Page 133 of Dark Love

He tips his head to the side. “Thank you. But that doesn’t explain the tears in your eyes or the plate in your hand.”

“These are for you.” I hold them out to him. “They’re bourbon-soaked pecan clusters on a butter cookie.”

He doesn’t take the plate. “Why are you crying?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It certainly does matter. A woman doesn’t just randomly show up at my house crying.” He takes the plate and sets it on the coffee table. “Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

I sink down onto the couch. It’s comfortable as well as aesthetically pleasing. But everything about this place screams warm family home. “I wasn’t crying when I got here.”

Max’s hand moves up to his head, yanking on a curl. “Why did you start crying?”

Because I’m still hormonal, and it makes me cry over stupid stuff. “The picture of you and Hope’s mom is beautiful and bittersweet. She was so young and so happy to be pregnant.”

“Ivy wanted to have Hope more than anything in the world, even her own life.”

I reach out and place a hand on his arm.

“Do you know there are days I’m still mad at her for choosing Hope over herself? Which is the stupidest thing because Hope is my life. I’d die for her without a thought. It’s not logical.”

“Grief isn’t logical. Nor is pain. You’re entitled to feel hurt, angry, happy, sad. They don’t mean you love her or your daughter any less.” I give him a moment to process. “Now I’ve gotten you all emotional. Sorry about that. I meant to bring you a bribe and ask you a question.”

His head pops up. “What kind of question?”

“I got myself in a bit of a pickle, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“And you came to me for help?” His eyes widen.

Don’t tell him that he’s your only friend and you have no one else to ask but your mother. That would sound particularly pathetic. “You seem to give good advice. And my question really needs a man’s thoughts.”

“Ask away.” He leans back against the throw pillows.

“Have a cookie first.” I grab the plate off the coffee table and hold it out to him again.

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

He takes one off and smells it. “Is the whole thing soaked in bourbon?”

“No…” I look down at the plate. “But I did soak the nuts for a very long time.”

“Were you hoping to get me drunk?”

“Kind of.”

He laughs. “This must be really bad.”

“Kind of. Maybe you should take two.”

Max takes it from my hands and sets it down again. “Talk to me. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

“Please eat one first.”

“You don’t need to be afraid.” But he takes a bite of the cookie, and his eyes roll back in his head.

Excellent. Hopefully now he’ll be too distracted to actually remember what I’m saying.

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