Page 84 of Smooth Sailing
“I’ve been so caught up in my head, thinking about all the ways this could go wrong, that I almost . . .” He ran his hand down his jeans. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I have to bail on breakfast.”
“Are you planning on running over to Paloma’s right now?” Drake asked.
“Um yeah, how’d you—”
“Really, weren’t you bitching like five minutes ago about being impulsive?”
Max grinned. “Piss off. I’ve decided being impulsive isn’t always a bad thing. Like when I need to talk to someone important before they leave the damn state.” He kissed his mom’s cheek and headed for the door.
“They took an early flight,” Drake called after him.
Max halted, but only for a second, then headed for his car. He was about to take impulsiveness to a whole new level.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
November 26th, 4:00 p.m.
Paloma leaned against the iron railing of her balcony. The metal was warm from the New Orleans sun. Below, tourists weaved between locals on Bourbon Street, some clutching orange to-go cups from Café du Monde, many other sporting plastic beads, and hurricane glasses. Their laughter floated up to her like music from a party she wasn’t invited to.
Her fingers traced the hollow beneath her collarbone, pressing against the ache. Her phone sat heavy in her pocket. She should have called Max before leaving. But wasn’t this exactly what she’d wanted? Space. Distance. A chance to protect her heart.
Ceramic clinked against the mosaic table. “What do you think of the two hotels?” her dad asked.
She turned to him, grateful for the distraction of work. Historic buildings differed from the residential renovations she was used to, but the challenge kept her mind busy—at least until tonight, in quiet hours when her regret would visit. She wrapped her hands around a tall glass of lemonade. “The structure and history within the walls are amazing. I’ve got so manyideas.”
“The site has an unusually generous lot size for a boutique property in an urban context,” her father said. “However, the current outdoor dining terrace layout doesn’t optimize the guest experience or operational efficiency. It needs a complete redesign to better integrate with the building’s flow.”
“Did you see the skeletal remains of a garden?” She stared, unfocused, at her drink. Max’s face swam into view—that contemplative look he’d get when studying a space, seeing past what was, to what could be. His shoulders would square slightly, his head tilting as if measuring angles only he could see, and his eyes alive with the quiet passion he had brought to every design. He took that same careful attention to everything: how sunlight fell across a courtyard, how people naturally moved through a space, the secret language of roots and soil.
He’d looked at her that way too, studying her like she was a garden worth tending, worth the patience of seasons. Her chest tightened. She’d run from that look, from the weight of possibility it carried.
The irony wasn’t lost on her—she’d taken this job to keep things casual, to prevent herself from falling too deep, and now here she was, missing him with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. Maybe running hadn’t protected her heart at all. Maybe it had just given her new ways to break it.
“Are you dating Max?” her father asked.
Her hand jerked, the slice of lemon hit the side of the glass. The liquid settled, but the ripples in her chest didn’t.
“Why are you asking—” The words caught in her throat, too thin to carry the weight of denial. She swallowed and tried again, aiming for professional detachment.
“The garden you mentioned. I like the idea of bringing it back,” her father said. “And the Baton Rouge hotel sits on three acres. The outside should be as impressive as the changes we have planned. I looked up his landscape business and his designs. He has a great eye. I wouldn’t mind getting a bid from him.”
Her pathetic heart jumped and clapped at the chance to see Max. “You should,” she replied. “Max and everyone who works for him are incredibly talented.”
“Good to know. But you didn’t answer my question. Are you seeing him?”
“Why does it matter?” Each syllable landed like a small stone between them. Her father rarely asked about her personal life—why start now, and why about Max?
“For this job, it doesn’t. As my daughter it does.”
She traced the mosaic pattern on the table with her fingertip, gathering her thoughts. “Why does it matter ‘as your daughter?’” she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral. The question had an odd texture in her mouth, like tasting a familiar food prepared by unfamiliar hands. Where was this sudden fatherly concern coming from? Mom was usually the one who noticed these things. Dad just . . . worked.
“Because this one seems worth knowing.” He covered his mouth and muttered, “unlike that asshole ex-fiancé. The leech.”
A smile tugged on her lips. “You hated him from the start, didn’t you?”
“Richard was a shifty shit. The kind of guy waiting for everyone to take care of him.” Her father wasn’t wrong. “But Max seems like a good man.”
“He’s the best,” she admitted softly. “But no, we aren’t seeing each other.” It wasn’t a lie. They were never a couple. Though he’d felt like hers.
