Chapter Fourteen

Like a lot of other people who often have sex without an emotional connection to one’s partner, I usually dislike all the stuff that comes after orgasm. The awkward cuddling and excusing myself to pee so I don’t get a UTI and the finding a nice way (or a blunt way) to explain that a sleepover isn’t happening. I don’t like sharing a bed, and I don’t like waking up with a stranger.

I should have known that everything with Max would be different.

The orgasm left me almost catatonic for a few minutes. I was vaguely aware of Max leaving the room to get rid of the condom, and I felt the mattress dip when he got back in bed. My body felt deliciously banged around, and my brain was mushy enough that I was almost dozing. I didn’t even squeak in protest when I felt Max’s fingers caress my face.

I did, however, shriek in pain when he yanked out one of my eyelash extensions. “Ow!” I smacked his arm as hard as I could. “What is wrong with you?”

He ignored my outburst, examining the eyelash between his fingers with fascination. “Look at this beast. It’s enormous. Stop your whining—they’re not real, right? How much could it hurt?”

In another bed, with another man, I probably would lie and say they were my natural lashes. But with Max, the filter between brain and mouth was just never where it was supposed to be. “It hurts a ton, you ass,” I snapped. “They’re stuck on with medical-grade glue. It hurts ten times more for you to pull out one of those than if you pull out a normal lash.”

Finally, he looked sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” A telltale flush on his neck. “I’ve just looked at your eyes so much lately. I’ve been curious. Why do you get fake eyelashes?”

What a dumb question. “Because I’m vain, you imbecile.” I was also a strawberry blonde, which meant my own lashes needed a heavy coat of mascara to be visible. With the extensions, I woke up already looking like my eyes were done for the day and without any smudging. A solid investment, in my book.

He rolled the lash between his fingers. “It feels like a pine needle.”

I started laughing. This was the oddest post-coital conversation. “You might be the strangest person I’ve ever had sex with.”

He looked between the lash and my face, laughing along with me. “Ditto.”

He blew the lash away very deliberately. Had he made a wish? Did wishes made on false lashes count? “Lie on your stomach,” he said.

Curious, I obeyed, curling my toes over the end of the mattress. Max pulled the sheet down, exposing my bare back. “You have a tramp stamp.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“You already knew that from the countdown picture on the Sex Ghost website.” I tried to yank the sheet back up to cover the tattoo at the base of my spine, but he wouldn’t let me.

“When did you get it?” he asked, dancing his fingers over the decorated skin.

I snorted. “When every girl gets a tramp stamp. I was eighteen.”

“Why did you choose an anchor?”

Normally, I deflected when someone asked this question. I’d say, “I just liked the design” or “I have a pirate fetish” or “I dream of sailing around the world someday.” I always found it kind of funny-sad that no one ever looked at me skeptically and commented that none of my explanations sounded like me.

Maybe that was why I didn’t lie to Max. If he hadn’t been skeptical, I would have been so disappointed. Which would have been idiotic since I’d known him for a matter of weeks.

Daniel and Kat were the only two people to whom I’d tried to explain why I’d chosen that particular image. Daniel had immediately co-opted the meaning, which I didn’t appreciate. Kat didn’t really understand, but that was my fault because my explanation to her was incomplete.

So I didn’t lie to Max. I didn’t tell the truth either though. Instead, I deftly changed the subject. I gave a dramatic sigh. “I’d like you to know that the phrase ‘tramp stamp’ was not in the common vernacular when I was eighteen. If it had been, I would not have chosen to get a tattoo on my lower back.”

I was rewarded with his laugh. His hand rubbed harder, from the base of my spine all the way up to my neck. I arched my back like a cat. I hadn’t had an unprofessional back rub in years. I meant to make a flirtatious comment, something along the lines of “You’re good with your hands.” But what actually popped out was “I like the way you touch me.”

I immediately stiffened. That sounded both goofy and way too serious. I should probably get up and go now. It was definitely time to make a graceful exit. But Max just chuckled again and lay next to me, so close that we brushed against one another from shoulder to toe.

“Good.”

In the middle of the night, cozy in a nest of blankets and comforter, I was shaken awake by large hands and an irritated, sleepy voice in my ear. “Stop stealing all the warmth, woman.”

I snuggled in deeper. Poor Max had fallen victim to my patented covers-hogging move in which I somehow cocooned all the top layers of the bed around myself and secured them to me with my body weight. Kat has told me many times that this technique is not only stealthy but impossible to unravel without my cooperation. The cocoon move was why she brought a sleeping bag when she and I had to travel and sleep in the same bed.

Max wasn’t having any of it. He pushed my shoulders, turned me around, and yanked at the blankets until they were somehow flat on top of us again. It took at least ten minutes. Then I felt his lips on my cheek. “Greedy pain in the ass,” he whispered.

“Mmph,” I mumbled, mostly asleep but still not thrilled about losing my covers cave. “Sorry. I should gone home. I never do sleepovers.”

“Never?”

I was too sleepy to answer.

Max’s room was bright in the morning. Way, way too bright. Melt your eyes bright. Ugh. I raised my head to see the clock on the bedside table. It was only 8:00 a.m. I was never awake at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. “It’s like the sun is in your ceiling,” I wailed.

Max lifted his head from his pillow. From the grumpy slant to his eyes and mouth, I guessed he was also not a morning person. “Go shut the drapes then, bratface.”

I got out of bed, crossing the room completely naked. Was Max watching? It was one thing to be wanton and bare in the middle of the night with only lightning flashes illuminating a dark room. Quite another for the horrible sun to shine a spotlight on every patch of cellulite and random hair and wrinkle. In case Max was watching, I threw back my shoulders and strutted to the window with a swing in my hips. Brazen self-confidence can mask just about anything.

To my relief, the drapes actually made the room quite dark. I’d probably be able to sleep for another couple of hours. As I sat back down on the edge of the bed, Max popped his head up again and smirked. “Since you’re up, why don’t you go cook me some breakfast?”

“Fuck all the way off,” I said with feeling, and pulled the covers over my head.

I woke again a few hours later. I’d slept hard, which wasn’t unusual because I tended to sleep hardest during the morning hours. But it was very unusual for me to sleep so hard with someone else in the room. Max must have slept very still. Carefully I rolled over, but the bed was empty.

I used the attached bathroom and forced myself not to go through the medicine cabinets or drawers. Looking in the mirror wasn’t terribly pleasant, but I did the best I could to freshen up by splashing water on my face, downing some mouthwash, and brushing my hair with Max’s brush. I put my jeans and boots on before realizing that my halter top was still out in the hallway somewhere. I opened one of Max’s drawers and pawed through his T-shirts, trying to figure out which one he wouldn’t mind me borrowing.

I was stalling, I suddenly realized. I was actually sort of afraid to leave the bedroom and face him in the light of day. It made me a little angry—this wasn’t who I was. I didn’t wake up in a man’s apartment half giddy, half fearful about the night before and wondering what it all meant.

It always meant nothing.

Out in the hallway, the buzzer from the front door rang. Did Max have a visitor? I heard his voice say, “Come on up” and then, a few minutes later, “Thanks, man.”

Curious, I stuck my head out into the hall just in time to see Max take ownership of a familiar, large, pink bakery box. “Oh my God,” I screeched, shyness forgotten. “Did you get Stan’s Donuts delivered?”

The Stan’s glazed donut was a holy creation, an absolute marvel of sugar and butter and pure magic. I gave thanks daily that there was no location between my apartment and the office or I would weigh four hundred pounds.

“Are there any glazed?” I asked, breath held.

Max snorted. “Are you kidding? They’re all glazed.”

My mouth dropped open. “You. You are a god.”

He laughed, shifted the box so he could hold it with one hand, and used the other to tug me down the hall. “I would have preferred you to say that in bed last night, but I guess now is OK too.”

He already had coffee brewing in his small kitchen. I perched on a stool at his breakfast bar, torn between snooping around the rest of his apartment and tearing right into my first donut. He took a glazed from the box, zapped it in the microwave for ten seconds, and placed it ceremoniously on a plate in front of me with a steaming mug of coffee. I felt like a queen.

A crazy-hungry queen with overactive salivary glands and an unhinged jaw. That donut was gone in approximately eight seconds. I ate the whole thing with my eyes closed, practically quivering with delight.

“Impressive,” Max said, when I was down to crumbs and licking my sticky fingers. He cleared his throat. “And arousing.”

I choked on my coffee. “You’re aroused by watching me eat a donut?”

“You make the same face eating a glazed donut as you do when you’re orgasming,” he informed me.

I giggled, holding up helpless hands. “They’re similar experiences.”

I eyed the pink square of temptation. Too soon to dive in for donut number two? Unable to stop myself, I said, “I will eat them in a box. And I will eat them with a fox.”

Max burst out laughing. “Does that make me a fox? Well, thanks. Stan’s Donuts are another of your Green Eggs and Ham, eh? Can’t say I blame you.”

Max plopped next to me and wolfed down his own first donut. He waggled his phone. “So, you’re a new hero in my family. My sisters have reunited and are hell-bent on joint revenge. As we speak, they’re at the grocery buying a load of shellfish.”

I grinned. “Do they need any help breaking into his place? I have lots of ideas about how they can get ahold of his keys.”

Max closed his eyes and groaned. “Maybe we’ll let them try to figure that out without your generous help.”

“Suit yourself.” I grabbed a second donut and gave in to the urge to wander around his place. It was small but nice, with dark hardwood floors and lots of windows. The main living area didn’t have much furniture, just a large comfy-looking sofa, a scarred coffee table, and a bookshelf. Several black-and-white photographs of Chicago decorated the walls.

Most of all, I was struck by how tidy it was. Thank goodness we’d come here instead of my place last night. My apartment wasn’t dirty, but it was messy. There was old mail, magazines, and books on every available surface. My clothes were never contained to my bedroom. They lived on the backs of chairs and sofas and hung from every doorknob. Whenever Kat was coming over, she gave me a twenty-minute warning so that I could stuff all nonessential debris into the bedroom. Otherwise, she said she felt attacked by clutter. Judging from the austerity of Max’s space, I’d better implement a similar twenty-minute rule if he came over.

Not that he’d be coming over or anything. Would he?

Max refilled his mug and gestured out the window, where a heavy rain had replaced the early morning sunshine. “I have an idea.”

I walked back to the kitchen and helped myself to more coffee. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“It’s October, a week from Halloween, and it’s nasty outside. Let’s watch a scary movie.”

I blinked. In the back of my mind, I’d been calculating how long was too long to linger over coffee and donuts. I definitely didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I’d figured I’d be hitting the Uber button on my phone in another ten minutes.

“You want me to stay and watch a movie?” I asked like a dumbass. But I was just so surprised. So flummoxed, in fact, that my next comment was entirely inappropriate. “Is this how you normally do mornings-after?”

Max’s eyebrows jumped over the rims of his glasses. “You mean, do I ask all the girls to hang out and watch movies after I bring them home the night before for sexual intercourse?”

I brought the hot coffee mug closer to my nose so that my sickening face could be blamed on the steam. “Sorry. Not sure why I said that.”

Max watched me carefully for a minute while I examined my mug, his kitchen, his extremely clean countertop…everywhere but his face. “After my engagement broke off, I did go through an ill-advised sort of rampage of taking women home.” I looked up at him. He shook his head. “But that’s not really me, never has been, and it actually just made me feel worse about everything.”

“I wasn’t asking—I’m sorry—it’s so none of my business—” Stumbling, muttering, humiliated, I put my mug on the counter. What the hell was wrong with me?

Max didn’t seem upset though. He actually had the sweetest smile on his face as he continued to talk. “In answer to your morning-after question, Boots, no. I would not say this is normal for me.”

He reached over and took ahold of my chin with his thumb and finger. I allowed him to push my face up until I was looking straight at him. “Would hanging around to watch a movie be part of your normal morning-after routine?” His lips were still curved in that sweet smile, but his eyes were serious behind those glasses.

I wasn’t sure why it made something in my chest twang to say, “No.”

Max leaned in and gave me a quick, soft kiss on my lips. Then, as if our bizarre little aside never happened, he leaned back and gave a considering look. “Maybe an older scary movie? I don’t feel like any of the crap horror stuff that’s come out in the past few years.”

“Nothing with evil children,” I declared. “They freak me out too much.”

“What about 'Poltergeist'?” he suggested. “Carol Anne isn’t evil.”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “She’s still super creepy. What about something with vampires? 'Fright Night,' maybe?”

I followed him over to the couch. “Vampires,” he said. “I’ve got it. What about 'The Lost Boys'?”

I fluttered my eyelashes (sans the one he’d yanked out the night before) at him. “Oooh, a classic. Now tell me, are you a Corey Haim or a Corey Feldman fan?” He threw a pillow at me, which I luckily was able to catch with my left hand before it hit my coffee mug and sloshed coffee all over his nice gray sofa.

Bickering and laughing, we somehow got settled with my feet in his lap and the remotes in his hand. We spent way too long negotiating in Netflix before making our choice. He was just about to push play when we heard a knock on his apartment door. That was odd. No one had buzzed from the street.

Then his front door opened and a woman called, “Knock, knock! Max? You decent? It’s me. My flight got canceled last night, so I thought I’d see if you wanted to go to the farmer’s market. It’s a little wet out there, but that just means shorter lines, right?”

I launched off that couch and sped across the room as though I’d been shot from a cannon. Holy shit. This had to be Aria. My pulse raced, and for a crazy moment, I wondered if I should try to climb out a window.

But no. No. We weren’t doing anything wrong. Max had asked me to stay. He and Aria weren’t together anymore. A small, mean part of my brain wondered what it meant that she still had keys to his apartment and felt comfortable walking right in.

As her heeled footsteps came down the hall, clicking on the hardwood floors, my eyes cut to his face. He looked like he was holding his breath and trying not to vomit.

“Hello? Max?” A brunette head popped into the kitchen.

“In here, Ari,” Max finally called.

Into the living room walked my complete physical opposite. I would have guessed that I wouldn’t resemble Aria in the slightest, but it was still somewhat jarring to behold Max’s ex-fiancée in the flesh and get a good eyeful of the anti-me. I’m five-nine in socks; Aria was wearing heeled boots and couldn’t have been more than five-three. I’m fair-skinned with long, bright hair and my share of freckles. Aria had a sleek cap of black hair and olive skin. My boobs aren’t the only curves on my body. My love of booze and French fries and donuts ensures I’ll never be what you’d call skinny. Aria was wearing tight jeans and a fitted T-shirt that displayed just how tiny and petite she was. I could scoop her up under my arm and carry her around like a perky football.

Aria stopped short as she entered the room to two people frozen and gaping at her. I recovered first. “Hi!” I walked over to shake hands, suddenly very aware I was wearing Max’s shirt. It fit me just fine, but I wondered if she’d recognize it. “I’m Tess.”

Max twitched and shook off his trance. “Yes, sorry! Ah, Aria Jameson, this is Tess Greene.”

Aria shook my hand firmly and looked up at me with a stiff smile. “So nice to meet you!” She looked over at Max with big eyes. “I am so sorry to burst in on you like this! At dinner last night you said you weren’t doing anything today, so I thought I’d see if you were up for one of our errand days.”

She looked at me now. “I should have texted first,” she said firmly. “I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

I don’t know if it was the reminder that they’d eaten together the night before or the new, fun knowledge that they did “errand days” together, but all of a sudden, I had to get out of there.

“No interruption at all!” I yelped. “I was just leaving so…perfect timing! You guys can totally go to the farmer’s market.” I jogged down the hall to grab my jacket before Max could argue.

He didn’t argue.

In fact, he didn’t say anything at all to me as I gathered my bag and surreptitiously picked up my halter top from the hallway floor. He just chatted with Aria about the rain and her rescheduled flight. Even when I paused at the front door and we made eye contact across the long hallway, he didn’t leave the living room.

“Bye!” I shouted and slammed the door.