

He’s all the view I need, and I’m nervous as hell.

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