Page 36 of Smooth Sailing
His lips twitched. “Or they’d ask to join in.”
She stared at him. How could he joke? Her career wasn’t a joke. “And I don’t want to have to let them, to save my damn job. This,” she pointed between them, “won’thappen again.”
The slight trace of humor drained from him. “Here, in their home, was a mistake, but not us,” he said.
“Yes, us. I love my career. And it’s the only thing I’m good at. Not love. Not lust. Not relationships. If I have to choose, I’ll pick my career.”
His expression shuddered, his eyes losing their warmth, and he took a small step back as if her words had physically pushed him. “Understood,” he said in a low, flat tone.
“What do you want from me?” The words burst from her like shards of glass, sharp and cutting. Do you expect me to give up my career because you made me come?” She jabbed a finger toward the coffee table. “One orgasm isn’t worth my entire future, no matter how good.”
Why did every man think her ambition was worthless, something to do until she fell in love—or this case, lust?
“I’m not asking or expecting you to pick. I’m asking you to give us a chance to see where things went between us. I like you—I like you a lot—but I won’t push if you aren’t interested.” He turned toward the garden, giving her his back.
She liked him, more than was safe. But she couldn’t risk her career. “I’m sorry, Max,” was all she could offer.
“It’s fine.” His voice said the opposite. He picked up a shovel, giving her a beautiful view of his wide, muscular back. Right before he reached the garden, he turned. “But please, don’t kiss me again. Don’t flirt with me.” He paused, his gaze locking with hers, the tension between them crisp, like the first cool breeze cutting through the lingering warmth of late summer. “Not unless you mean it.”
Her throat tightened, and she opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Did she mean it? Did she even know what she wanted?
“I . . .” she faltered, desperate to shift the focus back to work, away from the mess of emotions swirling inside her. “Okay.”
He nodded and turned away. She should leave. That would be the smart thing to do. But watching him shut down, seeing the stiff set of his shoulders as he worked, made her chest ache.
Her smartwatch vibrated and she glanced at it, seeing her brother’s name. He was probably following up about the accommodation issue they’d discussed this morning. The Sterling project . . . God, how were they supposed to handle that now?
She cleared her throat. “My brother called earlier with news about Traverse City.” The words hung in the stale air between them, her attempt at normality withering like week-old flowers. She pressed on anyway. “Abigail agreed to let us use her condo while we’re working on the house.”
Max’s hands tightened around the shovel, then turned. “Really? After what just happened, you think we should share a place?”
He wasn’t wrong, but her tight budget didn’t include $500 a night for two hotel rooms for two weeks or more. “The drive is over four hours away. We need accommodations with office space. Her place is close to the Sterling house. And nearly everything close to the Sterlings is booked solid for fall tourist season.”
“And you can shut off this thing between us? Just like that?” He snapped his fingers.
“Yes,” she lied. “The condo has two bedrooms, and it’s the only option that makes sense financially and logistically. Unless you want to explain to the Sterlings why their designer and landscaper can’t coordinate or keep things professional.”
His jaw tightened, his muscles working. “If you’re so worried about keeping things professional, maybe you should find another landscaper.”
Her stomach plummeted. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the best, and I need your expertise. We just need to . . . to forget what happened here and focus on work. We’re adults. We can handle sharing a condo for a few weeks without . . .” She wasn’t able to finish the sentence.
“Fine,if that’s what you want.” He dug the shovel into the shallow dirt, turning it over with practiced precision, as though the garden was the only thing that mattered.
She lingered by the door, watching his shoulders move beneath his shirt. The same shoulders she’d gripped less than an hour ago. Her fingers tingled with the memory.
“I’ll email you the Traverse City schedule,” she said, her voice steadier than her heart. When he didn’t respond, didn’t even look up, she left. Her heels clicked against the hardwood, hollow sounds that echoed through the empty house, marking each step that took her further from him.
At her car, she caught her reflection in the window: perfect hair, crisp blazer, not a thread out of place. The consummate professional. Only the black lace still tucked in her skirt pocket told a different story.
Chapter Seventeen
October 4th, 4:00 p.m.
Max gripped the handlebars of his motorcycle, his knuckles white beneath his gloves. In a few days, he’d be alone with Paloma for two whole weeks. Two weeks of pretending he didn’t want to touch her again, to finish what they’d started in the Thompsons’ house. Two weeks of trying to focus on work when all he could think about was the softness of her skin under his fingertips, her taste, the intoxicating scent of her perfume mingled with desire.
He’d promised her he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t flirt unless he meant it. But damn, how he wanted to. The urge to throw caution to the wind, to risk it all for another moment with her, was almost overwhelming. But he wasn’t the impulsive screwup of his youth.
He turned into the parking lot of The Hill, adjusting for the uneven surface, hating his lies. His resolve was as steady as the gravel under his tires. Another man with a little more control wouldn’t have taken that kind of risk at a client’s house.
