Instead she seemed wryly resigned, her eyes pinched, but the corners of her mouth turned up with wry affection.
Oh.
Maybe that hadn't been: What we had was crazy, and it can't happen again.
Maybe she'd been saying: What we had was crazy, but it's going to happen again anyway.
Max hopped from his stool. Nicola.
"The winner!" Isabelle declared, thrusting Nicola's fist into the air.
Wait, what?
The pub patrons burst into applause. An arrow of people surged through the crowd and pulled Nicola toward the bar. Everyone wanted to buy the new Sonnet Champion a drink.
"A woman of hidden talents," Lachlan murmured in his ear. "You lucky git."
Max watched with dawning horror as Nicola consumed several drinks in a row. No, no, no.
Lachlan jiggled Max's shoulder. "You still driving me home, mate?"
Max rolled his eyes heavenward. What evil thing had he done in a past life to deserve taking Lachlan home that night instead of Nicola?
Chapter Sixteen
That then I scorn to change my state with kings . . . Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream . . . Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night . . . Nicola blinked, and planted her hands against the bar, trying to get the world to slow down a bit. Shakespeare lines kept running through her head, bits and snatches, phrases orphaned from their context.
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings . . .
Every time she thought of Max reciting that sonnet . . . to her . . . her chest actually hurt. Him looking at her like that, saying those words, meaning them. She couldn't breathe when he looked at her like that.
"You about done with your carousing, poppet?"
Nicola blinked and, with great difficulty, turned her head to the side to see Lachlan. Her body felt heavy, like towels soaked with water. Except she'd soaked her muscles in alcohol. Could Lachlan even lift me right now?
He snickered, his eyes crinkling with amusement. His skin was pale, his hair a silky red, his eyes very blue.
Nicola eased away. "Where's Max?" She wanted Max, not Lachlan. No matter how aesteh, estetic. . . astehtically . . . no matter how pretty Lachlan was.
"Max is giving us a ride home, my blossom. You're not driving anywhere for sure. Come along." Lachlan was still smirking as he caught her by the arm and helped her off her stool. The floor seemed a lot farther away than it had been when she got on the stool.
"Must say I'm jealous," Lachlan murmured. "I don't get this many drinks when I win a Sonnet Faceoff."
"They must like me better than you." Nicola grinned at him, feeling loose-limbed, feeling happy.
"Hmm." Lachlan held her arm as he threaded through the crowd. People called to her and she waved, but Lachlan didn't slow until they reached the door. "Here, hold on a mo while I visit the john." Lachlan released her and left.
Nicola blinked at the expanse of chiseled male chest in front of her. She traced her fingers over the soft gray shirt, feeling dense flesh beneath her fingers. A broad, wide hand caught her wrist and pulled her fingers away. "Ah, the tactile phase," Max murmured.
She stared up and up and up at Max as he towered over her. A monolith of a man. A miracle of men. Soft blond hair, striking blue eyes, a suave curve of mouth, strong chin, great neck, good hands, tall, sexy . . . Damned aesthetically pleasing that man. Before, a joy proposed . . . "Hiya, Max."
"Hi, Nicci." He cupped her elbow with his hand and guided her out. The chill, crisp air of the evening splashed against her like being thrust into a cold shower.
She leaned against him, that big body radiating warmth. Something was poking at her back-brain. A thing she had to talk to him about. "I wanted to talk to you," she told him.
"Me too."
"They kept buying me drinks, though."
"I saw that." He clicked his key ring, unlocking his SUV, then he popped the door open for her. When she hesitated, he put his hands on her waist and hoisted her up onto the front seat.
Her stomach swooped and she clasped his wrists, keeping his hands pinned to her waist.
Romeo & Juliet kept running through her head. Ridiculously. Incessantly. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night . . . Romeo leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen . . . "Max."
The line of his jaw stood out strong beneath the scruff of his beard. She traced the muscles, there, the bone. An insistent thrumming had started inside her, like a guitar string vibrating after it's been plucked. Each heartbeat seemed to come slowly, and too far apart. "Max?"
He covered her hand, holding it against his skin, but he was shaking his head. "You're drunk, honey. We'll talk in the morning."
He pulled away and slammed the car door shut, closing her in, shutting himself out. Max waited outside, his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders stiff as he faced the pub, as if he couldn't even look at Nicola.
She sat in the car and watched him, trying to lift her brain out of its boozy lethargy.
Her breath fogged the window glass, and she sketched her fingers through it, making nonsense shapes. Her heart was still pounding, blood popping through her veins with little fireworks of feeling. Max. Max. Max.
Yes, she was drunk tonight, and confused, and suddenly very scared. But, like her finger streaking against the cool glass, cutting clear lines through the fog, she sensed a new clarity within herself. A truth. She wanted Max. Wanted to touch him, be with him.
She'd wanted that for weeks, ever since she'd opened the door and saw him on her doorstep again. Nobody else caused this riot inside her. Nobody else would do, not even the glorious Lachlan – who was born to be a fun fling if any man ever was.
Nicola hunched into her seat, hugging herself, and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. What am I going to do?
She couldn't go back to Max. He'd broken her heart. Twice. They had tried to be together and failed. Then tried again and failed. And tried. And failed. Tried. Failed. Enough times for her to lose track. Enough times to wear down her heart's endurance until the organ seemed a patched, threadbare thing, incapable of the overflowing, exuberant love she'd given as a girl to Max.
"'My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep,'" she murmured, remembering. "'The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.'"
But Juliet had it wrong: the sea could dry up. The bounty was not infinite, not inexhaustible. You could pour out your love to someone, even receive their love in return, and yet still you might find yourself parched in the end, bereft. Alone.
She scrubbed the steam off her window and stared out at Max, devouring the sight of his profile as he disappeared again, obscured by her breath fogging on the glass. But I could have him again for a little while. She could take the Anything Goes job. That would leave them only the summer. A summer fling. A Midsummer fling. Surely neither of them could get too badly hurt in so short a time. She wouldn't risk her heart, it wouldn't be a relationship, but she had been subconsciously working herself up to have a show fling with Lachlan . . . why not one with Max instead?
"Yes." Her breath puffed out in a gust, and the entire window was masked by steam.
Lachlan stumbled up, and Max tugged the door open for him. "Need any help getting in, Lach?"
"No, you wanker." The car shifted as Lachlan hoisted himself in.
Max closed the back door, circled around to the driver's seat, got in, and started the car. "All right, me hearties, no one needs to barf before we head out, right?"
Nicola shook her head. Lachlan flashed Max a "peace sign" from the backseat.
"OK then," Max said. "Hey, Nic, did you want me to drive you home?"
She jumped as he addressed her, and a slow burn started in her cheeks. "Um, no. My car's still at the theater, so if you take me home I won't have any way to get back for rehearsal tomorrow. Can I crash at The Bunkhouse again?"
"You can sleep in my room!" Lachlan caroled from the backseat.
&n
bsp; "You can sleep in the spare room," Max said, glowering at Lachlan in the rear view.
"No fun, Maxim. You're no fun at all." Lachlan's voice was hoarse, and he sounded blurrier than he had before. Nicola wondered if he'd used his "bathroom break" to scam another drink.
"Thanks, Max," she murmured, marveling at herself than she could sound so calm while inside her heart seemed ready to break her chest with its pounding. Max's house. She'd be sleeping only a few feet across from him tonight. And, unlike the other night, she wouldn't have Tierney snoring next to her like an unconscious duenna.
The radio was keyed to something mellow and acoustic, and a low grumble started from the backseat: Lachlan murmuring, "'This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle . . . '"
Nicola frowned and turned around. Lachlan's eyelids were heavy, and he was slumped sideways in his seat, held upright only by the seatbelt. "What is he doing?" she whispered to Max.
Max chuckled and flicked the radio off. "Listen."
Lachlan's voice filtered softly to the front seat, melodic, almost chanting as he murmured the Shakespeare lines, "'This other Eden, demi-paradise, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England . . . '"
Nicola shot Max a questioning glance.
He leaned over and whispered, so as not to disturb Lachlan, "You have your tactile phase. Lachlan has a moody-drunkenly-spouting Shakespeare phase."
She giggled into her palm. "Is it always that speech?"
"He does Hamlet soliloquys sometimes."
Lachlan recited on, unaware of their conversation, "'This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land . . . '" the lilting voice continued, stirring and rich despite the fact Lachlan was wasted. Nicola suffered a brief pang of professional jealousy. Damn, Lachlan had a cool voice.
The Shakespeare trailed off and was replaced by slightly less melodious snoring.
Nicola laughed, and Max beamed back at her. Her heart seemed to fill her throat, her nerves firing with a tingling, hot anticipation. Love-performing night. Leap to these arms.
Max.
Yes.
Chapter Seventeen
When they reached The Bunkhouse, Max didn't even try to wake Lachlan, he just slung the other man over his shoulders in a fireman hold. Nicola hurried before Max and held the door open. Max walked straight past her through the arched doorway that let into the living room and dumped Lachlan onto the leather couch. Max made sure the other man was situated on his side.
"Will Lach be all right?" she asked.
"Yeah. He sleeps here more than his bedroom most nights. When he doesn't have company," Max said.
Nicola twisted her hands together. She and Max were alone. She was horny. He was gorgeous. They'd already done it. A lot. Recently too. Go, Nicola, go.
But instead she swallowed, her nerve stalling out.
"You OK?"
"Sure," she chirped out.
"Do you, uh, want something to sleep in?"
Nicola cleared her throat. "Yes, please."
The wooden stairs creaked as Max paced up them, and Nicola ran her hand over the banister, admiring its smoothness and shine. She snorted to herself. Tactile phase. She glanced away from the wood to find herself staring straight at the round, ripe perfection of Max's ass. As her tactile urges went to Defcon Five Red Alert, she squeezed the banister. Down, girl.
Max stopped and she almost body-slammed in to him. He wheeled toward her, frowning. "OK what?" he all but wailed.
Nicola staggered down one step and cranked her neck back to stare at him. "What what?"
"You're freaking me out."
"Huh?"
He lowered his body to sit on the top step and flailed with his hands in a formless, wordless gesture of frustration. "You're staring at me. You've been staring at me. So: what is it? What's going on with you?"
"Oh." Nicola swallowed, and she made something very like a gulp noise as she did. She hadn't expected a direct approach, hadn't really been expecting anything. Her plan had pretty much amounted to Get Max in Bed. Somehow. But talking? Trying to articulate the riot of feeling inside her, the fear, the wanting? "Um . . . "
"Yes?"
She leaned against the banister and squeezed her eyes closed. If he could be direct then she could be direct. "Actually, Maxim, I was thinking, hoping, to take advantage of you tonight. Somehow."
He said nothing.
For a very long time he said nothing.
Nicola peeled one eye open to make sure he hadn't stormed away in disgust. He hadn't. Max sat at the top of the stars, wrists resting on his knees, big and beautiful, utterly shell-shocked. He blinked at her a few times; his mouth opened and closed.
She sidled nearer to him, kneeling on the step below so she was in between his legs as she met his gaze. "How do you feel about being taken advantage of?"
"I, uh, thought there'd be more talking first. Before we got around to this part of things." He wet his lips then stared at her mouth. "Out of curiosity, how were you planning to take advantage of me?"
She ghosted her mouth over his in an almost-kiss which left her blood tingling like champagne bubbles ran through her veins. "Well, I won that big Sonnet Faceoff tonight. Some might say that sort of accomplishment deserves an adoring crowd and groupies. I already had the adoring crowd at the bar."
"Hmm," Max murmured. "I'm supposed to be the groupie? You dazzle me with your accomplishments then take advantage of my credulous simplicity?"
Nicola laughed and touched his mouth, tracing the softness of his lips. "Have I ever told you how much I love it that you can casually quote Shakespeare and Gilbert and Sullivan?"
"No, but you could start." He threaded his fingers into her hair, and his other hand slid behind her back, urging her to her feet as he stood.
"I love it." She bit his ear, and he hissed in a breath.
"'I am the very model of a modern, major general,'" he crooned off-key. "'I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral – '"
"Maxim, love poetry might be a bit more appropriate just now."
His expression softened, and he framed her face, cradling her cheeks in his hands, staring deeply into her eyes. "'Come what sorrow can, it cannot countervail the exchange of joy that one short minute gives me in her sight.'" He kissed her slowly and with that same heartbreaking reverence, as if he'd found celestial grace in her arms.
This was supposed to be light, a fling. She pressed a palm to his chest, holding him back from her.
"What is it?" he asked.
She tucked an errant strand of gold hair behind his ear. "Nothing."
He smiled and kissed her, and she imagined she could taste his smile on her mouth, the dizzying warmth of it. Max kept kissing her as he walked backwards on the stairs, taking her with him across the landing. They fetched up together to knock into one of the closed bedroom doors. His mouth met hers, firm and wet and delicious. She groaned against his lips; it felt so good her earlier worries simply evaporated.
He broke away, dusting kisses along her neck.
She chewed her lower lip, fumbling to hold onto her brain as it tried to float away on a cloud of bliss. "Am I wrong, or is there a bedroom behind this door you've got me pressed against?"
"There is," he said against her skin, his breath blowing hot over her collarbone.
She shivered. "We didn't make it that far last time. It might be nice to try this lying down."
"I'm not sleeping with you tonight," he said and kissed her soundly on the mouth.
Heat pooled low in her belly, and a greedy need. But then her brain caught up. "What?"
He nibbled her ear. "I'm not sleeping with you tonight."
She shoved against his shoulders. "Why not?"
Max sighed, and pressed more gentle kisses to her neck that made her shiver. "How much did you drink tonight? I don't want you hating me or yourself in the morning."
"Seriously, Max? Seriously?" Nicola held him at arm'
s length and stared into his eyes, making sure he saw she was in her right senses as she said, "I've been wanting to sleep with you ever since the last time we slept together. All I've been thinking about for days, weeks, is sleeping with you. You think I need a couple drinks in me before I want to fuck you, Fiesengerke?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"
"No." She grabbed the collar of his t-shirt, dragging him down so she could kiss him, ravish his mouth, wrap herself around him and press against that gorgeous body. His arms banded around her waist as she kissed him, and he lifted her. Nicola jumped and tangled her legs around his hips, rubbing against his bulge.
"Oh yes." She rocked against him, pressing into his glorious length.
"Nicci." He tangled his fingers in her hair and cupped her head. His tongue swept into her mouth. She moaned and ached and arched and squeezed, wanting to be as close to him as she could, wanting to join with him, be one with him.
"Bedroom," she gasped when he pulled away.
Max fumbled behind, his hand slapping and thumping against the door as he tried to find the knob without having to stop kissing her. He got the door open but lost his balance and tripped. Nicola fell on top of him in a snarl of limbs on the floor.
Max thumped his head against the carpet. "Ow."
Nicola un-wedged herself and crawled up his body. "Now you know how I always feel."
He tilted her chin and licked into her mouth. "No sympathy? You're a hard woman, Nicci."
She straddled him, and rubbed herself against his erection, thrusting with her hips and arching her back. "I'm not the one who's hard."
He growled and rolled her onto her back. Once he was on all fours above her he kicked the door closed. "No interruptions."
No interruptions. She wet her lips, an insistent ache starting between her legs.
He kissed her, and she grabbed at handfuls of his t-shirt, pulling the fabric over his head then smoothing her hands along the tapered muscles of his bare back, his arms. He kissed her, his thumb tracing circles on her temple. "No regrets?" he whispered.
A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1) Page 18