Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Her eyes lift, meeting mine, and they’re bright with unshed tears—love, pain, uncertainty. Her smile is small, fragile, but it’s there, and it’s like a flame in my chest, warming me, comforting me.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” she says, her voice trembling, like she’s fighting to hold it together. “It’s not that, Max. I just… I’ve got a deadline breathing down my neck. My publisher’s waiting for paintings, and I’m already behind. It’s a lot to juggle.”
She pauses, her gaze dropping, her fingers brushing the dirt on her shorts, and I see the tug-of-war between her life and this thing we have between us.
“I know,” I say, my voice low, trying to sound certain, for her as much as for me. “But we’ll figure it out. I know we will. We’ll make things happen, no matter the odds.”
"We will," she says and smiles. I embrace her and then get up, eager to help her out before I have to get back to work. I grab a barrow, drag it closer, and begin piling in the weeds she’s pulled. Our hands brush as we work, and the contact is so sweet I have to pause each time to catch my breath.
She laughs, a soft sound, half-joy, half-ache, and it twists something in me, a longing so sharp it steals my breath. “You don’t have to be here,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking to mine, bright with a warmth that makes my pulse skip. “It’s the middle of the work day."
"It’s my lunch break or whatever," I say, and she laughs in response.
The need to touch her grows. I try my best to ignore it. We’re no longer alone, but I truly can’t help myself. I glance around, spot a cluster of shrubs, their leaves thick, shielding us from the house. I pull her behind the foliage, the world falling away.
My fingers cup her face, my thumb brushing the smudge of dirt on her cheek, and I kiss her, soft at first, then deeper. My lips are hungry, as they taste the salt of her sweat, the faint sweetness of her breath. She moans, a quiet, trembling sound that sets my blood on fire, her hands gripping my shirt, pulling me closer, her body pressing against mine.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur against her lips, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes, my voice rough, broken. “I couldn’t stop myself. I just… needed to taste your lips again, Amelia.” I search her face, looking for a sign she feels this as deeply as I do.
Her breath is uneven, and her fingers brush my jaw in a comforting gesture. “It’s okay,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I needed it too, but Sara’s back now, and we have to be more careful. I don’t want to hurt her.”
Reality cuts through, sharp and cold, and I step back, my hands falling to my sides. “Okay. You’re right. Break’s over and I’ve gotta head back to the office. I have back-to-back meetings.”
I hate the words, hate the distance they put between us, but I forced them out anyway.
She nods, though her eyes are shadowed, carrying the same ache I feel. “I’ll be here or in the studio.”
"See you later," I say and turn away.
It is such a battle to walk away. Still, I trudge on. I have to return to the office, I have meetings scheduled that I don’t give a damn about.
Chapter
Forty-One
AMELIA
Max’s kiss lingers like a burn on my lips, a fierce, searing mark that pulses through me as I stand alone, hidden behind the bushes. My breath is unsteady, my chest tight with a storm of longing and shame, his taste—salt and raw desire—clinging to my tongue.
My fingers tremble as I brush the spot on my cheek where his thumb grazed. Sara’s voice, her earnest plea for me to stay another two weeks, coils around me like the serpent in the garden of Eden. It’s promising more stolen moments with Max, and afterwards… the mother of all wounds. I feel as if I’m adrift, caught between the reckless fire of his touch and the crushing weight of betraying Sara’s trust.
Her warm hug from earlier stings even more like a fresh cut.
A shout of laughter startles me. I turn and see Jason sprinting across the lawn. I watch his dark curls bouncing. As soon as he reaches me, his small hand grabs mine, warm and sticky with chocolate. He tugs me toward a patio.
“Look, Aunt Amelia! I found a beetle, come look!” he cries breathlessly, his eyes round with excitement. He is almost leaping with eagerness.
My lips curve into a smile, fragile but real, and I go with him.
“A beetle? Where’s this little guy hiding then?” I ask, my voice teasing, trying to match his lightness.
We crouch down together on the patio.
“It was here a moment ago,” he says in a confused voice.