Page 59 of Smooth Sailing
His mom’s lips thinned, and her eyes narrowed, settling coldly on Max. A crease formed between her brows. “Works for you?”
He shook his head. “No, with me. She owns an interior design business.”
“Oh, decorates homes?”
Max winced. His mom, who’d redecorated their house six times in the past decade, would love chatting design. But he knew how much it irked Paloma when people confused design and decorating.
“I design them,” she said, her voice carefully neutral.
His mom’s brows furrowed. “So, an interior decorator?”
“Uh . . . Mom.” He fought the urge to clamp his hand over his mother’s mouth.
Paloma drew in a measured breath. “That’s a different profession.” Her fingers drummed against her thigh, the only visible sign of irritation.
His mom’s gaze darted between them, her lips compressing further. “Well, lunch is ready if you’d like to join us,” she said with brittle brightness.
An inexplicable tension settled over the room. Something was off, but he couldn’t pinpoint what or why. His mother’s smile was strained, but was it directed at him or Paloma? The uncertainty made his stomach churn.
Paloma looked at Max, then quickly away before she turned to his mother. “No, thank you. I actually have a . . . client meeting I forgot about,” she said, her words coming out a touch too quickly. “I should really get going.”
He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath him. “We cleared our schedules,” he murmured, unable to keep the edge from his voice. That had been the plan. He’d been up since dawn, racing through his work to have this time with her.
A flickerof something—guilt? Regret?—passed over her face before she schooled her features. “I know, and I’m sorry,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “It came up suddenly. You know how demanding some clients can be.”
His shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him. “Right,” he said, bitter disappointment coating his tongue. “At least let me walk you to your car.”
She shook her head, offering a small, apologetic smile. “No, that’s okay. Spend time with your mom.” She turned to his mother, her posture stiffening slightly. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. London. Thank you for the lunch invitation.”
His mother’s left eye twitched, a tell Max recognized from countless childhood confrontations. “Of course,” she said, her tone clipped. “Another time, perhaps.”
Paloma gave Max one last look, a mix of apology and something else he couldn’t quite read—maybe defeat—before heading toward the door. The sound of her heels on the hardwood seemed to echo in the tense silence as she left.
“What the hell was that about? What’s your issue with Paloma?” he demanded. Each word was measured and deliberate, but he pressed his hands flat against his thighs, fingers splayed, needing to ground himself.
“Don’t take that tone with me. And I’m upset with you, not her.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “It has to do with what you were doing before you walked through the door.”
Drake, who’d been slouched at the table like a bored teenager, sprang to life. He slinked toward the stove with all the subtlety of a cartoon burglar. Cupping his hand to his mouth, he stage-whispered loud enough for the neighbors to hear, “Psst! I wasn’t the only one at the window like a creeper.”
Their momsmacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “I’m not a creeper. I was just excited to see my son.”
“Yet you weren’t after you saw your son had company.” Drake’s grin widened, and he tapped their mom’s cheek. “Aw, you blush as bright as Max.”
“Quiet, son.” She ducked her head, suddenly very focused on checking on the delicious-smelling stew on the stove. Placing the lid back on the Dutch Oven, she looked at Max. “Think about the consequences.”
His jaw clenched, the tension radiating down his neck. The kitchen was suddenly too small, too warm, the smell of his mother’s stew cloying and suffocating. “I told you, Paloma doesn’t work for me.”
“I heard. But you are business partners, correct?”
He nodded, still not understanding. Yet, a familiar weight settled in his gut, that old feeling of disappointment he could never seem to shake around his mother.
“How well do you think you’ll work together if things fall apart?”
“Wow, way to be a pessimistic Peggy.”
Drake chuckled, earning a withering glare from their mom. “What?” he protested. “It’s funny because your name’s Peggy.”
She rolled her eyes. I know why it’s funny. But it’s not. I’m realistic, not pessimistic. And you, Max, are impulsive.” She left out the phrase, “as usual” but he heard it.
