Page 34 of In Your Wake

“Didn’t I say it wouldn’t happen?”

“I figured I’d ask again. After you’ve slept on things. I tried to ask you last night at the cemetery, but you seemed in a hurry.”

She steps closer, then tucks her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “I’ve thought about it.”

My brow lifts in surprise. “And?”

She stands close enough that I smell her sweet scent. Even though I’m a foot taller than her, I feel dwarfed when she rolls her shoulders back and juts her chin confidently. It’s something in her eyes. Determination. Strength. Fearlessness. And when she lets it out, it’s fucking captivating.

“Though I’d rather stick hot knives under my fingernails, this isn’t just about me. Others rely on the inn, and it matters to them, so…” She breathes out slowly, glancing around and rolling her eyes. A glimmer of excitement ignites in my stomach. Actual excitement, which is weird. “We can try to work something out.”

“Work something out, together?”

Chewing her bottom lip, she nods hesitantly as if agreeing to something unimaginable. We’re not exactly forgiving each other or moving on, but she’s meeting me part of the way and I’ll take it because it feels like the biggest win I’ve had in a long time.

“This is good, Max.”

I realize my mistake as she narrows her gaze.

“Sorry, Maxine. I’ve got some ideas—”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t get carried away. This won’t end well, so we’ll need to discuss a few things first.”

I frown, take a deep breath and then force a smile. “Sure. Of course. But come on, don’t be so pessimistic. Things are going to work out fine.”

She cocks her head, doubt filling her face and revealing the sorrow in her eyes she’d been hiding until now. “Christ, Mitchell. When did you get to be so fucking naive?”

Max

He still doesn’t see it. After all these years.

After me telling him straight up how I feel. How things will always be. He just doesn’t see it. Doesn’t pick up on how little I trust him or can even stand to be near him. Even here on the sidewalk, there’s a world of distance between us.

And yet we’re so close that I can’t help taking deep breaths of his sexy cologne, or noting how his dark jeans stress against his thick thighs. Or wondering how soft his crisp white shirt is and how smooth his skin might be under those rolled-up sleeves.

He looks so casual, simple, and… sexy. And I fucking hate myself for noticing.

Does he do it to draw attention? To make people stop and stare at his wide shoulders and broad chest, to absorb every ounce of his stupid charisma?

“Why am I naive?” he asks, his dark brow furrowed.

I blink, realizing I’m staring. “Because you still think the inn is savable. I mean, I guess you could help with that, but as far as you and me working together?” I shake my head. “It’ll end bloody and messy.”

“But how are we supposed to work together, if we can’t… work together?” He arches an eyebrow, but his eyes are lit up with amusement.

My unspoken words slam against my closed lips, but then a man and his young son appear.

“Bam-Bam Adams?” he asks.

Mitchell’s gaze hardens, his mouth sets in a grim line as he turns his head slightly.

“Sorry to bother you, but we’re huge fans,” the guy continues. “Can we get a picture?”

“Sure,” Mitch answers, his left eyebrow twitching. Then he forces a smile and wraps his arms around the pair and poses for a selfie.

I use the welcome distraction to duck away, eager to get as far from our awkward conversation as possible.

Inside, the brewery is bustling with people. Rock hits from the seventies and eighties play at a low enough volume to not overwhelm the din of conversation, but loud enough that I recognize the notes of Lynyrd Skynyrd fading into some Def Leppard. Ever the fan of classic rock, I have no doubt Mitchell influenced tonight’s playlist.