Over the months of his rehabilitation, he’d come to recognize why he’d initially been so closed off from lending an empathetic ear in group. The fact was, every account he heard, every anecdote about hurting loved ones in order to score, and no matter what the consequence, hit close to home. Whether he wanted to or not, Max saw himself in every face of his fellow addicts, the remorse, the cravings that would never ever go away, the need for forgiveness, and the fear of what that forgiveness would mean. He’d never wanted to be that guy, the guy who fucked over the people closest to him, the guy who wallowed in self-pity and the what-ifs, but there it was.
He grabbed a cheeseburger for lunch on his contemplative return drive, went for a midafternoon run, and had been in his room at the boardinghouse for more than an hour when a thunderous bang, a squeal of pipes in the wall and the floor, and a scream emitted from the next room.
Max shot from his place on the bed, dropping the book he’d been reading, and flung open the door, scanning the empty hallway. He hurried to the next room, knocking hard, hearing what sounded like water hissing from somewhere and muffled expletives. The door opened abruptly, revealing Grace in nothing but a towel, drenched and breathing heavily.
“The pipe burst!” she exclaimed, leaving the door open for Max to follow, bewildered. “I can’t stop it!”
Max hurried into the bathroom after her, his socked feet sloshing in the water that had already gathered. Water spurted forcefully from one of the shower pipes, jetting across the bathroom. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, I agree,” Grace said with a laugh. “Help!”
“Go find Fern, um, Mrs. Masen, and tell her to turn off the water and the electric,” Max ordered as he motored back to his room. He grabbed his tool belt, willing to try to ease the damage as much as he could, and with a wrench tried to tighten the joint on the pipe.
Water rushed at him, soaking his T-shirt and jeans until, after what felt like a million fucking years, the water stopped, followed by the lights in the bathroom, leaving the place bathed in the dim afternoon light, which crept through a small frosted window. Max slumped against the tub, water dripping from his chin. He cursed, looking down at his sopping wet clothes.
“What in the blue fuck?” Uncle Vince filled the doorway, eyes wide, a small grin tugging at his mouth, as he looked Max over.
Grace popped her head around Vince’s shoulder, unable to hold back the unladylike snort that erupted. “Oh, heavens.”
“What the hell, Max?” Ruby exclaimed with a giggle. Small chuckles of laughter quickly developed into loud guffaws.
Max shook his head and stood up, careful not to slip. He wiped a dripping hand down his face. “I’m glad I amuse you all.”
“That you do. But don’t feel bad about it,” Vince offered with a hearty slap to Max’s shoulder. “Come on. Get changed and let me buy you an orange juice.”
Dressed in a dry set of clothes, Max, his uncle, his aunt Fern, Ruby, and Josh sat at the bar in Whiskey’s drinking and nibbling potato chips. With the pipe fixed and Grace moved to the room adjacent to Max’s while repairs were made to the bathroom floor and bedroom carpet, Max started to see the funny side.
“Hero of the day!” Ruby teased him with an elbow in his ribs, which he returned.
He shrugged, avoiding looking at Grace, who was working diligently behind the bar. She’d done nothing but thank him profusely.
“I always like to save the damsel in distress,” he quipped. It’d been on the tip of his tongue to thank Grace for the image of her wet and towel-wrapped, but he managed to refrain.
But, damn, that picture was sure to stay with him a long while; girl had great legs.
“Well, at least I know where you are in case anything else goes wrong,” Grace remarked as she wiped down the bar.
“Hey!” Vince interjected with mock offense and a pointed finger at her. “It was a one-time thing. I knew those damn pipes were— Look, nothing else will happen.” Aunt Fern rubbed his back, laughing.
“You know where I am,” Max stage-whispered across the bar to Grace, who giggled into the back of her hand.
And the banter continued. Max clutched his glass of juice, threw the occasional chip or peanut into his mouth, nibbled on the few wings Vince ordered, and allowed the warmth of the people around him to seep into his skin. It had been too long since he’d felt as relaxed. With his meeting and the exciting burst-pipe shenanigans, he’d been wound tight as shit, but the smiles, laughter, and freedom he felt as he listened to his family and the other patrons loosened all of that. Even being in a bar with the smell of liquor, undeniably tempting around him, Max felt his body unfurl and calm.
“Sounds like a lot of fun was bein’ had over at your place, Vince.” A tall guy with a goatee and a distrustful gaze patted Vince’s shoulder, his eyes never leaving Max.
Vince laughed and relayed the day’s events, garnering another round of laughter.
“So you’re Max,” Goatee said with an outstretched hand. “Deputy Sheriff Caleb Yates.”
Ah.
Well, that explained the stink-eye.
Max shook his hand, smirking at the slight squeeze the deputy gave it.
“I’ve known Caleb here since he was in junior high; his daddy worked for me for many years,” Vince offered. “Never thought I’d see this guy all but running the town, though.”
The deputy chuckled. “Can I get a Heineken draft, Grace?” he muttered over the bar. He winked at her when she placed it down in front of him. “You look sweet tonight.” Max watched Grace’s reaction carefully from the corner of his eye, but saw no blush or flutter of lashes. If anything she appeared to tense up, losing the softness of her pretty face.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Deputy. You know that. You still need to pay me a tip,” she remarked, making Max smile into his glass.
“Are you okay with that?” she asked suddenly, gesturing to Max’s almost empty glass. “I could buy you a beer to say thank you for today.” She looked toward the ceiling, her nose scrunching endearingly. “And to apologize for the other day.”
Max shook his head, smiling. “No beer. But another juice would be good. Thanks.”
“The other day?” Fern asked, looking between them. “What the hell else trouble are you two getting into?”
Grace chuckled. “It was all my fault. Again. Damn near knocked Max over on his ass; I was hurrying down the hallway so fast. Gave his shin a good kick, too, while he held me up.”
Despite the laughter and comments, Max could feel the deputy’s stare burning into the side of his face. His expression was amused, though his eyes were dark and suspicious.
“Held her up, huh?” he asked, leaning his elbow on the bar.
Max cocked an eyebrow. Asshole was as transparent as the glass in his hand. “Yeah,” he answered.
Deputy Yates nodded slowly, glancing at Grace. “Sounds like you’re Grace’s hero of the hour.”
Grace’s face flushed. “Oh, no. It wasn’t like that, I—”
“Sounds like it,” Max interrupted, keen to make the deputy squirm. And squirm he did. A muscle in his jaw jumped and a huff of breath shot from his nose. The deputy swigged from his beer once, dropped a ten on the bar, said his good-byes, and left.
Max couldn’t explain it, but watching the deputy leave so affronted, and seeing the small smile on Grace’s face, left a more than satisfied taste in his mouth.
Max O’Hare was an enigma.
Since she’d fallen into him and he’d then saved her from the demon pipe burst, Grace had thought regularly about him. As the weeks passed, and in spite of the deputy’s warning about Max’s less than golden past, Grace allowed herself to approach him with tentative familiarity. She spoke to him when he sat at the bar and now knew that his go-to drink was OJ, and greeted him when she encountered him in the boardinghouse or at the house site.
He wasn’t as aloof or evasive as he’d been when she’d first come across him, but his guard was still unquestionably up. Biz
arrely, instead of seeing his distance as a reason to step back, Grace found herself even more intrigued. With forced indifference and the occasional smile to the bar regulars and even Max’s aunt Fern, Grace had discovered that Max had been to rehab for more than three months. She didn’t know what for—though Deputy Yates had mentioned drugs—and, the more she thought about it, the more she realized it was irrelevant.
Surely what was important was that he’d gotten help and wanted to be healthy. At least that’s what Grace told herself when searching to explain her continuing interest in him.
The thing was, when Max was with his family, or when he thought no one was looking, his barriers dropped. It was only ever for the briefest of moments but when they did they revealed a more contented, less edgy guy who, there was no denying, had a killer smile. Grace knew without a doubt that he’d look great on film. She’d spent time considering the photographs she could take of him.
He was never eager to be the center of attention. Even over Easter, when the boardinghouse had been filled with people, food, and laughter, he’d be sitting on the periphery watching and listening to everyone else, which Grace found . . . attractive. There was nothing worse than an attention-seeking idiot who loved the sound of his own voice. He was quiet, but not brooding, rather the epitome of the strong and silent type.
And unlike the deputy and others who came into the bar, Max was never flirty. He never made unsubtle comments about the way she looked or called her anything other than her name. On occasion, Grace had caught him looking at her in that sideways, inconspicuous way of his and every time it made her stomach twist. Yet he maintained his distance.
Grace wasn’t ignorant to her looks. She knew she was attractive to members of the opposite sex. It had been a privilege, before her ex-husband walked into her life and made her believe that being beautiful was something to be ashamed of. Nevertheless, men still stared, smiled, and sometimes commented, but not Max. He remained resolutely apathetic. He was polite, and pleasant, but never showed an interest, and Grace fought to understand why that bothered her so damned much.
She sighed and sipped from her glass of water after telling her therapist as much.
Despite moving to Preston County, West Virginia, the birthplace of her mother, Grace continued her therapy appointments every other week, commuting back to DC by bus and train. She’d stay at Kai’s apartment and travel back the following morning. Her brother was clearly not happy about the arrangement—worrying endlessly about her being on her own—but Grace enjoyed the time the journey gave her. Sometimes she read, listened to music, sometimes she took discreet photographs out of the window or of other, more interesting-looking passengers; other times she used it as a chance to reflect on the last few years of her life, especially the changes and the huge strides she’d made in her recuperation.
Two years ago, the thought of traveling alone, never mind by public transport, would have caused a crippling panic attack. Now, as long as she took her meds ahead of time, she didn’t even suffer palpitations. It was freeing in a way she could never describe.
“Let me ask you,” her therapist, Nina, said gently. “What do you want to achieve from this interest in Max? What is your goal?”
Grace frowned. “My goal?”
“I mean, is this a lust thing, a companionship thing? Do you want to sleep with him or do you just want be his friend?”
Grace shifted embarrassedly in her seat. “He’s good-looking, yes, but—sleep with him?” She watched in alarm as the goose bumps popped up on her arms, as they were prone to do at the mere mention of sex. “I can’t answer that.”
“Is that due to your latent apprehensions toward intimacy or about Max himself?”
Grace wasn’t sure. His fleeting glances notwithstanding, she didn’t even know if Max was attracted to her. Besides, he’d been through his own rough times and was, according to rumor, staying with his uncle to help his recovery; sex was probably the last thing on his mind.
“I’d like to be his friend,” she answered eventually. “With everything he’s been through, he might need another one. I know I do.”
Nina lifted her chin, watching Grace in that all-knowing way of hers. “Grace, this is the first time since we started these sessions twenty-eight months ago that you’ve mentioned a man other than your brother or your ex-husband, and what’s even more encouraging is that you’re attracted to him. Regardless of where you decide to take this, or whether he wants the same thing, remember, this is a step in the right direction.”
That Grace had to agree with. Whether it was the house project or the West Virginia air that had bolstered her confidence, she was gradually coming to realize that she no longer wanted to shy away from the prospect of a connection with someone. What that connection might be, she wasn’t entirely certain, but for the first time in too long, the unknown was suddenly very exciting.
It was two days after her therapy session before Grace saw Max again. Seated in the window of the coffee shop in town, he sat by himself, pencil in hand with a small sketchbook. His hair fell forward, hiding his eyes while he wrote or drew or whatever the hell he was doing. With her daily latte in one hand and a chocolate muffin in the other, Grace approached, coughing gently so as not to surprise him. He looked up, uncertainty covering his face.
His eyes were darker than usual, circled with tired, bluish bruise-like lines, as though he hadn’t slept in a week.
“Hey,” she said brightly. “How are you?” There was no answer but for the confused furrow in the center of his brow. She pushed on regardless. “I love the lattes here. Sure beats the hell out of the crap you get in DC.”
He glanced at her cup, then at his own, seemingly waking from whatever daze she’d disturbed him in. Grace held her breath.
“I miss the coffee in New York,” he murmured.
Success!
“I can imagine,” she offered, pressing her lips together. “New York does great coffee. And bagels. Awesome bagels. So . . . may I join you?” She gestured to his book still lying open on the table; she was unable to clearly make out the scribbles and doodles on the pages. “I don’t want to disturb or intrude if you’d rather be on your own.”
Max closed the book quickly and pulled it toward his body protectively. Slowly, he nodded. “No, it’s okay.”
He pushed the pencil behind his ear as she sat, and folded his large arms over his broad chest. His size should have been intimidating and Grace didn’t doubt that to many it would be, but, oddly, to her, it wasn’t. She’d seen him at the site, saw how he used his strength to do his work quickly and effectively, but also saw how, in social situations, he was the complete antithesis, forever trying to make himself look smaller, as though trying to hide or melt into the walls around him. She wondered what had happened in his past that would make him feel it necessary to do that.
“Wanna share?” She pushed the muffin to the center of the table. Max cocked an eyebrow. “Come on,” Grace said with a chuckle. “They’re really good. I have one every morning.” He regarded the muffin questioningly. “I haven’t got cooties,” she assured him, breaking off a piece and throwing it into her mouth.
Max smiled wryly and, after a moment, did the same. “Thanks.”
Grace grinned. “Sure. I haven’t seen you for a couple of days. I’d started to panic about what I’d do if the pipes in my new room burst.” He snorted. “You must be busy.” She stirred her drink after pouring in some more sugar. Her monthly need for all things sweet was kicking her ass.
Max shrugged. “Not really. My uncle said he didn’t need me at the house—your house, so I’ve been . . . hanging out.” He stared at the table. It was hard for Grace not to see the sadness, which draped his shoulders like a heavy blanket.
“Hanging out is good,” she replied, smiling. “It must be so nice being here with family. They all seem great.”
“They are.”
“Do you visit them often?”
“No.” He glanced out the window; the s
un streaming through it made his dark hair lighter, highlighting flecks of gold. “It’s been a while. Do you have family here?”
Surprised by the question, but encouraged by his engagement with the conversation, Grace beamed. “My momma was from West Virginia, that’s why I came back here, but we grew up in California, where my daddy came from. Since they died it’s just me and my brother, who lives in DC.”
Max’s face creased with apology.
“It’s okay,” she assured him. “I miss them both, but life moves on, right?”
His eyes widened, while the right side of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of that glorious smile Grace liked so much but rarely saw. He stole another piece of muffin. “That it does.” He lifted his drink, displaying a smudge of black paint on the elbow of his gray Henley.
Grace pointed to it. “You paint?”
His intense gaze snapped to hers, pinning her to her chair. She waved toward the stain and watched as he inspected it. He exhaled, appearing uncomfortable with her discovery and, with the edge of his thumb, began scratching at it in an effort to remove it. “Yeah, I dabble.”
“I’d love to see some of your work.” Before he could object, she continued. “I was never a painter. That was always Momma. Kai, my brother, he draws, but I was always the one with a camera.” Max remained silent, but his stare never wavered. He listened intently, as he always did when she chattered to him over the bar at Whiskey’s. “I went to college and studied photography, set up my own business, but then—well, I kinda quit, but I still take my camera everywhere I go.” She opened her bag and showed him the Nikon sitting in its depths.
“I saw you taking pictures at the house. Why did you quit?”
The million-dollar question. Grace’s shoulders pinched and her finger circled the lip of her cup as she tried to stop her mind from wandering down that particularly horrendous road of her past. As much as she wanted to get to know Max, she wasn’t ready to tell him that part of her story. “Life happened.”
An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2) Page 9