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When Christian answers his phone,something I’ve noticed he always does in public no matter what the occasion, it’s just another reason I’m keeping him on a tight leash when it comes to actually weaving himself into my life. It’s not like we have anything particularly in common, but he was pretty insistent, so I just kind of went with it and here we are, still dating after a couple of months and me still apologising for his rudeness.
I blink as I bring my eyes back up from the floor and then there’s the stunning yet sad and broken emo prince in front of me. His voice a little off kilter, his stance too, and I could almost laugh at the orange juice in his glass. But his gorgeous hazel eyes? If a little lost they are shining as bright and not that I’m checking him out or anything because that would be entirely unprofessional but damn, he’s filling out that shirt well. His life falling to pieces clearly is helping his work out game… I mean between you and me that is.
Max Baines.
If I’m honest this fine yet so broken specimen of a man could be the main reason I haven’t let another man this close to my heart for a very long time.
Hang on, we’re being honest, aren’t we? He is the main reason.
“Hey you,” he mumbles, those hazel eyes looking straight at me, like they are searching for something.
“Hi, Max.” His name rolls off of my tongue easier than it should. I’ve told myself I’m still mad with him. The man broke my trust, he broke my heart, and I promised myself it would be easier without him in my life. So why are my palms sweaty, why is my voice high and my arms covered in goose-bumps?
“So how have you been?” he asks me in that charismatic way he always has. Like he genuinely cares what the answer is.
“I’m fine. You? You look really good.” I blush as soon as I say it. Why did I say that? I had wondered if he’d be here. I know Tristian Titchwell is the guys’ new manager and I can’t be angry at that because I was the one who quit, and I’d already spied Titch at this function earlier but I hadn’t clocked any of the other guys. Until now that is.
Max swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
“Yeah, I’m doing really well.” It’s not a lie. I don’t think. He does look good. He certainly doesn’t look high. Or drunk even. Both legs are out of the cast. He does look good. He does. That’s not me flirting or hoping or wondering, he genuinely looks… healthy.
“Ali, I’m sorry,” he blurts, and then he moves one of those large hands to his mouth, and we both know he didn’t mean to say that, it just came out. He doesn’t look in charge of his mouth right now. A bit like me. But if he’s as nervous as I am right now, he has a good way of covering it. But then he should. He’s the playboy prince of rock for fuck’s sake. Not much scares him.
“Max, leave it,” I tell him sharply. We’re in the middle of a function for the record label we both work for. If there’s a time for this conversation it certainly isn’t here.
“I can’t. I need you to know how much I mean it. I miss you, Ali.”
Eurgh, he just had to say it didn’t he, and my stupid, treacherous heart had to behave the same way it always does when his lips form the nickname only he has for me and start doing those crazy little back flips.
Ali. I think he’s the only person in the world that calls me that. In fact, I know he is. It started as a bit of a joke, I told him my name was Alison and he called me Ali straight away. A cocky, indulged nineteen-year-old at the time. He was gorgeous then, in that untouchable rockstar kind of way. I was twenty-five. Old enough to know that being another notch on this lad’s bed post would be a silly mistake. And it would have been. Max had a sparkle in his eye even back then. Him and the boys were going to be massive and although I’d proven myself at Grain Records already as a manager, I knew they wouldn’t have given me Blank Space if they’d have guessed how huge they were really going to be.
“Max, please.” I gesture over at Christian at the same time Max makes the space between us smaller. I hold my breath because, God damn, he smells good up close. That subtle woodsy cologne, a bit of hair gel, a little something that is him and the combination just screams MAN.
All fucking man.
“Please. Let me say sorry properly. How long are you in town for? Let me at least buy you dinner.”
I shake my head, my eyes imploring for him to understand even if my own head’s not playing ball. We’re so close. The air’s so thick around us. The last time we were this close together we both leaned in, and our lips met. Just for a second, if it should or not that’s a completely different question. But it happened and one look into those gorgeous hazel eyes has me struggling to remember the part of my brain that ever thought kissing Max Baines was a bad idea.
“Please. Let me try and tell you what a stupid self-absorbed twat I am. Let me say sorry.” His voice is low, pleading, and if my arms are not already covered in goosebumps then this will be a miracle.
“Max, I don’t think we should go for dinner.” I gesture towards Christian, who appears to be wrapping up his phone call. That sad, sorry look covers Max’s gorgeous features. He’s a little crestfallen. My eyes flit to Christian and then back to Max with not half the amount of guilt they should have as his eyes find mine again.
“How about I come to yours on Saturday? I’m due to fly to France Sunday afternoon with my new band Failed Obsessions. But we could grab a drink before I go?” I hesitate, look away and somehow manage to put my professional voice back in place where it should be. “A coffee?”
“Ali, I’d love that. It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date, Max. It’s just two people that used to work together catching up,” I assure him, trying to make my voice sound like I believe it. That I’m not secretly thrilled that me and Max might actually be able to talk about what happened between us. And certainly not that I’m just plain excited that we’ll be alone together again.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever you want to call it.” His voice has that cocky air to it and I have to cut him off as I see Christian walking back towards us. Tucking his phone in his navy tailored suit pocket. I give Max the look that I’ve given him many a time over the nearly ten years I’ve known him. He knows exactly what it means. It means ‘keep your mouth shut, Baines, if you know what’s good for you,’ and this time unlike so many times in the past he does just that. I nod at him and the cheeky fucker winks at me before taking what is, I presume, a celebratory sip of his orange juice.
