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“I don’t have a family.”
That should not have come out.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t either,” he admits. “My father—” He gives a head a shake. “But we already said no talk of fathers, so no talk of fathers. I need something stronger than this.” He lifts the cup. “What did you get me?”
“Banana mango.”
“I might go into sugar shock with all the sweetness, but it’s a good way to go.” He takes a big bite of the bun, flakes of sugar falling onto the table. “What’s your favourite way to spend the day?”
“Why all the questions?” I counter.
He lifts a shoulder. “I like getting to know people. And you seem interesting.”
“I’m not.”
He narrows his eyes at me with a half-smile. “I beg to differ. Besides, we’re going away for a dirty weekend. I need to know what to expect.”
My heart stutters, then falls flat. For a moment—for longer than a moment—I had been enjoying myself with Max. Not letting myself wonder, because I thought there were no expectations. But now if he expects…
Max watches my thoughts pass across my face. My mask isn’t in place, so I know he can tell what I’m thinking. “Not like that,” he says in a quiet voice.
“Not like what?”
“Look, Cady,” Max begins, seemingly searching for words. “You are an outstandingly stunning woman. Seriously. You’re breathtaking. You take my breath away—drunk or sober. And if you’re honestly interested, then I’m all for giving you a weekend to remember instead of just a simple alibi.”
An alibi. How could I forget why I’m here to begin with? I need to prove to Preston Tate that I was nowhere near Noam’s room when he died. How can that not be part of every one of my thoughts?
How can I be sitting in a food court eating a cinnamon bun with a total stranger instead of planning for every contingency of Preston accusing me of killing his father?
Because he doesn’t think I had anything to do with it, I tell myself. Because I didn’t. Because if I’m with Max, then no one will think I spent most of the night with Noam.
I wasn’t there when he died.
This time, there’s no relief that I can’t be to blame, but only regret.
“Are you okay?” Max asks.
I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth as these thoughts swirl, and pop the bite of pastry into my mouth, chewing slowly. “Fine.”
“You lost your friend. You shouldn’t be fine.”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Maybe not,” he concedes. “But at least if you’re here with me, you’re feeling things. Not pushing them down and out of the way so you can get back to work.”
“Is that what this is about?” I wave my fork around the food court. “Do you think you’re helping me or something?” My voice is so steeped in bitterness that he thinks I’m someone who needs help.
I’m not. I’m fine on my own.
“Is that so bad?”
I meet Max’s gaze and can’t look away because there’s so much in how he looks at me. There’s interest, desire. That’s the most obvious, but the way he holds my gaze suggests respect and not the grudging kind when I impress a man who didn’t think much of me at the beginning.
Maximus Steele looks at me as if he likes me. Likes me, Cady Quinn, as a person and not what I can bring to the table.
Or what I can give him under the table.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
