Page 37 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

“Am I distracting you?” Feeling bold, I slid my hands from his hips, following the waistband of his jeans to the buckle. Not that I would do anything here, in a public place. But the innuendo alone was enough to make my pulse beat faster. I had forgotten how fun flirting could be.

“I’m distracted enough that if I threw this axe now, it might end up on the ceiling,” Max said.

“That’s not good, Max.” I tsked softly and ran my thumb inside his waistband, enjoying his sharp hiss in response. “There are no points on the ceiling.”

A sudden prickle on my neck, an awareness that someone was watching us, jerked my attention to the rows of tables behind us. A bachelorette party—judging by the hats the women wore that proclaimed them to be the bride or bridesmaid, depending—a group of teens, and—

My breath stuttered in my throat.

Steven. George’s best friend.

Nearby, his wife, Melanie, was chatting with another friend. But Steven’s attention was all on me, watching me with an intensity caught between anger and sadness.

“Who is that?” Max asked.

I glanced up. My arms were down at my sides—I hadn’t realized I had released him. “Steven Caldwell. George’s best friend.”

“Oh yeah?” Max’s gaze flicked to Steven, and his expression turned assessing. Then he took me by the shoulders and gently turned me away from the tables, so I was facing him again. He nudged my chin with his fist, tilting my head up to look at him. “Kate.”

God, his eyes were green. It was too much, staring into his eyes like that, so I lowered my gaze.

But that was a mistake too, because there were his lips. It was ridiculous how the shape of them—full and tilted upward somewhere between a smile and a smirk—made me feel focused. Like I was standing on a field again, bow and arrow lined up, ready to take my shot. I wanted his mouth on mine like I wanted a championship trophy. More, even.

And then everything blurred and sharpened at once as his face came closer, my focus crystallized, and our lips met.

The kiss was soft and gentle and unlike any of the kisses we had previously shared. Those kisses had been lust-fueled and desperate. This kiss was kind. Understanding. Almost chaste, in that he kept his tongue to himself. It was brief, over and done with in a matter of seconds.

Changing everything.

Because Max Darlington, who was most definitely not George Gonzales, had just kissed me, the Widow of Hart’s Ridge, in front of everybody.

My head whipped around to Steven’s table, but all I saw was his retreating back as he wove through the crowd to the bar.

“He saw.”

I turned back to Max, my gaze questioning.

“The kiss. He saw it.” Max studied me with serious green eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I—” I swallowed. “I wasn’t ready.”

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Right. That’s why this is practice.”

Practice. That was why Max had kissed me like that, like it was the most natural thing in the world, in front of everyone. That was our deal.

Except I hadn’t been thinking of Steven or George or the world when he had lowered his lips to mine. I had only been thinking of him. Max. It hadn’t felt like practice.

It had felt real.

But it wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. A practice relationship to prepare us for the real thing.

I stood rooted to the spot where Max had kissed me, even as he turned away, focusing his attention once more on the target. I felt…unmoored. Because even though the relationship was just practice, the repercussions were now. Somehow, I hadn’t expected that. With one brief kiss, my standing in Hart’s Ridge had shifted.

I wasn’t the perfect widow anymore.

Chapter 13

Max

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