Page 85 of Smooth Sailing
“Huh, I read that wrong. I was certain—” A knock had them turning toward the sound. Her father stood. “It’s probably Tim with the old blueprints of this place.”
When he disappeared into her room, Paloma leaned forward, resting her elbows on the ornate balcony railing. The crowd ebbed and flowed like a tipsy tide—tourists with their to-go cups and flashing cameras weaving between locals who navigated the street with practiced ease. They celebrated below while her heart ached above. Had she sabotaged something beautiful out of fear?
She closed her eyes, letting the weak winter sun caress her skin. Everything about him had felt so right. The way he’d match her impulsive ideas with his wild schemes, feeding off each other’s energy until they were breathless with laughter or passion or both. His kindness, that crooked smile that made her heart stutter . . .
And sweet Jesus, the things that man could do with his hands.
What was the point of running from how he made her feel when her thoughts always circled back to him? She was certain that distance wouldn’t dim him; nothing would.
She pulled out her phone with trembling fingers, her thumb hovering over Max’s name in her contacts. With a deep breath, she pressed his call and lifted the phone to her ear, ready to stop running from what mattered.
A throat cleared, and she turned from the street. Her dad’s frame filled the doorway. He gave her a look she’d never seen before—softer than his usual business exterior, almost awkward in its tenderness. It was strange and touching all at once, this glimpse of the dad he might have been if they’d spent more time talking about life instead of work.
“The man you said you aren’t seeing is here to see you,” he said, stepping onto the balcony and to the right.
Her heart stuttered. Max stood in the arch of the door, clutching a huge bouquet of dark purple flowers mixed with beautiful white ones. His phone rang from inside his jacket. She hit “end call,” setting her phone on the table. The noise from his pocket silenced.
Those summer blues she’d tried so hard not to think about crinkled at the corners, his eyes dancing with a warmth that had haunted her dreams. The blooms trembled slightly in his grip, betraying a nervousness that matched her own.
“What are you doing here?” Her heart raced, hardly daring to believe he was there on her balcony, holding flowers and wearing that sunshine smile she loved.
“Could we talk?” His gaze bounced from her to her dad and back to her. Yeah, she’d rather have this conversation without her dad watching them.
But he seemed too amused to retreat quietly. His lip twitched, and he asked, “About work? And only work?”
She chuckled. Who knew her dad had a sense of humor? It was as dry as dirt, but there. A warm glow bloomed in her chest, discovering that her father wasn’t only blueprints and business plans. These unexpected moments of fatherly concern showed her that New Orleans might offer more than a fantastic work opportunity.
“No, Dad,” she said, grinning.
He nodded, then looked at Max. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“You as well,” he replied. He and her father continued talking, but she didn’t catch it because of the unique design of the fuchsia flower. “Is that the clitoris flower?” she asked.
Her dad coughed. “The what?”
“It’s a butterfly pea. The other is lisianthus,” Max replied, sounding a little strangled.
Lisianthus? Her heart melted. It was the flower he’d used to describe her skin. That he’d not only come to New Orleans but brought these specific blooms spread warmth through her chest like honey. It was perfectly Max: turning even small gestures profound through careful attention to detail. He hadn’t grabbed just any pretty flowers, but chosen ones that told their story. Without words, he was telling her those quiet moments had mattered to him too.
“Well,” her father said, checking his watch with exaggerated interest, “I have that call with the contractors about the foundation work.” He pushed away from the wall, his shoes clicking against the weathered tiles. At the doorway, he paused, looking between them with that same unfamiliar softness. “The terrace plans can wait until tomorrow, Paloma.”
She nodded, grateful for his discretion even as her stomach fluttered with nervous energy. Just before stepping inside, her father turned back to Max. “Those are beautiful flowers. My mother used to grow lisianthus in her garden.” He smiled a real smile that made him look years younger. “She always said the best gardens grow from patience and care.”
Her father’s gaze met hers, gentle and knowing in a way she’d never seen before, then he disappeared into the cool darkness of the room beyond, leaving her with Max and only the sounds of Bourbon Street rising between them like a tide.
Max held out the flowers. “I should have been clearer last night. I said I could fall for you. That’s a lie.”
Her heart died in his pause.
“I’m already falling for you.”
And then it revived.
She stared at the offered bouquet, her hands remaining firmly on the railing. The metal had cooled beneath her palms, or maybe all the warmth had moved to her heart. His words struck at the soul of what she’d been trying to avoid by taking this job. Because she was falling too—had been falling for months.
“I . . . then why did you walk away?”
Below, a jazz band started playing, the mournful wail of a trumpet climbing up to wrap around them like Spanish moss. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted,” he said. “Everything you did seemed designed to keep me at a distance.”
