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Max sits down on a armchair, leans forward, and rests his forearms on his thighs. He lifts his light green eyes to me, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard by how attractive he looks.
Nope. Mind out of the gutter. You need to have a serious talk.
“Is there any way we can come to an understanding?” I ask. “Just to make things easier for both of us.”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before answering, “I need to have eyes on you at all times when we’re out in public. What happened tonight can’t happen again.”
I clench my jaw and tighten my control on my temper. Getting angry won’t help.
“You could’ve knocked or, at the very least, opened the door like a normal person.”
“A second’s delay can mean the difference between life and death,” he mutters.
I stare at him momentarily before admitting, “I’m supposed to feel safe with you, but you scared me tonight. After bursting into the restroom, there were a couple of minutes where I really thought you might lose your shit and hurt me. That can’t happen again.”
I’m surprised when I see a flicker of guilt on his face, and for some unknown reason, it makes me feel better.
“It wasn’t my intention to scare you,” he says. His features soften enough to break the serious expression always carved into his face. “I’m here to keep you safe. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
Giving him a pleading look, I ask, “Can you try to be less robotic? Please?”
I can see he struggles to find the words, then he explains, “I’m used to working alone and rarely spend time with people. Just go on with your life and pretend I’m not here.”
Disappointment fills my chest, but I’m not ready to give up. “It would be easier if we both made an effort to get along. You’re in my life for the unforeseeable future. We might as well try to be friends.”
Max’s face turns to stone again. “I’m not here to be your friend.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “Would it kill you to try?”
He stares at me with an expression that gives me the impression it might actually kill him to be friends with me.
The thought hits like a ten-pound hammer.
He doesn’t like me.
Why does it upset me?
Slowly I start to nod my head, and rising to my feet, I say, “Fine. I won’t push the subject.” I pick up my pair of high heels, and walking to the staircase, I use my professional tone as I add, “By the way, if you ever grab my hair again, I swear to all that’s holy I’ll smother you in your sleep.”
My threat does nothing to Max, and he just watches me head up the stairs.
Chapter 9
Max
What a fucking shit show.
Long after Camille retired to her bedroom, I sit in the living room thinking about the disaster the night was.
Did I need to burst into the restroom?
No.
Could I have handled the situation better?
Yes.
Would I do things differently if I had a chance?
