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“Mom, I don’t want to do this.”
She takes my face in her hands so I can focus on her. “You have to do this. For Olive. You need to see what he wants.”
My chin quivers. My mom’s the only person who knows the full story, outside of my good friend Caroline, who was my best friend when I got pregnant.
“You will be fine.”
My mom’s hand on my cheek tips me over the edge, and I let out a sob, my face contorting into an ugly cry. Emotion I’ve repressed into my bones billows out like steam from a sewer crate.
Without saying anything, she envelops me in a hug and pats down my hair.
“He didn’t want us,” I say between sobs against my mother’s chest. “He didn’t want me. I thought he did, and I was wrong.”
“Shh,” my mom soothes as we stand there, in Jackson’s office. She holds me until my sobs quiet and then pulls away.
“I know you did not expect this today,” my mom says. “You don’t know what his motives are. Maybe he had a change of heart.”
“I can’t think like that, I….” I unleash another sob.
“Emily Jean Finch.” Mom pushes me away, but still holds my arms. “You need to face this. I’ll be there with you. I promise.”
She’s right. I nod, and my mom cages me with one arm around my shoulders and her other hand holding my arm, shepherding me out in the taproom. Max is still there, sitting at the decorated table. Jackson is acting like an air marshal with a criminal, waiting for landing. Burke stands over the food, inspecting it, but he gives an unsure smile when he sees me.
When Max notices me, he shoots up, walking toward me. God, he’s handsome. It’s unfair he’s still as good-looking as I remember.
Maybe more.
I summon the demeanor I’ve had for the past ten years. Strong, capable, unfazed. Even though I cried in my mother’s arms literally forty-five seconds ago, I walk away from my mom’s clutch and approach Max.
This is a business transaction. Don’t look at the chiseled jawline.
“Let’s talk outside.” I point to the door. Jackson takes a step to follow, but I hold up a hand. “I promise, I’ll be fine.”
You don’t have to talk about specifics. Just ask him to meet you for dinner to discuss, and then you can pretend like this didn’t happen for four hours. You can do this. One step in front of another.
The heat in the air is oppressive when we walk outside, but I still cross my arms so tightly around myself, I might bruise.
“If I would’ve known it was your birthday, I would’ve gotten you a gift.” He chuckles nervously.
All I can do is look at his shoes. His lovely, well-made cognac shoes.
“Listen, Max, this is a family thing, so …”
“I just want to talk.” He holds his hands out like he comes in peace. “It doesn’t have to be now. We can meet…”
My gaze drifts from his shoes to the gravel. “Sure.”
“How about that Italian place we went to on my last night? Is it still open?” he asks. There’s cheer in his voice, but I don’t look up to see if there’s a smile attached. Heat simmers low in my belly. How I tried to remember his voice for years, and now it’s here, huskier and deeper, still strumming something inside of me.
“Sure,” I say. Keep your eyes down. Don’t look.
“Do you want me to pick you—”
“No!” I shout. I look up for a quick second, and that’s a mistake. His eyes are arresting and so much like Olive’s I have to look away. I can’t blurt out my secret right now. I will do it in a classy way. A dignified way, after two to three cocktails.
“I’ll meet you there. Six o’clock. La Scarola. It’s on Rosella Drive. In Auburn,” I say.
“Perfect. I can find it then. Can I get your number?” he asks.
