She opens one eye. “I’m networking.”
“Yeah, you’re doing a great job. Come on.”
“The fire?—“
“I’ve got the fire.” He scoops her up in one motion, and she makes a sound of protest that immediately becomes a sound of complete surrender as her head drops against his shoulder. He carries her past me toward the door, and I watch through my eyelashes as Piper reaches up with one hand and pats his face.
“You’re a good husband,” she announces.
“I try.”
“Ten out of ten,” she mumbles. “Tell Max I said so.”
“Tell him yourself,” Chase says.
“Max,” Piper declares to nobody. “Ten out of ten.” Then she is inside.
I hear Knox’s voice, low. Then Sophie’s surprised murmuras she wakes, then giggling, then the sound of people gathering coats. Harper’s measured goodbye. The slide of the door. The yard goes soundless.
Then footsteps. And I know which ones they are.
“She’s asleep,” Chase reports.
“I can see that.”
“I’m not leaving her out here. It’s October, it’s forty degrees, and she’s got one blanket.”
“Of course not! I’ll take care of her.” A pause.
“Max—” Chase warns.
“Chase.” His voice is even. “I’ve got her. Go take care of your wife.” A long pause. Then: “She’s my sister’s new friend.” Max continues.
“I know what she is.” Another pause. Then the door. The yard goes completely still. The fire pops once. I count to ten.
“You can open your eyes,” he says. “You’ve been awake since we came through the door.” I open my eyes. Max Stevens stands on the other side of the fire pit with his hands in his jacket pockets and an expression I still haven't filed anywhere. He’s in a gray henley and dark jeans, hair slightly messed from whatever chaos Chuck E. Cheese apparently inflicts on adults. He looks warm and tired and annoyingly, unfairly real.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“You were breathing wrong for someone asleep.” He tilts his head. “Also your eyelashes were doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you’re watching.” He pulls the second Adirondack chair from beside the wall and positions it in frontof the embers and drops into it. Not too close. Close enough. “How much wine?”
I consider lying. “Enough that I should not bear responsibility for anything I say for the next forty-five minutes.”
“Noted.” He reaches past the arm of his chair and adds a piece of wood to the fire. It catches fast, and the warmth expands, and I burrow further into the blanket.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say.
“Chase asked me to.”
“You volunteered.”
He looks at the fire. “Yeah.” The wood catches fire, and warm light spreads across his jawline and throat. I watch longer than I should.
“They have a group chat,” I say. “The husbands. They call me the Max Whisperer.”
