Page 15 of Ten Hammers

“I mean, not that there’s an us, but you know what I mean.”

“There’s an us.” His voice is coarse with sleep and his words bristle over my skin like an unexpected caress.

“I mean,” I clear my throat. “Not like…”

“First,” he says, scooting over in his bed and pulling his covers back, “get in here and get warm. You’re shivering. And second,” he puts his arm around me as I slip into the warmth of his bed, pulling me against him, “there’s an us.”

“I just meant, it’s not like we’re a couple or anything,” I clarify, because we’re not.

My friends-with-benefitsship with Max began quite innocently. I’m affectionate with all the Hammers, obviously. But then, last Christmas, we were alone in the kitchen of the ski lodge we all rented in Aspen. I’d been trying to put something in the sink, but Max had stood in the way.

“Could you move?”

He’d smirked. “What’s it worth to you?”

The wine had been flowing and he was tipsy. I had thought that he was just trying to be difficult. When tipsy, Max tends to get obstinate.

“Max, move.”

He’d lifted his chin and tapped his cheek with his fingertip. “Say please and give me a kiss.”

“Please.” I’d risen on my tiptoes to press my lips against his dimple.

But he’d turned his head.

And everything and nothing changed between us.

Every day since, I’ve cautioned myself that he did not intentionally brush his mouth across mine. That he did not actually mean for me to kiss him in a romantic way.

But ever since, at least a couple times a month when we can steal a few moments alone, we hook up.

There are two rules of our PG-rated arrangement.

Rule One, mine: Our clothes stay on.

Rule Two, his (though technically, his rule came first, and was the reason for Rule One in the first place): No one ever finds out, especially not his brothers.

Part of me wonders if he wants to keep us a secret because he’s ashamed that he’s at least somewhat attracted to me. Especially since he’s never even nudged the boundaries I set, mostly because I think after all the flawless bodies he’s had in bed, he would be mildly repulsed to see me naked.

Well, at least with you gettin’ fat I don’t have to worry about anyone knocking you up.

My dad’s voice, which I’ve been hearing more and more since we rolled back into Smithville.

“Hey,” Max says. “It will be okay. Maybe Mason bought your Harry Styles story. Although, please, dear God, tell me Harry Styles is not actually your type.”

I snort. I’d break poor Harry in two.

“Oh, yes. If I ever meet Harry, you and I are done.” I bite my lip. “We kind of have to be done, anyway, right?”

He props himself up on one elbow and looks down at me. Then he reaches over me to flick on the bedside lamp.

“You serious? I mean, about us being done. Obviously not about Harry ‘cause I’d kick that scrawny punk’s ass if he as much as glanced at you.”

I sigh. “Max. Come on. Mason, PI is not going to drop this. You know how he is. He’ll keep digging until he gets to the truth. Everyone is going to find out.”

I love Mason but I also know he is utterly incapable of letting anything go.

“We,” he says, pausing to kiss my forehead, the tip of my nose, my lips, “are far from over. I’ll tell Mason everything in the morning and I’ll swear him to secrecy. It’ll all be fine.”

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