Page 82 of Smooth Sailing
“Time doesn’t heal all wounds,” Drake sighed theatrically. “Tell me what we need to bring. I’ll gather them while you get dressed.”
Max did both, and they were in his brother’s Mercedes twenty minutes later. Drake pulled onto the main road, his usual lead foot noticeably gentler on the gas. Great. Even his brother was treating him like he might break.
“Just say whatever you’re thinking,” Max grumbled, watching suburban houses blur past. “The silence is worse than your usual smartass comments.”
Drake clicked his tongue. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“When has that ever stopped you?”
“Fair point.” His brother turned down their old street, muscle memory making them lean into the curve by the Montgomery’s house. “I think you’re making a big deal out of Paloma taking the job.”
Max snorted. “How? You act like I begged her to stay. Or shouted at her, threatening to break up if she took the job.” Like that was even an option. They had to be a couple to break up. And she wasn’t interested in anything beyond sex.
Drake pulled into their mom’s driveway, killing the engine. “I know you, brother. I saw it in your face when you opened the door. You’re giving up.” Before Max could respond, he grabbed the bag of ingredients and headed to the front door.
Was he? Maybe it was time.
He followed his brother up the familiar brick path and nudged him aside to unlock the front door. “Mom,” Drake called. “Your favorite son is here!”
The moment Max stepped inside, it hit him: the aroma of freshly baked quiche, warm butter-kissed pastry, savory roasted leeks, smoky bacon, and the rich perfume of eggs and gruyère melting together in perfect harmony. His stomach growled, betraying how ready it was for something other than the sad bowl of cereal he’d been planning to eat while wallowing in his house.
“Oh, didn’t know you knew about my other son, James,” she joked.
“Haha, Mom,” Drake said, entering the kitchen with Max behind him.
Their mom stood in her favorite apron, the blue one with tiny cats all over it. A smudge of flour was on her cheek. “I thought it was funny,” she said before pulling what looked like quiche from the oven. I was about to call you two.”
She set the pan down and wrapped them both in a hug that somehow managed to encompass them despite their height difference. The counter was cluttered with cooling racks and mixing bowls, and the morning sun streamed through the window over the sink, catching the steam that rose from everything fresh-baked. Drake was sneaking pieces of French toast when their mom turned back to the oven. Max had to admit that his brother had been right to drag him here. The familiarity of their mom’s kitchen and the constant stream of questions and commentary would leave no room for brooding. It was exactly what he needed, even if he’d never say it out loud.
“How’d the Sterling house go?” His mom asked.
Had that project ended a few days ago? It felt so much longer. “It was good.”
“It was good,” his mom repeated, one brow raising. “That’s it. That’s all I get? A morose, ‘it was good.’ Were they happy? I mean, of course, they were; my incredibly talented son was working for them. Do you think that it’ll lead to more of these types of projects with Paloma?”
He emptied the contents of his bag on the counter and grabbed a large bowl from the cupboard. “Doubtful.”
The soundof the metal whisk hitting the pan silenced, and his mom turned to him. “Why? Did something happen? Were they not satisfied?
“No, all of that is great. They were incredibly happy. Better than we had hoped.” He told her about the positive feedback and the upcoming magazine interview. However, the glow and excitement that had surrounded him had faded.
His mom took the same stance he had earlier with Drake. She leaned against the counter, crossing her legs at the ankles. “What’s the problem?”
“Paloma’s taking on a large project in Louisiana, so she won’t be able to take on new ones here for a while,” he said flatly.
“Aw, well, maybe that’s for the best. You’re pretty busy without another business venture.” She picked back up the whisk. “And visiting Paloma will be fun. Louisiana has so much to do.”
“We’ll see.” He busied himself mixing the muffin ingredients.
His mom rested a hand on his arm, stilling him. “Why? Did she break up with you?”
“No.” He stepped away from her comfort. “We weren’t even in an actual, official relationship, so I doubt she’ll think long-distance is worth the effort.”
“Why not? You’re a catch.”
His mother’s earnest expression and vote of confidence only made his chest tighter. He shot her a “yeah, right” look—the one that pulled at a corner of his mouth and had his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. It was the same expression he’d been giving her since he was a teenager who thought he knew everything.
The whisk returned to the counter with a light smack. “What was that look for?”
