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“What did you tell yourself?” Max wants to know.
“I wanted to join the National Ballet,” I say, sounding wistful even to my own ears. “I wanted to dance more than I wanted a boyfriend, but I did have a pretty big crush on Adam Sherman.”
“I hate Adam Sherman.”
I laugh and tweak his ear. “You should hate him because he was an asshole. I attracted them early.”
“I hate every asshole.”
I hang my arms over Max’s shoulders, fighting the temptation to rub my hands along his chest. “I sometimes wonder what twelve-year-old me would think of me now. What I’ve done. All this money.”
“I’m sure she would love the idea of all that money.”
“But she would want me to do something with it, not just squirrel it away and keep making more. Not having fun with it.”
“You’re having fun now,” Max points out.
“I am.”
“I like having-fun Cady,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“I like coming-to-the-rescue Max. The way you picked me up—”
“Max strong,” he says in an Incredible Hulk voice, which makes me laugh.
“Max sexy,” I whisper into his ear.
I think it must be the Stinger and the Jellyfish shots that make me say it. I’m glad when, a few minutes later, we catch up to Nick and Dexter walking home from snorkelling. And relieved when they give Max a rest and both take turns carrying me.
But as Max walks beside me, or a little ahead, all I can think of is Max sexy.
30
Maximus
Marcus and Callie are hosting a rehearsal dinner at a nearby restaurant tonight, but before we can get there, Cady heads back to the condo for a much-needed shower to get rid of the sand, and to have a quick nap.
I stay on the beach with the boys, having a few drinks and hearing all about their snorkeling experience.
It sounds like fun, but I made the right decision about coming back for Cady.
Cady joins us for the sunset. She’s quiet and seems softer, like getting knocked around by the waves rubbed off some of the hard shell. She even looks different—her red hair down and curling softly and wearing less makeup.
I never would have expected it to make such a difference, and it takes me a while to figure out what it is.
Dexter figures it out first. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he begins as the sun creeps down the horizon. “But you don’t seem to have eyelashes. And I’m pretty sure you had them yesterday.”
Cady laughs. She laughs hard at that. “Fake eyelashes,” she explains. “Or at least a lot of mascara. Being a redhead for me means light lashes, and mine are extremely short.”
I rub my chin. “Short eyelashes,” I muse. “I’m not sure I can handle that.”
“It means she’s not perfect after all,” Dexter chimes in.
“Oh, she’s definitely not perfect,” Cady announces, waving her beer can for emphasis.
“I think she might be,” Nick mutters.
“Aw, does our little boy have a crush?” I croon.
