Page 43 of Smooth Sailing
The alarmmeant one thing: work. As much as every part of her wanted to forget everything but Max’s lips on hers, she couldn’t afford to blur the lines they’d barely kept intact.
“We need to get to the Sterlings’,” she said, her voice steadier than her body aching with need. “And speaking of that.” She pulled back slightly, putting just enough space between them to breathe and regain her composure. “One more ground rule.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Okay, hit me.”
“While we’re working, we’re that: work partners,” she stated, her tone firm but gentle. “Nothing like what happened at the pineapple house can happen while we’re on this job.”
He picked up his mug with both hands and rested his elbows on the balcony railing. The pale light of dawn softened his features, casting a pearlescent sheen on his tousled hair.
His gaze drifted from the awakening city below to meet hers, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, mirroring the gradual rise of the sun. “And after hours?”
She inhaled slowly, tasting the morning air tinged with the possibility of what might happen between them in the evening. “After work hours, we pick up where we left off.”
Her work alarm went off again, and he reached over, silencing it. “We better get moving. But after work, you’re mine.” He leaned in, kissing her softly, but he pulled back when she tried to deepen it. “Already breaking your rules?” he teased.
Work. Right. She had a job to do and clients to impress. But as she gathered her laptop and empty mug, she couldn’t tell if she’d just made the best decision of her life—or the worst mistake of her career.
She followed him inside, and every step was a battle between desire and duty. Time to be a professional. At least until sunset.
Chapter Twenty
October 11th, 9:00 p.m.
Paloma leaned against the elevator’s wall as it glided to the top of the condo. Her feet were sore from being on them all day, but her pulse picked up with each floor she passed. Max had left the Sterling house long ago. She’d worked way later, but that was behind her, and the evening with Max spread out before her. Anticipation sank into her skin, zinging through her.
Caution whispered that craving his company and not just his body wasn’t keeping things casual, but she’d worry about when this work trip ended. The elevator dinged on the top floor. Leaving it, she unlocked their door and went inside.
The scent of autumn deliciousness filled her nose. The subtle fragrance of pumpkin mixed with a woody, slightly peppery smell, all topped with a creamy goodness. It made her stomach rumble.
She followed the aroma to the kitchen and took in one of the sexiest sights in the universe—Max in a worn Henley, jeans, and stirring something on the stove. “Why does it smell like heaven in here? What are you making?”
“Pumpkin Alfredo.” He offered her a spoonful of the sauce and said, “This is homemade, but sorry, not the ravioli.”
A wave of toasted autumn hit her, and the herbal notes of sage danced across her tongue, followed by a subtle peppery bite that cut through the butter’s richness. The sound that escaped her was damn near X-rated, but she didn’t care. The sauce deserved the adoration and more.
“Keep making those sounds, and I’ll cook for you every night,” Max said, his voice an octave deeper than usual.
She looked at him. His focus was on her mouth, and his look of desire caused her hunger to switch from food to him. She moved closer, but an alarm interrupted them.
He twisted around to the oven. “The Brussels sprouts are done.”
She wrinkled her nose as childhood memories of the mushy, bitter vegetable assaulted her. “Ugh.”
He laughed. “Don’t give me that until you try my dad’s recipe.”
Her gaze swept over the kitchen: the simmering pot, the steaming oven, the neatly chopped herbs on the cutting board. His back was to her as he reached for the oven mitts, his muscles flexing beneath the worn Henley. He was as tempting as his dinner.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she said softly.
He set the tray of Brussels sprouts on the granite counter. They had a delicious scent of sweet and savory. “Trust me, it’s better for both of us if I cook,” he teased. He leaned in, running his nose along her neck. “This morning you mentioned focusing on me tonight.”
The promise in the rumble of his voice warmed her in all the right places. “Oh, yeah?” she hummed.
“Yes.” He stepped back and grinned. “And I don’t want to risk your cooking killing me first.”
She arched an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Rude. And I’d meant we could have picked up something to eat.”
He shrugged. “I like cooking.”
