Chapter 57 Porcelain pieces
Veronica's POV:
"Thank you so much," I said to the maid... with genuine gratitude, warming my voice as I gathered my dishes and brought them to the sink.
She was already there, rinsing plates under the stream of water in a robotic way...
Usually it was only her loading the dishes into the dishwasher.
Most of the other maids worked on different tasks throughout the sprawling beach house—laundry, dusting, organizing—but she seemed to handle the kitchen alone.
"Do you need any help?" I asked, hovering near the counter.
She glanced at me, surprise flickering across her features. "No, thank you. I've got it."
But I stood there reluctantly, unable to make myself leave. She'd just revealed a significant family secret to me, something she absolutely didn't have to do. Something that could probably get her in trouble if the brothers found out.
The least I could do was help her with some dishes.
It was only nine in the morning. I had hours until the afternoon, hours until I needed to get ready for my date with Max... I'd spend hours anxiously overthinking everything the maid had told me about competition and trauma and old patterns resurfacing.
Or I could stay here and do something useful.
"I insist," I said firmly, moving to stand beside her at the sink. "Please. Let me help."
She studied my face for a moment, then said, "Alright then, Miss Whitmore. You can dry and stack."
We fell into an easy rhythm—her washing, me drying with a clean kitchen towel and placing the dishes in careful stacks on the counter. The repetitive motions were soothing, almost meditative.
"So the other maids," I ventured after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "they don't really seem to be assisting you with this."
The maid sighed, her hands pausing in the soapy water. "That's not how it works. The Ashfords keep only the most trusted ones in their dwelling areas. The kitchen, the bedrooms, the private spaces—only certain staff are allowed in those areas."
"Is that so..." I murmured, thinking about my own family.
My father operated the same way, now that I think about it. Concentric circles of trust, with only the innermost ring allowed access to the truly private moments of our lives. It was both a security measure and a test of loyalty.
"It's the same in most wealthy families," she continued, scrubbing at a stubborn spot on a plate. "Trust is currency. And in a house like this—"
"What's going on here?"
A masculine voice cut through our conversation, making both of us jump.
Max.
The maid practically leaped away from the sink, her posture immediately shifting to something more formal, more deferential. And I—
I fumbled the porcelain plates I'd been holding.
They slipped from my hands in a slow motion... tumbling toward the tile floor. Then came the crash... which was spectacular, sharp and echoing in the kitchen... as the plates shattered into dozens of pieces that scattered across the kitchen floor like sharp-edged stars.
"Oh no," I breathed, staring down at the destruction I'd caused.
The shards were everywhere, creating a treacherous minefield around my feet.
White porcelain pieces, some as large as my palm, others tiny and nearly invisible, all of them sharp enough to cut. I was wearing thin house slippers, nothing that would protect me if I tried to move.
"Stay right there," Max commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.
I heard him set something down—his surfboard, probably—and then the sound of his footsteps approaching. But I couldn't look at the floor anymore, couldn't focus on the broken dishes or the mess I'd made.
Because when I looked up at Max, my breath caught in my throat.
He was soaked. Completely, thoroughly soaked from his morning surf session.
His dark hair was plastered onto his head, water still dripping down his face, his neck, following the lines of his jaw. His tank top clung to his chest and abs like a second skin, damn the wet fabric on him... it was leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
And his board shorts hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp V-lines of his lower abdomen and the continuation of his tattoos—ink that wound down past his waistband in patterns I could only partially see.
Water droplets clung to his skin, caught in the hollow of his collarbone, tracing the defined muscles of his arms.
The tattoos on his forearms seemed to shimmer with moisture... And that bracelet—the rose quartz bracelet I'd given him—was still on his wrist, somehow making the whole picture even more devastating.
Gods.
The soaked version of Max was even more impossibly attractive than the dry one.
My heart didn't just skip—it stuttered, stumbled, forgot entirely how to maintain a steady rhythm.
Heat flooded my face, my neck, spreading down through my chest. I tried to remember how to breathe normally, how to think about anything other than the way water was sliding down his throat... how to not imagine what those defined abs would feel like under my fingers—
And just like that, I lost my balance.
My foot slipped on a piece of porcelain, or maybe my knees just gave out from the overwhelming rush of attraction I felt for Max...
Either way, I stumbled... and I started to fall toward the floor—toward all those sharp pieces of broken plate.
"Veronica!" Max's voice was sharp with alarm. "Hold on..." he shouted, deeply.
But how can I?! I'd already lost all the balance I had for myself... and fell... almost...
Thankfully, Max was fast. He'd caught my waist before I could do further damage to myself.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
I couldn't speak... But I felt it... the sting in my arm. Except for that, I was fine everywhere else.
"Veronica," he said again, and lifted me off the ground in his arms. And this, being so close to him, was much more stinging than the shards of plate could.... this was just too much.