The worst part is that it’s been another three days and I haven’t written a single word for my new manuscript. I set my fork down, suddenly no longer hungry now that my stomach is in knots of anxiety. There is still so much work to do. How am I supposed to sit through my interview with Zoey and pretend I’m a professional author when I haven’t even started my new book yet?
“Thanks again for dinner,” Max says, reaching for another piece of garlic bread. “It’s been a long time since someone has made me a meal.”
“You deserve, like, five hundred homecooked meals for all the help you’ve been,” I say, forcing a smile while my mind is still worrying about my interview tomorrow.
“Nah,” he says, standing up and taking our plates to the sink. To my surprise, he starts washing them. I want to tell him not to worry about it, that it’s my house and my dishes and I’ll wash them but the sight of him standing there, all muscular and tanned skin from doing construction work, putting his talents to use in the kitchen is just so incredibly sexy.
My brain kicks on, my imaginary personification of it stands tall and pushes my heart out of the way. My brain works on overtime, trying so hard to tell my heart what it needs to hear: that crushing on Max will only lead to trouble.
“I can get out of here tonight,” Max says, after drying and putting away the dishes.
“Huh?” I’m so stuck in my own thoughts, I was only half paying attention and I’m not sure what he just said.
“I’ll leave tonight,” he clarifies, drying his hands on a dish towel. “With the renovations done, it’s all your house now.”
“Don’t be silly.” I wave my hand toward him. “It’s almost dark outside. You can stay tonight.”
“You sure?”
As sure as I want to kiss you again.
I keep my thoughts to myself and just nod.
* * *
“Max?”
It’s not until two seconds after I knock on his door that I realize what this looks like. It’s one in the morning, and I’m waking him up. Typically, that means one thing.
Typically, it doesn’t mean a panic attack.
“Julie?” His voice is groggy from sleep. “Come in.”
I probably shouldn’t go into his room, but I can’t stop pacing. My heart races. I need to talk to someone. Annie didn’t answer her phone this late at night, and I need to talk.
“I’m freaking out,” I say after lightly pushing open the door.
He sits up on his air mattress. He’s shirtless, and that’s not even phasing me right now, which is a testament to how much I’m freaking out.
“I’m freaking out,” I say again while his eyes blink awake.
He stands, turning on the light. Concern darkens his features. “What’s wrong?”
My breathing is shallow. It feels like I’ve been running a marathon when all I’ve done for the last few hours is lay awake in bed. I open my mouth to talk but the words stick in my throat.
Finally, I think of something to say.
“Could you maybe put a shirt on?”
He smirks. “Sure.”
“Sorry,” I say, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease up just a bit. “It’s just…” I wave my hand in front of his chest. “Distracting.”
He smirks again. My knees get weak.
Then another wave of anxiety hits me and I remember why I’m in the middle of a panic attack.
“So what’s up?” he says, guiding me to the living room and sitting next to me on the couch.
