I’m only able to hand him a boxed dinner while also working on a new plan for one of the pitchers, and I barely look at him. I feel lost, frustrated, and confused. It didn’t help matters when the detective assigned to my case in Commerce City called to say there were no leads, and that if I could continue staying elsewhere, he advised it. Apparently the landlord put a crappy door on my apartment, with an even flimsier lock, and the detective suggested I steer clear.
I’ve never been very sentimental about things, and my apartment included mostly thrifted furniture based on needs, not on comfort or appearance. Other than my clothes, the only things I truly wanted were a box of figurines and photos from my childhood, and my guinea pigs. Everything else doesn’t matter. Still, I hate feeling like I don’t have my own space, and having to depend on someone for a simple thing like housing.
On occasion, I stay late to interact with the players after a game. I want to see how they felt, if they want changes to their game day schedule, and chat about upcoming road trips. Tonight, however, I hauled ass out of the Clubhouse as soon as the final out had beencalled. I was so keyed up I couldn’t focus on the game, and I wanted to get back to Max’s apartment before him so I could lock myself in the guest room.
Last night, he left me alone, most likely due to his respecting the emotional upheaval I’d had when I found my apartment trashed, but I don’t know if he’ll do the same thing tonight. Honestly, I don’t know Max that well. I think he’ll respect boundaries, like a closed door, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.
It’s probably not the best choice to be running a couple of blocks between the ballpark and Max’s building this late at night, but I figure enough people are leaving the game that I’ll be fine. As soon as I enter the apartment, my girls squeak in tandem, and I quickly toss some fresh fruit into their cage before escaping into the guest room. Swiftly hosing down in the shower to wash the day off, I’m applying my skincare when I hear the front door open. Inwardly cursing, I turn off the lights, jump into bed, and try not to make a sound as I hear Max walk down the hall toward me.
He lightly knocks on the door. “Lay? You awake?”
I don’t answer, then listen as something hits the door. I hear him sigh, and imagine he’s rested his head against the wood.
“Shit,” he murmurs. “I really need to talk to you. You must have flown out of there, because I thought for sure I’d catch you at the ballpark. I’m in meetings all day tomorrow, and … I need to talk to you, Peaches.”
I have to strain to hear every word, my heartbeat pounding so loudly in my ears I swear Max might hear it. He sounds frustrated. Tortured even. Not the normal Max. I should stay quiet. Make him think I’m already asleep. Even I’m surprised when I hear myself say, “Max, I’m awake.”
He pushes the door open, striding quickly into the room. Crouching beside the bed, his dark eyes intently locked on mine, he studies me for a moment before speaking. “Are you okay? I know I usually stay later than you, but you flew out of there faster than I’ve ever noticed. And trust me, Layla. I’ve always noticed.”
My lips twitch as I fight a smile. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says, his breath coming out in a loud whoosh. “I’m surprised you haven’t called me out on it. Holloway certainly noticed. Dante did too. So tell me. Why’d you run out of there?”
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out. What am I supposed to say? Well, Max, I’m freaked about my apartment getting broken into, and I’d never have told you about it if you hadn’t shown up that night, because you were giving me the cold shoulder anyway. And now I’m in your apartment, and I have this other guy who I don’t even know what he really looks like, but he wants to see me again. Plus, I want to know what happened on that call with your agent, and why things feel so weird now. Instead, I come up with, “I really don’t feel well. Jet lag or something, I guess. Plus everything with my apartment. I’m exhausted.”
His eyes ping between mine, and I see the moment he knows I’m not being honest, but he nods. “Alright.”
I watch as he stands, then hesitates as he looks between me and the door. “You mentioned something you wanted to speak to me about?”
Max shakes his head. “It can wait. Do the guinea pigs need anything?”
“No, I gave them some fruit when I got home.”
“Okay.” Max takes a step toward the door, then hesitates. “May I ask you for a favor?”
“Sure.”
I watch as he closes his eyes, then takes a deep breath before blurting out, “Can I sleep in here tonight? If you’re not feeling well, I’d like to be here in case you need anything. If I’m across the apartment, I won’t hear you if you call for me. And I doubt I’ll sleep if I’m in my room anyway. Or we can go to my room, because the bed is bigger. I swear I won’t try anything, Peaches. I just want to be close to you … if you need me.”
I fail to hide the smile that breaks across my face. This grumpy man infuriates me left and right, but the sweetness that only I seem to see is so perfect. I only hope the rest of the team realizes what agenuine man he is. “I’m okay with that. With either bed, I mean. Wherever.”
His answering grin is immediate, relief etched across his face. He’s smiling so wide that, even in the dark, I can see a hint of a dimple on one cheek. Reaching down, he takes my hand. “Come on. I would very much like to have you in my bed. To sleep. Nothing else. Wait. Can I hold you? Is that allowed? Unless you think you’re going to puke. With all due respect, Lay, if you’re feeling like that, I’ll understand if you would rather be alone.”
I giggle. “No puke. Promise. Cuddling is fine.”
Max pulls me to my feet, then strides out of the guest room. It’s somewhat calming, and very domesticated, him holding my hand as we walk across the apartment to the primary bedroom. I’ve steered clear of the space so far, out of respect for him, but also as a way to protect my own sanity. It’s bad enough being in his apartment. Now, as I walk into his bedroom, I’m hit with an overwhelming feeling of how perfect the space is for him.
While the rest of the apartment is fairly stark, with hardly any furnishings or knick-knacks other than basic furniture, Max’s bedroom paints a different picture. Soft lighting along the walls highlight a dark gray textured wallpaper. The same plank flooring throughout the apartment continues in the room, but a thick area rug sits beneath a massive four-poster bed covered in a thick light gray duvet. While his bed certainly has fewer pillows than most women have, he still has quite a few dotting a quilted headboard. A light blue bench sits at the foot of the bed, covered in a thick and chunky hand-crocheted blanket in navy. Dark walnut furniture, including a dresser and chest of drawers, fills the remainder of the space.
I’m immediately drawn to the only wall bare of furniture, as it’s covered in a large piece of art. I reflexively reach out, gasping in surprise when I recognize the texture as wood. It’s at least six or seven feet long and four feet tall, and the individual wooden squares are all carved with a circle pattern. The heights varythroughout the squares, and the colors move from dark gray to turquoise to navy. “This is gorgeous!”
“A guy I went to high school with designed it. It’s meant to give you the feeling of riding an ocean wave.”
I drag my fingers along the piece, reveling in how intricate the design is. “It’s phenomenal. Is it new?”
“No,” Max answers simply. When I raise an eyebrow in question, he shrugs. “It’s my favorite thing I’ve ever had designed. I had it in my house in Bridge Point, and I couldn’t think about leaving it there. It’s always brought me peace to look at it, and I wanted it here for that same reason.”
“Does it come apart into each individual square?” I ask, leaning forward to study the seams between each piece. “It must have been difficult to put it back together.”
