Page 35 of Catching Trouble
I turned to looked Maxime in the eye. My throat caught at the sadness I saw there. “When is she coming again?”
He chewed his lip. “I don’t know.”
I got to my feet and walked around the pool, moving closer to his side. “Really?”
He closed his lashes for the longest time. “Like I said the other day, I only took on the club last summer. She stayed for a couple of weeks, then. Before that, I’d go to Paris, but only a few days at a time.”
At the wobble in his voice, my chest tugged. “Why hasn’t she been here since?”
He blinked. “You might have noticed we’re not close. Her mother keeps her busy in Paris—school, travelling. There’s no time for the coast.”
He looked down at the kitten. “To name him wouldn’t be fair to him or Sophie.”
At his expression—devastation, pure and unfiltered—my heart twisted. I was desperate to ask more, to find out why Sophie only visited once before, to learn about her mother. But the tightness in his jaw stopped me cold.
Even if they weren’t close, he must miss her terribly. I got along with most people, but I still hadn’t found the key to Sophie. If I was struggling, I couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for him.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, moving to join him. When I drew level, I hugged the kitten close to my body before placing him down on a lounger. The scent of Maxime’s cologne made my head spin and the heat radiating off his body made me want to jump back into the pool.
Instead, I reached out to touch the net on the frame. “It’s so intricate. I’m sorry I ripped it.”
He searched my face before crouching. Returning to his work, he moved his fingers with slow precision, threading the cord through the net as if by muscle memory. With each pull, his forearm flexed, taut and inked.
My mouth ran dry. “Is that … some kind of special knot?” Damn, I hoped my voice sounded breezy and not breathless.
He glanced up, his gaze steady. “In France, it’s called a nœud d’écoute.”
I blinked. Why did that sound so delicious?
“A what?”
A hint of a smile played on his lips. “A listening knot. I think in your country it’s called a sheet-bend.”
I blinked. That hardly sounded glamorous. Give me the French language any day. I smiled. “Admit it. You made that up.”
A corner of his mouth lifted—barely—but the result was breathtaking. “Not true. This knot is used to tie two different lines together. It holds tight under pressure.”
Something about the way he said it sent a bolt of shivers down my spine. Was he remembering something? Or planning something. Or… I hit a hard pause on my runaway brain. Calm down, Chloe. He was talking about mending fishing nets, not shibari at a BDSM club!
“Sounds…practical,” I said, hoping to steer the conversation away from the whips and ropes whirling around my brain.
He looked up at me, something flickering behind his eyes—but damn if I could read it. A question? An idea? Maybe even desire? Just as quickly, he dipped his head, returning to his work.
“It’s…practical,” he said, voice low and thick. “If you get the tension just right.”
The words hung between us, taut as the twine in his hands.
The air crackled. Something sparked in my chest, hot andfizzy. The feeling was wrong, but so very right. I swayed slightly, like my body was teetering on the edge of a cliff.
“Show me,” I heard myself say.
Stillness pressed in around us. Only the hammer of my heart drowned out the crickets.
Maxime exhaled slowly, but he said nothing. Instead, he stood, reaching for the spool of twine hanging on the frame. He unwound a length before cutting it with a blade.
When we locked gazes, my belly flipped.
As if he’d hypnotised me, I held out my arm to him. “Use this.”
