Chapter 17

Chapter 17
Angie

She’d decided she was going to kill Max.
She was going to confetti his house, his car, his front yard. Hell, she was ready to move past confetti and straight to tearing off one of the toy-sized hockey sticks mounted to the wall of the Family Suite so she could shove it straight up his—
“Why is your face so wrinkly?”
Angie froze, glanced down at the adorable little girl with tight brown curls.
“Mirabel,” an older woman with gorgeous coffee-colored skin and an embarrassed expression scolded. She was slightly familiar looking and beautiful. Not normal person beautiful, but striking, even by Hollywood standards. “We don’t comment on the way people look,” she added. “It’s what’s on the inside that matters—”
“Easy for her to say,” Sara deadpanned. “Monique here is a former supermodel.”
Ah.
That was why Angie’s mind had pinged with recognition. The pieces fell into place as she realized this was the Monique, who had been the face of several big name brands for many years and a renowned runway model. Angie just hadn’t realized she’d married a Gold player.
Monique rolled her eyes. “I swear, Sara. You’re the worst.”
“You love me.” Sara—who’d met Angie at the elevators and showed her to this room of hell, aka the Family Suite—touched Angie’s shoulder. “This is Angie. She’s with Max.”
A half-dozen raised eyebrows turned in Angie’s direction.
She raised her palms. “I’m not. I mean, I know Max. It just—”
Oh hell.
They were back to staring at her with those appraising expressions, as though their cold, dead eyes were trying to stare into her very soul.
Okay, so that was a lie. The ladies had been very friendly. It was just . . .
Social situations.
Yup. Those.
She was so awkward. What could she possibly have to talk about with these women? Monique was a former supermodel, Sara a former gold medalist, not to mention there was also a CEO and several gorgeous stay-at-home moms in the mix.
She was just Angie.
A mid-level manager who was the secret love child of a former hockey player and a Class-A asshole.
Oh, and Mandy’s long-lost sister, there was that, too.
And considering she sucked in normal social interactions, adding all that baggage into this situation meant she was seriously considering turning Max into a man-sized popsicle.
Topped with confetti.
She sighed, met Sara’s inquisitive gaze, and said, “Max and I met a few months ago.”
Simple. To the point. That would feed the wolves.
Except . . . not so much.
“He’s been holding out on us for months?” Monique asked with a gasp.
“How dare he!” Sara added.
“That’s not what—”
Sara slid her arm through Angie’s, started leading her to a room that was filled with black leather couches and numerous television screens.
She coaxed—cough, pushed—Angie down into one. “Tell me everything.”
“—I meant,” Angie finished.
The door to the suite opened, and now everyone’s eyes shot toward it. Max strode into the room, smile dimming slightly as he took in the scene.
Angie popped to her feet, hurried over to him. She was awkward and annoyed and . . . scarily happy to see him.
As in, her heart had done a little jumping jack the moment he’d appeared.
“Max,” Monique said. “Angie said you’ve been dating for months. How dare you not tell us?”
“Didn’t Spence retire?”
Monique narrowed her eyes. “Yes.”
“So, why are you here pestering my girl?”
“Your girl?” Sara asked with raised eyebrows. “I need details. Now.”
Angie’s pulse sped up at Max’s words, but Monique’s reaction was more apparent. She clapped her hands together. “You’ve got a girl! Oh my God! I’m so happy for you.”
“She makes weird wrinkly faces,” Mirabel said, mirroring her mom’s excited stance. “I want her to show me how to do that.”
Angie snorted.
She couldn’t help it. This was just so bizarre.
And yet, somehow, it was comfortable?
Wow. She needed to put that particular thought aside to ponder later.
Max took her hand. “And that’s our cue to leave.”
He tugged her out into the hall, despite the protests they left in their wake, leading her down around the corner, pushing open another door, and only stopping once they were safely ensconced inside what looked to be an empty conference room.
Then he brought their clasped hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of hers. “Hi,” he murmured.
She melted. “Hi.”
“You okay?”
He nodded, his thumb making small circles on the inside of her wrist, her body drifting toward his. “I’m sorry they cornered you.”
Angie blinked, remembered herself, and pulled her hand free. “You abandoned me to the wolves!” she accused, plunked her palms onto her hips. “You were all sweet and charming on the phone, and then you just threw me into the snake pit.”
Max’s expression dimmed. “The wives and girlfriends are actually really nice, once you get to know them.”
Angie paced away. “Of course, they are,” she said. “They were wonderful. Snake pit isn’t fair, I just . . . God, I’m so damn weird. I couldn’t even think of anything to say.” She lifted one hand, pressed it to her forehead. “And apparently, I make wrinkly faces. Fuck. What does that even mean?”
Max made a noise, and she whipped back around to see he was holding back laughter.
“Oh my God. You’re not seriously laughing. I made the worst impression.”
“You”—he giggled, the jerk actually giggled—“didn’t.”
Angie tried to hold on to her frustration.
She failed.
Because then she was laughing, too, bending at the waist and laughing so hard tears streamed down her cheeks. “Wrinkly . . . face . . .” she gasped out.
“Show her . . .” Max was almost hysterical.
Then he wasn’t.
Angie glanced up, held her breath as he closed the distance between them and reached up a hand. “Still okay if I touch you?” he asked, voice husky enough that all traces of humor left her.
It was all she could do to nod.
Max was . . . well, no man had ever asked to touch her before, and somehow that simple courtesy made it okay. There was also the fact that he was the first man since the attack to make her feel something. To lust and want and need.
She hadn’t felt that since the assault.
Okay, if she were being completely truthful, she hadn’t ever felt this draw to any man.
And then there were the texts, the calls, and conversations.
But it wasn’t just her body. Her heart felt as though she knew him.
Max’s thumbs were gentle as he swept away the tears from her cheeks. “So fucking beautiful,” he murmured. “I couldn’t look away when I saw you on that screen tonight.”
She started to shake her head. Beautiful wasn’t an adjective she could process.
She was just her, just normal, weird Angie.
His palms cupped her cheeks, stopped the shake mid-movement. His eyes locked onto hers. “Beautiful,” he said, more firmly this time.
Her lips parted.
In an attempt to form a protest? To plead for his mouth to slant across hers?
Yes. The second one.
Instead, Max just stared at her. As though he were memorizing her face or gazing past her eyes to see the depths of her soul.
Her tongue flicked out, wet the corners of her mouth.
His expression went hot.
But still, his lips stayed several inches from hers.
He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, the rough pads of his fingertips making her shiver. His breath was hot on her cheek. It smelled like cinnamon, and she fucking loved cinnamon.
“Max,” she murmured.
“Hmm?” he asked, fingers trailing down her throat, across her collarbone.
She shifted, thighs squeezing, the space in between them growing damp.
And Angie couldn’t hold back the words, her plea. Even though they were out of her comfort zone, even though she’d never said them to another man before.
Max made her feel things she’d never experienced before.
He pushed her, tore away those barriers separating her from the rest of the world.
From him.
So, she took one more leap that evening and said, “Kiss me.”
His mouth was on hers an instant later.