Chapter 141
Max
He’d just finished checking in on Brayden when his phone buzzed.
Carefully, he closed the door then walked down the hall to his bedroom, half expecting to find a message from one of his teammates ribbing him for some reason or another. Instead, he found an email in his inbox.
One he hadn’t been expecting.
Max,
I hope your dog is doing better. Sorry you and Brayden (and pooch) are going through that. Pets are sometimes more family than our actual family.
Thank you for letting me know about Mandy. I’m going to reach out to her.
Sincerely,
Angelica Shallows
He frowned at the strangely formal email, reread it a half-dozen times then spent way too long crafting a response.
Angel,
Sparky (I’m not to blame for the pup’s terrible name) is doing much better. It turns out he has IBS, which is treatable with very expensive food and daily medication. However, I consider the expense worth it because Sparky is, as you said, now part of our family. Plus, he makes Brayden smile and I’d do almost anything to see my son smile. He’s been through too much upheaval in his young life.
I do hope you’ll reach out to Mandy. She would very much like to get to know her sister. Especially now.
-Max
P.S. Your cat is adorable and now Brayden wants one. I blame you. :)
P.P.S. I suck at emails so feel free to text me any time 415-555-1234
Max pressed send and then held his breath for several long moments, wanting an immediate response, wanting her to email back, to text him right then. He knew it was ridiculous. She was a busy woman and had her own life. Plus, she’d already taken time out to check up on Sparky; that was progress and showed . . . what?
That she was a nice person?
He knew that already. She hadn’t wanted to ruin Mandy’s moment months before, had left instead of creating a scene.
If she’d been anything like Suzanne, Angie would have made a scene.
Stolen the moment for herself, diverted all focus to her.
Angelica hadn’t done that. She’d left Mandy to her celebration.
Which also meant she was running scared.
After the talking to her at the vet’s, he understood her actions better. She’d been hurt, violated, assaulted. She’d had baggage for days—baggage that wasn’t her fault, but baggage that still complicated everything anyway.
Because he had Brayden. Because he had baggage of his own.
And his son had asked for a new mom.
Which couldn’t happen for a multitude of reasons: Suzanne, Max’s career, a need to protect his son from a parade of women. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do that. It would be just Brayden and him until his son was older.
They had Anna; they had a good life.
That was enough.
So, why didn’t it feel like enough?
His phone buzzed again, this time with a text from an unknown number.
Max’s heart leaped, pulse pounding in the base of his throat. He opened the message.
I’m glad Sparky’s okay. Also, Sparky is not such a bad name for a dog.
His lips curved.
It’s a horrible name and terribly unfitting given today’s events. He should be called Puke-Monster or Barfy.
He searched for and sent a GIF of a gagging little girl before he realized that Angie might not be into that particular brand of humor.
“Shit,” he muttered, toeing off his shoes and flopping back onto his mattress.
Max really sucked at this flirting thing.
Talk of puking and juvenile GIFs? Ridiculous. Except . . . he was realizing that he was at the point in his life where he was comfortable in his own skin. He was juvenile sometimes, silly GIFs made him laugh, and he found that he didn’t want to apologize for being who he was any longer. Finally, he was comfortable in his own skin, so screw anyone who decided that wasn’t good enough.
Even if she was an amber-haired beauty with a body that made his dick feel like it was alive for the first time in several years.
Max slipped off his pants and tossed his shirt aside, all while waiting for his phone to buzz with a response and yet pretending not to.
“Slick,” he said, pushing up from the bed and heading to the bathroom to brush and floss his teeth. “Super, super slick, Max.” He was still holding his cell, still half-hoping for a response that wasn’t coming. “Whatever,” he finally grumbled and set his phone on the charger.
Then saw there were two unread texts on his screen.
“Idiot.” It was after midnight, so his phone was on Do Not Disturb.
Fingers fumbling, he opened the messages.
Talk about terrible names! Barfy is just mean. I like to think that Sparky is short for Spartacus and I think you should too.
Two minutes later, she’d sent another message, this one rivaling the formality of her earlier email.
I‘m sorry if I woke you. I know you must be tired after your game this evening. I’ll let you head off to bed.
Shit. He sank back onto the bed. Is this what dating was like nowadays? Technology dominating and sometimes hindering—the Do Not Disturb function on his cell all but cockblocking him? This was pathetic. It was so . . . he didn’t know. Just not what he wanted.
Well, you want a woman you’ve nicknamed Angel and that alone speaks to a problem inside your brain, you fucking numbskull.
And that particular thought wasn’t helpful now, was it?
Ignoring it, he sent another message.
You still up?
Thirty seconds passed before he saw her begin to type out a reply.
Yes.
Max called her before he could talk himself out of it. Just ignored the pounding of his heart, the way his palms went sweaty like a teenaged boy and hit the call button.
The phone rang and rang.
And rang.