An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)

by Sophie Jackson

  She blinked at him a couple of times before her lips twitched with another smile. “That sounds nice.”

  That pulled Max up short, because seeing her normal soft, happy face instead of the disappointed hurt she’d worn when she opened the door was worth losing the quiet of just one run.

  “Well, all right,” he said with a nod, because, honestly, how bad could it be?

  They met the following day in the corridor between their rooms.

  Awkwardly, they set off from the boardinghouse, Max leading the way through the back paths, through the forest, and down toward the stream that ran the length of the entire town. His earbuds remained dangling from where they sprouted out of the neck of his T-shirt, bouncing against his chest as he ran. He didn’t want to be rude and listen to music, in case Grace wanted to talk, but, to his surprise, she remained at his side or behind him when the path became too narrow, quiet, and focused.

  She kept up with him, too. She met him stride for stride and didn’t look as ready as Max when they stopped for a water break.

  “This place is beautiful,” she whispered, taking in the high canopy of green above them. “I’ve been here for months and never knew all this was so close.”

  “I love it out here,” Max confessed, before chugging his water. It was true. It was so quiet, fresh, and green, especially now that it was the middle of spring.

  “I could take some amazing photographs.” She let her hand whisper across the moss of a nearby tree.

  Before Max could comprehend what she was doing, or ask her more about her photography, she reached into her vest top and pulled out her phone. He stood mesmerized, openmouthed. “You just pull that out of your bra?”

  “And it’s a sport’s bra, lemme tell you, it’s far from comfortable. I’ll no doubt have the Apple logo creased into the skin of my boob for days.” Grace snorted at Max’s dumbfounded expression and set about taking pictures of the trees, spiderwebs, and flowers.

  “You can take good pictures on that thing?” he asked, scratching his head, trying to rid himself of the image of Grace rustling around in her bra, around her Apple-marked boobs for her phone. Christ, she was something else. It was bad enough watching her run in all that skintight Lycra. And, of course, bad meant good, because, seriously, the woman was wearing that shit like it was her job, all curvy, soft shapes, lean legs, and—

  “They’re not bad,” she answered, leaning over to get a shot of . . . something. “But it’s more to give me an idea of color and light. I’ll come back with my real camera.”

  They set off again five minutes later. Their pace was good and they were on their way back to town within the hour. Max slowed to a stop when Grace called out. He turned to see her grabbing her right side and then her hip, flinching.

  “You okay?” He jogged back.

  She waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I just . . . I have an old injury that flares up sometimes. It’ll pass. Go on, keep going, I know my way back from here.”

  “It’s fine,” he assured her. “I’ve hit my miles. I don’t mind walking.”

  They walked the rest of the way back to the boardinghouse. Max listened to Grace wax lyrical about her job at Whiskey’s, how having a job was so important to her, and how excited she was about the house and the progress the workers were making. Max listened, wondering exactly how she found such joy and delight in everything. He’d never met anyone who saw such positivity in everyday things; even his asshole behavior seemed to have been forgiven and forgotten.

  Her outlook was refreshing and, Max had to admit, infectious. He found himself smiling as she talked, watching her hands move frantically as she described how she wanted to decorate and furnish her house. He didn’t doubt that, without her hands, she’d be rendered mute.

  “Maybe I could buy one of your paintings,” she commented. “A Max special. I could give it pride of place in my living room.”

  Max rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Maybe.”

  “What do you paint about?” she asked, her tone interested as opposed to nosy. She kept her eyes on the path ahead.

  “Stuff,” he replied petulantly. He noticed the exasperated look she threw him. “I vent,” he added. “About things that I went through. When I was . . . in rehab, I attended art therapy sessions. It helped me express what I couldn’t in group or with my shrink.”

  Max surprised himself with the outpouring of information and the fact that he didn’t feel vulnerable sharing with Grace. He didn’t know her all that well, and to share so freely was new for him. She didn’t respond but she didn’t look anything other than attentive, which she always did when he spoke.

  “It’s great that you have that,” she said eventually.

  They reached the boardinghouse, climbed the stairs to the first level, and stood at their respective doors, once again awkward and fidgety.

  “I enjoyed today,” Grace said, tapping her finger on her door handle. “Thanks.”

  “Me, too,” Max replied, and, weirdly, it was the truth.

  “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Why not? Tomorrow.”

  In fact, tomorrow’s run turned into a run the day after, and the day after that, and the day after that. Every afternoon of the following two weeks, once Max was finished at the site, or in the morning before Grace went to work at the bar, they ran the same route, through the forest and down by the stream. They ran, Grace photographed some more, and they talked, but never about anything too deep or serious. It was banter and it was fun.

  Over the days that followed, Grace learned that Max had lived in New York for most of his life. His best friend was getting married at the end of the summer, and Max was going to be the best man. He loved cars and owned a body shop, played acoustic guitar, loved rock music, and, despite his modesty when it came to his artistic talents, he knew about colors and techniques, better than he let on. She knew he was an orphan, but didn’t push on the details and steered clear of anything to do with his rehab, although she knew his therapist’s name, and he talked about his sponsor, Tate, frequently.

  Since he’d knocked on her door, shocking the hell out of her with his apology and a chocolate muffin, Grace had started to see more of Max O’Hare’s sunnier side. With each day that passed, he became less dark, more relaxed, and that smile she liked so much started to come easier. She liked making him laugh, too—the sound forever wrapped around her like a warm hug—and tried to do it as often as she could. He looked so much younger when he laughed, less weighed down by life.

  Unlike other men Grace had come across since her ex-husband, Grace didn’t feel anxious around Max. On the contrary, in Max’s presence she felt calm and safe. She couldn’t deny the night he’d been so abrasive at the bar had been horrible, but the more time she spent with him, the more she came to understand how out of character his mood had been. She knew too well how the mood swings of addicts were unpredictable and erratic and, if she and Max were going to be friends, she had to be prepared for that.

  Maybe she was a lunatic for wanting to know him better, just as Kai had exclaimed on the phone when she’d mentioned Max. Maybe she was a glutton for punishment getting involved with a man who was a recovering drug addict, but she couldn’t find it in herself to worry or care. The truth was she liked him. He was handsome, funny, and honest.

  One particular afternoon, as she took more photographs of her house, which was mere weeks from completion, she caught herself watching him and the way he moved. Unlike when he was running, when his jaw was hard, his dark eyes focused, and his muscled arms and legs propelled him forward with speed and certainty, on the site his broad shoulders were looser, his hips similar. He was graceful, light, and, admittedly, sexy as hell.

  He’d dip his chin if she caught his eye, a familiar acknowledgment, which always made Grace smile. He wasn’t entirely indifferent to her when they weren’t running, he was still unfailingly polite, but he did keep his d
istance. And Grace liked it. She liked knowing she had access to another side of him when it was just the two of them. She liked that they had something that was theirs and no one else’s. It wasn’t a secret, but she accepted that, should anyone hear about their meetings every day, they would assume something more was going on. Something dirty and impure, and that would spoil everything.

  “That’s a pretty smile,” Deputy Yates commented from his stool, as she poured him a beer at Whiskey’s that evening. “Who’s it for?”

  Grace shrugged and placed the glass in front of him. “Life’s just good right now,” she replied. “My house looks amazing; I’ve made some great new friends.”

  The deputy nodded and sipped his drink, leaving a small line of white foam in the hair over his top lip. “You seem to like that O’Hare fella a whole lot. I saw you together at the coffee shop last week.”

  Grace sighed. “Yeah, he’s a nice guy,” she commented dismissively.

  A husky voice floated from the far end of the bar. “I’ll say he’s a nice guy. Hot as Hades, too. I can’t wait for round two with that man.”

  The blonde woman Max had left Whiskey’s with propped herself against the bar, elbows bent, her lips painted a bright red that washed out her skin. She smiled at Grace in a way that was neither nice nor genuine. It was more like a sneer that made Grace’s spine straighten. Blondie pushed her boobs together, resting them on her forearms on the bar top, giving the other patrons an eyeful. In her tight vest top and even tighter jeans, she was all hard fucking and dirty passion with no limits. She was everything Grace would never be.

  Deputy Yates scoffed. “Jesus, Fay, you don’t change. He ain’t a nice guy. I don’t trust him.”

  But Grace wasn’t listening.

  She was too busy trying to delete the vision of Max and Fay that slammed indiscriminately into her brain. Jealousy moved through her, clutching her stomach and shoving shame into her chest. She leaned against the sink behind the bar and breathed. It wasn’t that she was jealous of Fay being with Max that way. No, it wasn’t that. Grace was damned sure he’d had plenty of women in his time—the man couldn’t help being devastatingly attractive.

  It was the thought of his being with a woman who could satisfy him, who could give him a night he wouldn’t forget, a woman who wouldn’t cry when he tried to touch her intimately, or freeze when he held her down. A woman who would ride him with abandon, take control, and allow him to do the same. She was envious of Fay and the unadulterated sex that burst from her and the way in which she embraced it without apology.

  It was so unfair. It was unfair that one man, a man she’d trusted, loved, worshipped even, had stripped her of all the sexual confidence she’d ever had. He stole it from her violently, possessively, and beat her with it, leaving scars inside and out.

  No.

  Grace knew she could never match up to a woman like Fay.

  And it hurt.

  It hurt all over again.

  Max knew there was something wrong with Grace even before they started their run the following morning. She seemed so far away, lost in her head, leaving her unnervingly quiet. He’d asked if she was okay as they stretched, and she’d answered that she was fine, but he wasn’t convinced. She looked . . . sad. The green of her eyes was less emerald as though dulled by her thoughts.

  They ran their route the same as they always did, stopped for water, and carried on. There was no exclaiming about colors or the beauty of the forest, as there was ordinarily from Grace. She didn’t even rummage around in her bra and pull out her phone to take any pictures, which had become, arguably, the highlight of Max’s day.

  Shit was not okay.

  He slowed down to a quick walk, waiting for her to realize that and join him, which she did with a curious expression.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, looking him over and trying to spot an injury.

  “I’m good,” he answered. “I was just thinking, maybe we could change it up a little today. I know another way that we haven’t used yet.”

  She glanced around and shrugged. “Okay.”

  He set off, leaving the dirt path and heading farther into the forest, knowing the track he’d explored as a kid like the back of his hand, jumping over fallen trees, over puddles left from the overnight rain, and dodging the thick branches that tried to grab them as they ran. It was darker the deeper they ventured; the sun blocked by the canopy of leaves, making it cooler, more eerie.

  “Max,” Grace panted at his side. “Where the hell are we going?”

  “Just wait,” he called back. “Come on.”

  They ran for a few more minutes before, with a yell, Grace came to a grinding halt, breathless and sweating, her eyes darting about the place.

  “Where are you taking me, Max?” she demanded, shifting from foot to foot. “I have no idea where we are! This isn’t funny.”

  With any other half-dressed, hot woman alone with him in the woods, Max would have made a joke about being a kidnapper eager to have his wicked way with her. But something in her tone, the anxious shake of her voice, warned him that that probably wasn’t a good idea.

  He held up his palms. “It’s all right. We’re almost there. Look.”

  He turned and pointed through the trees where sunlight and the faint sound of running water filtered through. Max watched Grace carefully. He saw the tension in her neck, the cautiousness in her face, and was immediately contrite. They were still only getting to know each other and here he was, a drug addict, leading her into the deep, dark forest. No wonder she was freaking out.

  “Shit. I didn’t mean to alarm you or anything. I just wanted to show you something.”

  Grace regarded him for a moment before she rubbed a hand down her face and exhaled noisily. “No. I’m sorry. I’m— It’s not you. I just . . . ignore me.”

  Max nodded. “It’s just through there.”

  Grace lifted her hand. “Lead the way.”

  Max did as she asked, steering her through more underbrush before, with a push of branches, they emerged into a clearing punctuated by tall trees and blanketed with small yellow flowers, which bobbed in the breeze. The stream ran almost straight through the far end, filling the area with the sounds of splashes, and gurgling, as it dropped down the hill they’d climbed.

  Grace gasped at his side. “What is this place?” Her gaze fixed on what remained of a one-room stone cottage, its windows, door, and roof eaten by the elements and looking like something out of a Disney fairy tale.

  “Isn’t it great?” Max asked. “I found it when I was here on vacation with my dad. I think everyone forgot about it along with your place.” He pointed into the distance. “Which is only ten minutes that way.”

  Her eyes widened, the familiar sparkle returning. “You’re kidding?”

  Max chuckled. “I thought you’d like it, you know; take some cool pictures or whatever.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the realization of doing something nice for another person prickling his skin with unfamiliarity.

  Her hand brushed his forearm. “It’s incredible.”

  Grace wandered through the flowers and trees, touching them, exploring the ruins, and dipping her feet into the stream. Max sat on an overturned log, drinking his water, watching her and smiling as her contagious delight crept back. He grinned when she made a song and dance about pulling her cell phone from her bra, and took photo after photo, promising herself she’d return with her Nikon. He leaned back on the heels of his hands, lifting his face to the warm May sunshine and allowed the calm and quiet to soak into his bones.

  “Do you find me attractive?”

  Max frowned before he opened one eye. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Grace stood by the stream, arms loose at her sides, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “Do you find me attractive, yes or no?”

  Opening both eyes, Max cleared his throat. “Is this a trick?”

  “Not a trick.”

  Max didn’t feel all that assured. “It sounds like a
trick.”

  “We’re friends, right?”

  He sat forward, resting his elbows on his bare knees. “Um, I guess.”

  “Okay, good. I’d like you to be honest with me.”

  Max exhaled with a disbelieving chuckle. “I’m not sure I can answer your question without saying something wrong.”

  He knew how women worked. She’d find at least one thing in his answer she didn’t like the sound of. Plus, he didn’t want to come across as a sexist pig, which he was bound to do, looking at her in her running gear, all innocent face and beautiful glistening skin.

  Grace approached him. “Okay. Let me ask you another way. Would you have sex with me?”

  Now that question Max’s body undoubtedly paid attention to. He was suddenly glad his shorts were loose. Shit. He shifted where he sat. “What? Are you— Why are you asking me this?”

  She shrugged. “Just curious.” She crossed her arms. “It’s okay if you don’t. I get it.”

  Max barked out a laugh. “My God. Women! I didn’t even answer and you’ve already assumed the worst.”

  “Well, I’m not like Fay from the bar,” she argued. “So I can see why you wouldn’t want me that way; the way you wanted her.”

  Her words weren’t petulant or bitter, there was no hint of jealousy. She was resigned, accepting of what she thought was true, and it stopped Max short. How could she believe the shit she was spouting?

  He stood and took two steps toward her. “No,” he agreed. “You’re nothing like Fay. And thank God for that.” Surprise lightened her eyes. “And just so we’re clear,” he added. “I didn’t want her and I didn’t have sex with her.”

  Grace blinked. “You didn’t?”

  Max shook his head. “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  “But she’s so sexual,” Grace uttered. “And her boobs are amazing.” She looked genuinely puzzled.