Page 46 of Smooth Sailing
October 12th, 6:15 p.m.
Paloma tapped her stylus on the tablet screen, adjusting the Sterlings’ living room color scheme. She’d been staring at it for twenty minutes, not able to focus. The problem was her libido. To put it plainly, she was too horny to think. She glanced from her perch on the sleek bar stool, past her makeshift workstation, to the source of her problem.
Max.
He was on his knees, muscled forearms flexing as he tightened a valve on the newly installed irrigation line. A tool belt hung low on his hips, and sweat glistened on his brow. Her body hummed in anticipation. They were close to the end of the work day when they’d be alone, without any distractions.
A twinge of anxiety settled in her chest. Her craving for him was too intense, too soon. She’d been down this road before. That wasn’t true. They weren’t even dating, yet her feelings for him were too strong. Too intense. She looked at her left hand, where her engagement ring had briefly sat. Richard’s words the night she’d confronted him about the gambling sliced through her.
“This is what I mean, Paloma. You're just... too much. Too intense. Too focused. Always pushing. You and your big dreams. What did you expect me to do?”
The memory stung, but what hurt more was how those words had echoed through other relationships. Always the same message, just packaged differently. Too demanding. Too driven. Too emotional.
Max glanced up, their gazes snagging. Instead of looking away, he held it, and a slow smile spread across his face. That smile did things to her insides, made her want to forget every cautionary tale her heart had learned.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming email from Mrs. Sterling. Grateful for the distraction, she opened it. Her stomach dropped. “Shit.”
“Everything okay?” Max asked.
Not at all. “The Sterlings plan on stopping by tomorrow morning for a site visit.” She shot up, her heart skittering against her rib. She scanned the room. Tools lay strewn across paint-splattered drop cloths like battlefield debris, and the half-finished irrigation system crawled along the walls in a tangled mess. The arch she’d had contractors expand gaped unfinished, mocking her. “We’re not ready.”
“It does seem a bit early for a site visit,” He replied. “We’re only a few days in.”
“I guess they’re eager.” She snatched up loose tools, piling them together with jerky movements. The clatter of metal on metal punctuated each frantic grab. “We need to at least get this area presentable. Show some progress.”
“Paloma. Breathe.” She heard his amusement and didn’t appreciate it. “I am breathing,” she snapped, then her stomach twisted in regret. “Sorry. I just—this project needs to be perfect.”
He stood, brushing dirt from his jeans. “It will be. But right now, you’re spiraling.”
She couldn’t deny it; she was letting her fear of client disappointment take over. Letting that need to exceed expectations consume her. Something that usually exhausted others around her. “Your right. I’m sorry.”
He came close, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. “No need to apologize. I love your drive, your passion.”
Sure, he found it endearing now. How long until that changed?
Her phone rang again, but this time the song was her brother’s. Stepping away from Max, she hit answer and speaker, saying. “Hey, Flea.”
“Hey, Drunk Decision. Sorry I wasn’t able to stop by with lunch, like I’d hoped. I had an emergency at the store.”
“Everything okay?” she asked. The last emergency at his Traverse City store had ended with a high-profile arrest, turning him and Abigail into local crime-stopping celebrities.
“Fine. All taken care off. Anyway, want to meet up for dinner instead?”
She caught Max’s gaze. He didn’t speak, but his eyes said plenty. She was certain he was thinking of the same thing as her—their interrupted morning. Dinner wasn’t what either of them wanted.
“No, we’re beat,” she said, her voice a touch breathier than usual. “We’re going to grab something quick on the way to the condo.”
“Sooo, how’s that working out, you and London living a real-life forced proximity, one-bed romance?”
She barked a surprised laugh. Her gaze flickered to Max and then away. “How do you even know the names of romance tropes?”
“Abigail loves them and might have introduced me to a few. The spicy ones are fun to . . . read.”
“Ew. Stop. I don’t want to talk about my brother’s kinks.”
“Fine, we’ll talk about yours,” he teased. “You haven’t mentioned finding a hotel. And it took you two an awful long time to answer the door this morning.”
“Shut up, Felix. I’m hanging up.”
