Max sits on a lawn chair in the living room, a mug of coffee in one hand and an iPad in the other. He wears black sweatpants that look sexier than any pair of sweatpants should be allowed to look, and a gray T-shirt that hugs tightly to his well-defined chest. The man is a dreamboat even when he’s slummin’ it.
“You want some coffee?”
“Yes.”
I don’t even look at him as I walk past him to the kitchen where I pour myself a cup of blonde roast. Not looking only does so much. He’s still here. Still just a few feet away, looking like what the teenagers calla snack.
I tell myself not to get all loopy and drooly and heart-eye-emoji around him. But it doesn’t matter what my brain tells my heart—they are two fundamentally different organs and my heart seems to win out every single time. Throw me into a burning building and my brain will take over, knowing I should crawl down low, cover my mouth with a wet cloth to avoid breathing in toxic fumes, and get out as fast as possible.
But put me in a room with Max Spenser? I’m a goner, apparently. Too swoony-eyed and butterfly-stomached to function as a rational human being. My brain knows how to save me. My heart, well, I think that thing is working against me. It’s out to get me. It wants me to suffer.
Ugh, I’m so disgusted in myself I could scream. Maybe I should scream. Maybe screaming would help.
“You okay?” Max asks. “Looks like your mind is running on overdrive.”
I shrug and try to put on a passive, apathetic expression while I stir powdered creamer into my coffee. “I’m fine.”
“I think you’re lying.”
I look up at him. He offers me that soft, comforting smile of his. His smile always has a way of breaking through my hardened exterior. I feel myself melt a bit. Them I shrug it off and remember the problem at hand.
“So, here’s the thing,” I say. If I treat him like the guy who is remodeling my house instead of the guy I kissed last night, maybe I can solve two problems. “I’m going to be interviewed for Clark TV. They want to come to my house to set up their cameras and cushy chairs and stuff so Zoey can interview me.”
“Wow, that’s awesome,” Max says, his face lighting up. “I had no idea you were so famous.”
I shrug. “I’m not. Well… not before now. This is a big deal, and it’s a life changer for my career and,” I toss my hands up gesturing to the mess around us. “My house isn’t ready.”
“When is the interview?”
“Four days.”
Determination sharpens his features. He nods. “We can do it all in four days.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. If we get to work now, we’ll be good. Appliances are almost here. I can take all the construction trash to the dumpster. There’s not much left.”
“That would be awesome,” I say, looking around and trying to visualize my house being done and shiny and perfect.
He stands, chugging the rest of his coffee in one gulp. I try to look away from his bicep, from the angle of his jaw, the coffee mug pressed to his lips.
“Let’s get to work.”
Nine
The appliances arrivethe next day and Max helps the delivery guy hook them up in the kitchen. They look amazing, and even better—now I can put my cold food somewhere besides my neighbor’s house. Every time I swing by to get something from her fridge, she makes a comment about Max, as if she can’t understand why I’m not falling madly in love with him. I guess I have a good poker face.
The last of the paint touchups are done, thanks to my newfound skills as a painter. I may have suddenly forgotten how to write, but I can paint. We get all the light figures replaced with modern, sleek new designs, and the light switch and electrical outlet covers get replaced with crisp new ones. Max and I hang curtain rods and tail the address number onto the front of the house, just under the porch. We get everything cleaned up and Max even takes me to the furniture store and lets me use his truck to haul a new couch and some bedroom furniture. We get a cute kitchen table and chairs from a local thrift shop.
Max and I are up at six in the morning every day, working constantly, only taking a break for lunch and dinner, which we get at the diner. Everything comes together so quickly. My hallway boxes are easy to unpack once all the renovation clutter is gone. In just three short days, the house is ready.Myhouse is ready. It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.
My new gray couch is as comfortable as it is beautiful. My artwork on the walls is a mixture of new stuff I found in town and the old stuff I brought with me. Max has been a huge help by driving me everywhere and letting me use the bed of his truck to haul all my new stuff. I’ve blown through pretty much all of the huge book advance I got for my new series, but it’ll be worth it if I look amazing in my TV interview.
To celebrate the house being done and the kitchen being functional, I cook us dinner on the third night after we’ve finished everything. It’s just a simple lasagna made from the recipe they print on the box of noodles, but Max can’t stop complimenting it.
“This is really good,” he says, his mouth full. He’s on his third piece of lasagna and he’s devoured half of the garlic bread. I wish I could eat like a man and stay as sexy as he is. If I were to say that out loud, he’d probably mention all those salads he also eats to balance out his diet. So I don’t say it out loud. I’m a junk food fiend for life, baby.
I shake the thought from my mind. Max is not allowed to be sexy. I can’t think that. I certainly can’t let my mind drift back toward that night when we kissed under the incredibly romantic lights he installed on my porch. The best part of staying so busy the last few days was that it gave me very little time to think about things I shouldn’t think about.
