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“I should’ve taken you up on the offer,” I say, “for a car. I know it could seem…”
“It’s fine,” he cuts in. “Petey, be nice. He’s been through a lot.”
It doesn’t seem fine, but he clearly doesn’t want to discuss it. Leaning forward, I slowly raise my hand toward Petey, keeping my voice low as I call him a good boy. I keep talking, moving closer, and the growling stops. Then he creeps forward and nervously paws at my hand. I let him do it a few times until he turns, looking at me.
When I stroke him, he whines. I snatch my hand away.
“That’s a noise he makes sometimes,” Max says. “I think it means he likes it.”
“Oh.”
As if to prove this, Petey backs up to the edge of the porch, glaring at me as if to say, Why did you stop? I stroke him for a while, laughing as he whines, then Max chuckles, but it doesn’t sound real. He might not come right out and say it, but he’s annoyed about Jane dropping me off.
“Shall we get started?” he says, gesturing to the house.
I look up at the property. “This place is amazing.”
“I inherited it,” he says bluntly, then walks into the house, his broad shoulders squared, his hands tightly fisted at his sides.
I think about what he told me, his childhood with the dogs, as Petey turns and follows him into the house.
So there it is. The explanation is an inheritance, but for some reason, I don’t believe it.
Framed books line the hallways. I stop to gaze in awe at a few of them. There’s a first edition of The Great Gatsby and several others, some old Victorian ones. Max watches me from the end of the hallway, his hands in his pockets.
I wonder if he’s studying me as intently as I study him. I notice every twitching muscle in his forearms, his eyes narrowed and focused, and a vein in his neck pulsing, like he’s holding a lot back.
“This place is incredible,” I tell him.
Petey whines up at me as if I’m taking too long. We walk through a large, lobby-style area with a vaulted ceiling and down another hallway through a big oak door. We walk into a room filled with mirrors and light and a foam chair in the middle. On the metal counters, tattoo stuff gleams.
“Wait here,” Max says, then leans down to scoop up Petey.
“Will he be okay on his own? He looks…”
“I found him two days ago in a crack den. I’ve got friends staying here. They’ll watch over him.”
In a crack den? Is he kidding? Before I can ask, he leaves the room. I look around at the tools on the counter, my reflection, my strappy dress—more accessible for him to get to my shoulder—and my legs on display. Suddenly, it seems too much, like I’m trying too hard.
I shouldn’t want him this badly—not my professor—but I can’t stop myself. I’m not that scared piggy anymore. That’s what they called me, and they were wrong. They were always wrong.
A minute later, he returns, closing the door behind him. His jaw is pulsing. It’s like he’s on the verge of doing something, grabbing me, kissing me. It’s like he’s constantly on the edge. Or maybe it’s the ride thing. I should probably drop it.
“Do you think I could get a ride home after?” I say quietly. “It doesn’t have to be with you. Or maybe I can call a cab.”
“Won’t your friend be picking you up?” he asks, not seeming angry, more curious.
“I told her I would handle it. I kind of… Well, I messed up coming with her, didn’t I? She’s my aunt, not my friend. I mean, I guess she’s my friend too.”
Max walks over to the tools, his back to me. They rattle in the metal tray as he arranges them. Are his hands shaking?
“Your aunt,” he repeats.
“Aunt Jane, yeah. She just split up with her fiancé. He cheated on her, apparently.”
“Apparently? You don’t believe her?”
I place my handbag down, shrugging. “I don’t know. It’s just something people say.”
He turns to me. His icy blues are cold. “But when you spoke just now, maybe I’m crazy, but it sounded like you didn’t believe her.”
“Sometimes, she gives me… vibes, okay? I don’t know why you’re so interested.”
He shrugs and turns back to the tools. I want to stride across the room and bury my hands in his back, feel the strength, the firmness, all thirty-eight years of steaminess right there for me. I’m longing for it more and more each second, struggling to believe how badly I want it, want him.
“Sometimes, I think she’s just a little weird,” I go on. “That’s all. Don’t tell anybody I said this.”
“I won’t.”
“She just split with her fiancé, but she’s acting so upbeat sometimes. Then she’ll be mean and then upbeat again. Then, when it suits her, like when Mom asked her to clean up the coffee table this morning, she was suddenly upset about her fiancé again. I don’t know.”
