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“And that’s where our tax dollars are going,” Max says with disgust, hands on his hips as he watches them swagger out of the restaurant. “How dare they treat you like that.”
“They dare,” I say simply, lifting my teacup to my lips with a hand that is surprisingly steady. “And it would have been much, much worse had they known I was in the room after dinner, so thank you. I really appreciate your help.”
He turns to me with a smile. “Happy to.” He sits back down, still watching me. “If you feel like those pancakes now…”
I take a deep breath. “No, but thank you. If there’s anything I can do to repay you—” My words are cut off by a rush of pure emotion. I’ve never felt anything like it; one minute I’m about to offer myself to Maximus Steele and the next I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus and sent flying through the air.
I don’t know where I’m going to land, but I know it’s going to hurt.
“Cady?”
The police were here to question me. It’s not the first time, but it reminds me I’m vulnerable, that I’ve hidden secrets and information and have so much to lose—
I’ve always prided myself on not being a crier so I can’t understand the pinpicks in my eyes until the tear trickles down my cheek.
“Hey,” Max says gently, reaching for my hand. I snatch both of them off the table and press them against my mouth to block the cry, the sob, the scream that bubbles up. Through tear-filled eyes, I see him motion to the waitress for more tea. “Hey.”
“You can go,” I tell him, my voice unrecognizable.
“Why would I want to do that? You’re upset.”
“I’m not.” I swipe away the pool of wetness under my eyes. “I’ll go. Thank you for…” Where do I have to go? I need to make sure Max won’t say anything to the police, and for that I need to offer him an incentive…
“You’re not going anywhere,” he insists, a note of authority in his tone. “You’re going to sit here and drink more tea and tell me about your friend. Because you just lost him and you have every right to be upset.”
I meet his gaze, warm and sympathetic and caring.
I’ve never had a man look at me like that.
“In fact, I’ll have some tea with you.” He smiles at the waitress who sets down a new pot for me. “One more of those. And I think I’m finished with these eggs.”
“Can I get you anything else?” She looks at me, but it’s Max who answers.
“Can we have two of your lemon-cranberry scones? You look like the lemon scone type,” he says to me, his full lips curving into a soft smile.
I nod. Lemon is my favourite flavour.
“Very good,” the waitress says as she backs away.
I glance around the dining room, the very same one I sat in with Noam last night where he ate chicken piccata with delicately roasted potatoes, asking for green beans instead of baby carrots because he hated carrots. Now I’m drinking tea with a stranger and Noam is dead.
Another bubble rises in my throat and I wonder if I’m going to be sick.
“Is this the first person you’ve loved who has died?” Max asks. He refills my cup before filling the cup the waitress bought for him.
I shake my head. “My mother.”
“Ah. Another with the dead mother card. You can really get away with so much with that.”
I pause with my cup halfway to my mouth. “Pardon?”
At least he has the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just something Marcus and I say. Both of us lost our moms, you know, and when we were in school, we would use the excuse that our mothers had died when we were assholes. Dead-mom card.”
I can’t believe he says that. When he was being irresponsible and immature, using his mother’s death as an excuse, I was hiding my loss from everyone, not the pity. Not wanting anyone to realize how important my half-brother and sister were to me since they were the only part of my mother I was left with.
When he was playing his way through school, I spent my eighteenth birthday working a private party and made five hundred dollars for letting a drunk groom-to-be motorboat my breasts.
I never spoke of my mother because I couldn’t handle anyone saying the words: Your mother would be so disappointed in you.
