Page 62 of Smooth Sailing
“You’re suggesting . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Only if you’re interested,” Elodie said, brushing Paloma’s arm. “No pressure. Though based on what we observed, you two certainly know how to enjoy yourselves.”
The weight of her mistake crushed against her chest like a physical force. She’d let all those careful boundaries she’d drawn dissolve in the heat of Max’s touch. Now those dissolved lines had reformed into a noose around her reputation, business, everything she’d worked to rebuild.
Needing distance from the Thompsons and the situation, she stepped away and bumped into a side table, knocking over a frame. “I’m flattered by your offer,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “But I think it’s best to separate work and my personal life.”
She set the photo down and took another step back, her mind whirling. How had a simple final walkthrough turned into this? More importantly, how could she salvage the situation?
Elodie tilted her head, and her blonde bob brushed against her shoulder. “You didn’t with Max.” Her tone sounded neutral, but who knew what was happening beneath the surface.
“That was a temporary lapse. One time,” she lied. “We decided it was best to keep things strictly professional. We want to stay focused on our clients and our work. That’s what’s most important to both of us.”
Elodie raised a brow, her smile thinning. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely,” Paloma replied, her voice firmer now. “We make a great team because we prioritize our work, and that’s how we plan to continue.”
Bill chuckled softly as if amused by the whole exchange. “Fair enough, but I’ve seen you two together.” He glanced at the table again, then put an arm around his wife’s waist. “We respect your boundaries, Paloma. Just thought we’d put it out there.”
She forced a polite smile though her stomach churned. “I appreciate your understanding.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got another meeting soon, so we should finish our final walk-through.”
“Of course, darling,” Elodie said smoothly, a light laugh escaping her perfectly painted mouth. “No harm in asking, right?”
“Right,” Paloma agreed, though she wasn’t sure if that was true. It might have harmed what was growing between her and Max.
She quickly completed the walk-through, keeping her voice even and professional despite her heart pounding and her mind racing. When she finished, she handed them the last bit of paperwork. “If you have any further questions, please call.” She hoped they didn’t have any questions.
Bill clasped Paloma’s hand a little too warmly. “Thank you for everything. And don’t worry—we won’t mention this to anyone. You’ll do the same, right?”
“Of course,” Paloma managed, withdrawing her hand as quickly as possible without appearing rude.
Stepping out of the house and into the cool air, the door closed behind her. She sucked in what air she could manage. They had a recording of her and Max. She might be royally fucked. Tears pressed in behind her eyes.
She got into her car, and her hands trembled as she gripped the steering wheel. The reality of what had happened didn’t wash over her so much as detonate. Each erratic heartbeat whispered, “They saw. They know. They saw. They know.”
Her phone buzzed. Max’s name flashed on the screen.
Her heart lurched. What would she tell him? That their clients had just propositioned them? She took a deep breath and answered the call.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
November 6th, 6:10 p.m.
Max sat in his office, gazing at the setting sun through the window, his phone ringing. He didn’t expect Paloma to answer. She’d been avoiding him since she’d run from his house.
He’d given her space, but that ended today. There was a fine line between understanding and patient and accepting the role as her rainy-day entertainment.
The call answered, and when he jolted upright, the springs of his favorite ancient chair whined. “Hello,” she said, her voice as hollow as a long-abandoned echo.
All this anger and demand fell away, replaced with worry. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “Can we meet today? We might have an issue.”
He glanced at his computer screen. It was after six. “With what?
“The Thompsons. They propositioned me. Well, us.”
“What the fuck,” he choked. It was a damn good thing he was sitting in his father’s monstrous antique office chair. It was probably the only thing keeping him from keeling over onto the floor in shock.
