Page 42 of Smooth Sailing
He winced, handing her one of the two mugs of steaming coffee he held. “Shit. Did I snore?”
“No.” She took a cup, wrapping her hands around the warmth and inhaling the scent of rich, dark roasted beans mingled with hints of hazelnut. “But sneaking up like that about gave me a heart attack.”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about that. I’ll work on my stealth mode.” He pointed at her laptop and asked, “Up early for work?”
“No. I have everything in order. I was looking for a hotel.” She stared at the screen, her distress returning. “Turns out fall and wine festivals are a big tourist draw.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “No luck?”
“None.” She sighed heavily, slamming her laptop shut and standing, moving to the balcony but turning to face him.
He took a long sip of his coffee, his gaze steady on her. “So . . . I guess that means we’re sharing a bed for the next two weeks.”
She searched his face. His expression was neutral, but blue hazel eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin tingle. “I . . .” she faltered.
The logical part of her brain screamed to find an alternative, to suggest one of them sleep on the too-small couch. But the memory of his body pressed against hers that morning, the lingering scent of his skin silenced her protests.
Max set his mug on the balcony railing and took a step closer. “Unless you have a better idea?” His voice was low, almost challenging.
She swallowed hard, acutely aware of his proximity. “No. I don’t have a better idea.”
A slow smile spread across his face, making her heart skip a beat. “Well then,” he murmured, “I suppose we’ll have to make the best of it.”
She shivered, unsure if it was from the chilly morning or the situation. He shrugged off the throw, wrapping it around her shoulders, closing it tight at her neck, running his knuckles along her jaw before retreating. The touch was featherlight but was like a match struck against her skin, igniting a fire that threatened to consume her. Her eyes fluttered closed, and every nerve tingled. In her desire, a new plan formed.
Her lashes lifted to find him still there, the space between them electric. He was so close that the heat radiating from his body warmed her, and the narrow space seemed to pulse with possibility.
“Max.” She let his name hang in the air, biting her lip as she wrestled with what to say next—if she should say what she wanted, then cast restraint to the flames. “I want to sleep with you. And I don’t mean next to you.” Her cheeks flushed, her heart pounding. “But we’ve got this job, and it’s important. I don’t want to screw it up because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Or can’t stop thinking about putting them on each other.”
His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as they fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch. He leaned forward slightly as if drawn to her, one hand gripping the balcony, knuckles white.
“So, here’s what I’m thinking.” She shifted to face him more fully. “We enjoy each other physically. But we don’t talk about what this could mean or turn into—until after this job’s done.”
His gaze lingered on her. He leaned back, picked up his mug, and swirled his coffee before meeting her gaze. “You’re saying . . . sleep together but keep it casual until we finish the Sterlings’ house?”
She nodded, searching his face for his reaction, but couldn’t get a read on him, so she continued. “Exactly. Right now, I need space from the constant ‘what ifs’ in my head and the . . . well, you.” She gave a small laugh. “But since I can’t escape you physically, maybe if we keep it simple until we’re done here, I can focus on work during the day.” Taking a deliberate step toward him, she murmured, “And you at night.”
He set his coffee back on the railing, ran a hand through his hair, and rubbed the back of his neck. After a moment, he turned to her, his eyes searching hers. “I hear what you’re saying. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested.” He paused, tapping his fingers against the railing. “But I think we need to be clear about what happens after this project ends.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
He leaned against the balcony, crossing his arms. “I mean,” he said, his voice measured, “that once we wrap up here, we need to decide. Either we explore this,” he gestured between them, “for real, or we go our separate ways. I’m not interested in an indefinite casual arrangement.”
“Okay. We’ll talk when we get home. So, you agree to this agreement?”
He leaned closer, his scent of sleep, cedar, and something uniquely him wrapped around her. “God, yes. Because honestly, if I have to sleep next to you for two weeks and not touch you, I might lose my mind.”
She blinked. His words and their decision slowly unwinding the knot in her chest. She stood on the edge of something steep, unsure whether to step forward or back. That was a lie—she was ready to jump and deal with where she landed later.
“Are you telling me what was pressing into my butt this morning when I woke wasn’t run-of-the-mill morning wood?”
He groaned, rubbing his short, trimmed beard roughly. “So, me pressed up to your ass wasn’t a dream?”
“Nope.” She bit her lip, resisting the urge to laugh as warmth bubbled inside her. “That was one-hundred percent real.”
Max shook his head and stepped closer. His hand moved under the blanket and hovered near her waist, his fingers brushing the skin between the fabric of her shirt and pants. Her pulse quickened, and her breath hitched as their gazes met. The desire reflected in his gaze matched hers. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he lowered his head toward hers, their lips mere inches apart.
Right before their mouths met, her phone shrilled, loud and insistent. She jerked back, glancing at her cell on the small table. “My alarm,” she muttered, her heart pounding, and her thoughts scrambled. Cursing, she hit the snooze button.
