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We’ll address thatfinallylater. For now I’m curious to see why Max shows up with all the cloak and dagger antics. Sam ushers me out the door and starts telling me all about the shelter.
“We’re more than just a shelter,” he pauses outside of what is clearly an exam room. “We’re also a free clinic, of sorts. Privately funded by a few donors who help keep me above water with rent and utilities. And we take donations of food and supplies as well.”
At the wordsprivately fundedMaxwell makes himself scarce, saying something about getting our donations from the car. Sam continues to show me around the shelter and clinic, and I’m beginning to see why Max wants to keep his involvement here on the downlow; if it were to get out then it would be all about Max and what he’s doing, not about Sam and the work he’s doing for the community by offering free and low-cost veterinary services, and pet adoption.
“Loretta was abandoned here as a kitten, and Max fell in love with her the minute he laid eyes on her.” There’s that smirk again. The one that compels me to ask way too many questions.
“So how did you and Max meet?”
“His first major league suspension,” Sam answers with a laugh, brushing away the hair that’s fallen across his forehead. “As I’m sure you’re aware, when a player is suspended, they are also fined.”
“So are coaches,” I chuckle. I know that all too well.
“What most people don’t know is that the money isn’t sent to the league, or the commissioner’s office, or even the team’s front office, it goes to a charity of the team or player’s choice.”
“Makes it a little easier to pay the fines when it’s notgoing to the people who suspended you.”
“Andwhen it’s helping the community, which is what Max wanted to do. He specifically wanted to support something here on the island, and he chose my little operation. He burst in here one day like a man on fire. I admit that I was a little starstruck at first, but I was also a little scared, because I’d seen what he could do with a baseball. He said ‘I need to give money to a charity, do you take donations?’ Andof courseI said yes. I wasn’t about to turn down a donation from Maxwell Freaking Harrison! He came back the next day – in a much better mood – and I gave him a tour. And he left with Loretta.”
“Of course he did.”
“Are you telling stories about me?” Max’s voice is a low rumble in the hallway.
“Terrible tales of drudgery and debauchery,” Sam smirks and relieves Maxwell of the burden in his arms. “And of true love.”
“True love?” Max’s brow quirks up and he glances at me, a faint blush creeping above his beard.
“Loretta.” Sam clarifies with a very pointed glance.
“Right,” Max coughs and clears his throat. “Loretta.”
“But I guess we could talk about all the times after when you’d visit and pet cats, and talk to me about the hitting coach that…”
“Sam, why don’t you show Sutton the animals in the shelter?”
“You’re not getting off the hook,” I press a kiss to Max’s cheek as Sam, and the smirk that has become rather endearing in the last few minutes, offers me his arm and I accept. “Tell meeverythinghe said about the hitting coach.”
Sam is disappointingly loyal to Maxwell and refuses to spill the beans on anything he said about me while under the influence of puppy snuggles, which is fine, because I canemploy my own use of snuggles to get answers out of him later. Perhaps I can even convince him to have that discussion over tacos.
Again.
It doesn’t take much to convince him, or to convince Sam to join us for lunch. Sam tells stories of Max’s visits to the shelter, usually while serving suspension, always sticking to the back rooms to avoid being seen and drawing any unwanted attention.
“It was stress relief,” Max tells me on the way home. “Playing with the dogs and cats, cleaning kennels, organizing the back room, it was relaxing. And it helped that Sam didn’t make a big deal about me being, well, me.”
“And what did you tell him about me?” I ask, giving him my most beguiling smile.
“That’s a conversation for another time.”
Once we’re home, I start packing my bag for work tomorrow and the road trip to follow. As excited as I am to get back to work, I’ve loved this time at home with Max and getting to know him in new ways, deepening the connection we have and finding our footing as the relationship grows and changes. As I throw clothes into a bag for our road trip I hear familiar notes dance up the stairs and for the first time since living here, I give in to the impulse to watch him play.
As if pulled by a magnet, my feet carry me down the stairs and into the back room of the house. I’ve always thought of this space as Max’s private sanctuary. A room just for him, a space I’ve never wanted to intrude on. I stop just outside the doors, always thrown open, almost in invitation. I know what his hands can do with a baseball, but watching those long fingers dance over the keys with practiced grace is something else. Where I can barely play a simple chord, Maxwell is making beautiful music.
Music I get so lost in that it’s jarring when it stops and thehouse goes silent.
“You can come in, you know.” His voice startles me and a blush creeps into my cheeks when I realize he’s discovered me lurking.
“I didn’t want to interrupt.”
