Page 19 of Somewhere Without You
My blood ran cold.
Iquicklypulled my hand back.“It’snicetoseeyou too. Welcome to our home.”
“You twoknoweach other?”Jackson’s gaze locked on mine.
I opened my mouth to explain, but Max cut me off.“We metbrieflyat Don’s party the other night. I’m afraid I found myself without goodcompany, and your wifewaskind enough to engage me.”
“Andwereyou?”Jackson’s voicewasflat, buttherewasan undeniable edge to it.
“WasI what?”I asked.
Jackson tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough. “Goodcompany?”
I glanced at Max, whoseemedunbothered, still smiling like everythingwasperfectlynormal.“Nothing more than friendly conversation,”he said with a wink.“At least, I thought so.”
I chewed on my lip, trying to gauge the situation. Jackson’s facewascomposed, but his eyes held the gathering darkness of a storm.
“You mentioned a bottle of Pappy’s earlier. . .”Max interjectedsmoothly.“I’dlove a glass.”
Jackson’s mood shifted as he slapped Max on the back.“Of course!”he boomed,suddenlyall smiles.“Upstairs in my office. Come on, lets toast to a fruitful partnership.”
I stepped aside, noticing the pointedlookMax threw over his shoulder before Jackson steered him out of sight.
An hour later, I found myself tucked into a wicker chair, the warmth of the sun resting on my face as it filtered through the windows of the sunroom. I’d hoped to slip into the background, to disappear while Jackson and Max worked out their deal. The laughter I’d heard earlier suggested the negotiations were going well.
I’d gotten lost in the pages of a book. That was, until a shadow fell across the pages. I looked up. Max stood in the doorway, his outline sharp against the light.
“What are you reading?” he asked, voice low and careful, as though not wanting to startle me.
“The Tenth Circle,” I replied, marking my place with a finger. “By Jodi Picoult.”
Max stepped inside, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. “Heavy stuff,” he said. “She’s the one who writes about the hard things, right? Loss, trauma, stuff people don’t like to talk about.”
I nodded slowly, surprised he knew that.
“Where’s Jackson?” I asked, acutely aware we were alone.
“Took a call,” he said, glancing toward the hallway. “Said it might take a while.” He paused, his gaze drifting back to me. “You okay?”
I blinked. “Of course. Why?”
He hesitated. “The bruise,” he said carefully, tipping his chin toward the faint shadow still lingering below my eye. “Saw it the other night, too. I didn’t want to assume, but. . . I’ve seen things like that before.”
I stiffened, the instinct to deflect rising fast. “It was an accident.”
Max didn’t push. He just studied me, his expression blank. “Doesn’t really matter how it happened,” he said. “But if something’s wrong, you don’t have to pretend it’s not.”
I looked away, throat tightening.
He knelt beside my chair—not close enough to crowd me, just enough to meet my eye level. “Look, I know I’m not your friend, but I’m not blind. You’ve been on edge since I walked in. And the way you keep looking over your shoulder. . . that’s not nothing.”
I exhaled shakily. “You don’t understand—”
“I might not,” he interrupted gently, “but I know what fear looks like. And I don’t want to stand by if something’s happening and say nothing.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy but not hostile.
“If you ever need someone—someone who doesn’t owe him anything, I’m around,” Max added. “No pressure. Just. . . think about it.”
