“You were scared?” I asked, surprised.
“Terrified.” His hands slid down to my waist, pulling me flush against him. “And then when I heard what he was saying to you, I saw red. Nobody talks to you like that, Frankie.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Is that what this was? You defending your fake girlfriend’s honor?”
“There’s nothing fake about how I feel when some asshole disrespects you.”
The intensity in his eyes stole my breath, but before I could process what that meant, he pulled back slightly.
“Come on,” he said. “We need to get ready for dinner. Wear the blue dress tonight.” His hand slid down to cup my hip, possessive and sure. “I want Leo spending the entire dinner regretting every word he said to you.”
“How did you know about the blue dress?”
“I pay attention.” His thumb traced slow circles on my hip. “To everything about you.”
And then he was kissing me, not gentle, not asking—claiming. And I kissed him back with everything I had.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
“Come on,” he said, taking my hand. “Let’s go face the music. And Frankie?”
“Yeah?”
His smile turned wicked. “Next time Leo looks at you wrong, I’ll try and restrain myself and let you punch him yourself.”
“How did you know I was about to do that?”
“Because I know you, Frankie.”
I laughed, following him back down the trail, my hand warm in his. Behind us, Leo’s shattered glass glinted in the fading light — a fitting end to his attempt to make me doubt.
But I wasn’t doubting anymore.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Max
I sat on the edge of the bed, my elbows on my knees, waiting for Frankie to get dressed. I’d showered first, giving her plenty of time to do whatever women do. She’d made me close my eyes as she’d come out of the bathroom to put on her dress. Now, she was standing in front of the full-length mirror, her face flushed as she fumbled with the zipper. The fabric was a deep shade of midnight blue that made her skin look like cream, and every time she moved, it caught on the lush curve of her hips.
“I can’t — it’s stuck,” she muttered. “Maybe I should just wear the yellow one again. Wearing this one is a mistake.”
I stepped behind her, my hands heavy and warm on her shoulders. I felt her shiver, a violent little tremor that said so much. I reached down, my knuckles brushing her back as I eased the zipper up.
“It’s not a mistake. It’s a statement. And you’re wearing it perfectly.”
I turned her around. She looked small against me, soft and dangerous, and the way she was looking up at me — wide-eyed and breathless — made me want to cancel the dinner and lock the door.
“They’re going to stare, Max,” she whispered.
“Oh, yeah. They will. The women will wish they had your curves and the men will wish they had you. I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to deck one or two.”
That made her smile. “As if.”
I tilted her face up to mine with a finger beneath her chin. “I’m serious, Frankie. You look gorgeous. Like a pocket-sized Venus.” To prove it, I leaned down, giving her one long, hard kiss. “Now put your shoes on and let’s get this over with.”
The cocktail hour was a sea of clinking glass and forced laughter. The air was thick with expensive perfume and the kind of family tension that usually ended with someone getting disowned. I kept my hand on the small of Frankie’s back, my thumb tracing the silk over her skin, keeping her anchored to me as we navigated the room.
I could already tell the Lone Mountain punch was flowing as fast as the expensive champagne Leo had imported. The punch was a local recipe — fruit, spice, and enough high-proof grain alcohol to fuel a tractor. Frankie grabbed one as a waiter passed by. Before I could warn her, my mother approached.
