Page 6 of Max

He was...

He was...

Sweet Mary, there were no words at how gorgeous he was full frontal. I knew his eyes were brown. What I didn’t remember was that they were framed by the thickest black eyelashes there ever were. Above those eyes were his eyebrows the same color of his eyes. Nose flat. A squared jaw that ran soothingly to his corded neck. But the crown glory went to his lips. Full, framed by his beard, I had to squash the urge to pull his face to me so that I could kiss him.

“Uh...” faced with the perfection that was him, I couldn’t remember what I wanted to say.

Not that it mattered. Max glanced forward at the light, checking to see if it was still red, then looked back at me.

“We’ll talk when we get to my place, Bean.”

When we get to his place? Bean? I didn’t get a chance to ask what he meant by all of that because he turned back and started driving. He didn’t look at me once all the way to his house. I was gasping for breath by the time he turned into a drive and stopped the car. The silence was stifling and suffocating.

“Come,” was all he grunted my way before he opened the door and got out without a backward glance.

I did as he said and got out. Following him, I glance at his house. It was a nice, single story house that was almost a home. You could see that he was trying to improve it and make it what was destined to be, but either he just started, or he didn’t have much time to finish the job, and now the house stood on the line being neither just a house nor a home. As I walked up the three steps to his door, I kept thinking of how he needs a porch. Maybe even a wraparound that would hold a big, plush patio furniture, and his woman could have pots on the railing. If it had that one detail, the house would surely become a home from the fairytales. I almost snorted at the thought.

I couldn't help myself, the designer in me screamed at the things that would improve the house, but I couldn’t imagine a man like Max coming home to a white picket fence and a house filled with flowers. The man in question glanced back when he heard me make a sound, raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He turned the key and let us in. The moment I stepped in, I lost not only my breath, but I was awestruck. Inside was an open floor plan. On the left, there was a huge kitchen that could comfortably house a 6-foot island with a breakfast bar, on the right, a living room that was divine and made for two plush three-seater couches, two chairs, a coffee table in front of the fireplace. Right in front of me was an opening that was perfect for the double French doors that would lead to the deck. And slightly on the right side, right next to them were stairs that were in dying need of a paint job.

“You all right?” the slightly strangled voice jolted me out of my daze, and I realized that I was mentally designing Max’s home.

“Yes,” I nodded and took another look.

Unfortunately, what came at me were the dark walls, a dark kitchen that in the place of my imaginary island had a rough, round wood table and four chairs around it. The living room housed a big leather sofa. And in the place of the French doors was a glass slider that led nowhere as far as I could see.

“I know it’s not much, but I'm working on it,” I looked up at Max’s face to see it guarded.

“No, it’s lovely,” I took another look and realized it really was.

Simply put, it was Max. I just couldn’t help myself and tried to redesign the place the best I could for him. Which was beyond strange since I knew him all of five hours during which we exchanged maybe five words. The sound that came from Max was something I would never, ever forget, until my dying breath. I turned woodenly to him to confirm that he was indeed laughing. If I thought he was beautiful before, I was dead wrong. No, watching him full on belly laughing was the definition of beauty.

“It’s a shithole, Bean. I know it, you know it, so you can lose this mortified look on your face,” he strolled in the direction of his kitchen, going right at the refrigerator and opening it. “I got the house a few months ago, just started working on it. It’s going to take time to get it done.”

He came out of the fridge, holding a bottle of water, and slightly lifted it my way.

“No, thank you,” I declined the offer and took another look. “You know, if you need any help in designing this place, let me know. I could help you with that.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his eyebrows once again hitting his hairline.

“I own Home Sweet Home Designs. Meaning, I design people’s homes. Or what it could look like. I mean, I listen to what they want and need, and I draw it out for them, something like a visual aid. Sometimes I even help with the construction. I have a warehouse filled with warriors' stuff that people can get from me. Not that it’s obligatory. We can even go shopping in other places until we find something you would like” I was rambling trying to explain what it is precisely what I do for a living, but with each word, Max’s face was becoming more and more troubling right until it became scary.

“You own Home Sweet Home Designs?” the way he asked the question made me brace.

“Yes.”

Max took a step toward me, which made me take a step back, something he didn’t miss.

“You own Home Sweet Home Designs?” he asked the same question again.

“I do,” I muttered, now fully prepared to turn around and start running.

He didn’t say a word at my confirmation, just kept running his eyes up and down my body.

“Fucking Hell,” he whispered almost to himself.

“What?”

“Fucking, fucking Hell,” he went on chanting as if I said nothing.