Page 61 of Smooth Sailing
There was a silent exchange between them that snagged at Paloma’s attention like a burr catching on silk. Bill’s lips curved in a way that made his usual friendly smile something else entirely.
They moved to the sweeping staircase where Max’s masterpiece unfolded—a cascade of native Michigan plants in tiered planters. Wild columbine nodded their delicate heads, achingly reminiscent of his thoughtful tilts, while ferns unfurled in shadier spots, their movement mirroring his animated gestures during their brainstorming session. Pineapple plants, the Thompsons’ quirky request, peeked out among the flora, evoking bittersweet memories of the theories she and Max had shared about their clients’ lifestyle. The garden and how it matched her design were a living testament to their perfect partnership. It should have filled her with pride, but instead, it intensified the hollowness in her chest. She’d run out on him when they had plans, and the choice haunted her. Their relationship defied easy labels, but his feelings deserved more than her hasty retreat.
She followed the Thompsons through their newly designed home, cataloging details on autopilot. She had a job to finish, even as her heart longed to return to Max and make things right.
Elodie gestured to the living room. “The color palette you chose is perfect. It reminds me of a certain . . . exclusive venue in Chicago. I believe Max might be familiar with the scene there.”
Her pulse picked up. The name was unfamiliar, but the mention of Chicago and Max wasn’t good. Was it her imagination, or was there an odd tension in the air? Elodie’s smile seemed a touch too wide while Bill’s gaze lingered a moment longer than usual.
“I’m not sure,” Paloma replied. “We focused on creating a sense of flow—”
“Oh, you’ve certainly done that.” Bill moved closer. “You know, we’ve heard whispers about Max’s . . . diverse experiences from his time in Chicago. It seems he has quite an interesting background.”
Her hands grew clammy. How much did they know? And more importantly, why did they care? She swallowed hard, and her mouth suddenly dried. “I’m not privy to Max’s history,” she lied.
The Thompsons exchanged a look that seemed to carry an entire conversation, but Bill merely nodded and said, “Well, the color works. It is beautiful.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson—”
“Oh, no, why so formal now, Paloma? Bill is fine. We’re all friends here.” He nodded at his wife. “Right, Elodie?”
“Yes, definitely,” she replied. “And I congratulate you both. Your partnership with Max seems very . . . effective.” Her hand brushed against Paloma’s arm as they moved deeper into the living room.
They stopped at the table Max had laid her on and made her come so hard she’d nearly blacked out. Had Elodie picked this exact spot on purpose? And if so, why? Paloma forced a professional smile. “We do make a great team.”
Bill looked at her from the other side of the custom coffee table. “A little birdie told us your teamwork extends far beyond the office.”
Her mind raced. Who could have told them? She and Max weren’t from Brighton or Woodland Lake. And, more importantly, what the hell was she supposed to do about it now?
“Excuse me, I’m not sure . . .” How did she finish that sentence? Her personal life wasn’t their business, but she couldn’t afford to alienate an important client.
Bill chuckled, moving around the table. “No need to be coy, dear. Word gets around in our little community. It made us wonder about the day we stopped by unannounced.”
Elodie bent and traced her fingertip along the edge of the walnut coffee table, her dark eyes never leaving Paloma’s face. Panic rose in her throat, strangling her.
“This table is truly a focal point.” Elodie’s voice dropped to a honeyed whisper. “I bet it’s witnessed some . . . interesting discussions during your consultations.”
Memories of Max between her legs on that table flashed through her mind. She struggled to maintain her composure. “Yes, it’s . . . it’s a focal point for sure.”
Elodie glanced toward the fireplace mantle at an ornate, almost sensual statue. “Did we ever mention our home is equipped with cameras?” Her gaze moved to Paloma. “Outside and inside.”
Paloma stared at Elodie, her mind struggling to process the words “cameras” and “inside.” The room spun, and her heart hammered. The table. Max. That afternoon, they had seen everything.
Heat blazed across her face and neck. Her legs went weak, and she gripped the back of a nearby chair to keep herself upright. “Oh God,” she whispered. The memory of what she and Max had done—his hands on her body, her cries of pleasure echoing through this very room—now made her want to sink through the floor and disappear forever.
“I am so sorry,” she managed to choke out. “That was completely unprofessional. I never—we shouldn’t have—”
“Darling.” Elodie’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. We were . . . impressed.”
Paloma’s head snapped up, certain she’d misheard. Bill had moved closer, and his expression didn’t match her expectations of an angry client.
“You see,” Elodie continued, exchanging a look with her husband, “we recognize passion when we see it. And you two have incredible chemistry.”
Paloma swallowed, and there was an audible click from her now dry throat. “I don’t understand.” A new kind of nervousness replaced her mortification.
Bill cleared his throat. “What my wife is trying to say is that we’re part of a very exclusive, very discreet community. Given Max’s history and what happened here, we hoped you two might be open to new experiences.”
Her embarrassment transformed into shock of a different kind as their meaning became clear. The pineapple door knocker, the oblique references to Chicago, the lingering touches—everything shifted into a new context. She and Max were right! The Thompsons were swingers.
