the kitchen, she tortured her swollen bottom lip. “M-Max still hasn’t come down?”
“Nope.” He plucked a leftover potato wedge from the pan and popped it into his mouth.
“He hasn’t left his room in two days.”
Luke swallowed. “He hasn’t left at all?”
She shook her head and her bright hair shimmered about her shoulders. “Do y-y-you think—” Her throat worked. “Sh-should I knock?”
“You should knock.”
She hesitated.
He turned her shoulders and gave her a little push toward the foyer. “At the very least, you have to make sure he isn’t dead.”
She blanched.
“I’m kidding.” He hustled her toward the stairs. “We’re going to have to work on your sense of humor.”
“Later, okay?” With a resolved nod, she placed one foot on the first step, but then she whirled to face him. “I don’t know what to say.”
He folded his arms over his chest and blocked her retreat. “Say ‘kitchen closes in ten minutes. If you want to eat, you need to do it now.’”
Her features pulled into an adorable frown. “That sounds rude.”
“Say it however you like, but that’s the general message you need to convey.”
She plopped down hard on a step. Her expression twisted with such misery, he almost took pity on her.
Almost.
“You know, there are a few things I’d like to ask him.” He started up the stairs. “Why don’t I just—?”
“No!” Emily surged to her feet. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it right now.”
She backed up several steps before she turned and started to climb. At the top, she snuck a glance back at him over his shoulder.
He gave her a stern look. “You can do it.”
“I’m not very good at talking to p-p-people.”
A pang wrenched his chest. “Visualize.”
One eyebrow inched upward.
“Studies prove visualizing success increases the likelihood you’ll succeed.”
“It does?”
He had no freaking idea, but he heard a lot of such talk at the seminars Cynthia kept sending him to and he had to say something that might bring some color back into her cheeks.
“It’s true if you make it so.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Okay, listen to me. You’re a piranha,” he said. “A small fish with a big bite.”
Her startled laugh knocked him in the chest.
Truth be told, he couldn’t find a single humorous thing about the moment. Not the thundering beneath his breastbone, nor the white-hot lawlessness surging through his veins at the light, tinkling sound of her laughter.
When he’d started this, he’d wanted a distraction, and certainly he’d gotten that much. What he hadn’t bet on was the desperate quality of his growing desire for her.
And as she turned from him, her terror palpable, something inside him shifted and forever changed what he saw when he looked at her.
A small smile touched her lips as she made her way down the hall.
He’d taken the time to figure her out, and he used his knowledge to challenge her, a fact that rendered her insanely giddy. Maybe she should’ve been upset that he’d manipulated her, but she wasn’t. Not even a little bit.
Her mind turned to the task ahead of her. She visualized herself knocking on the bedroom door and informing Max that a scrumptious breakfast awaited him downstairs.
She lifted a hand and knocked two soft taps on Max’s door. She waited. No noise reached her from within the bedroom. Was he asleep? Was he dead?
With an audible gulp, she knocked again, louder this time.
A crash and thump sounded on the other side of the door, and then a clatter of noise erupted. The thunder of footsteps shook the floor. Emily took a step back just as the door swung open and Max loomed before her.
He wore black running pants, but nothing else, and his dirty-blond hair stood on end. He peered at her with bloodshot eyes, red rimmed and heavy lidded. It appeared as though he hadn’t slept in days.
“Are y-y-you hungry?”
“No.” He pushed the door.
Her hand shot out and stopped it from
“Nope.” He plucked a leftover potato wedge from the pan and popped it into his mouth.
“He hasn’t left his room in two days.”
Luke swallowed. “He hasn’t left at all?”
She shook her head and her bright hair shimmered about her shoulders. “Do y-y-you think—” Her throat worked. “Sh-should I knock?”
“You should knock.”
She hesitated.
He turned her shoulders and gave her a little push toward the foyer. “At the very least, you have to make sure he isn’t dead.”
She blanched.
“I’m kidding.” He hustled her toward the stairs. “We’re going to have to work on your sense of humor.”
“Later, okay?” With a resolved nod, she placed one foot on the first step, but then she whirled to face him. “I don’t know what to say.”
He folded his arms over his chest and blocked her retreat. “Say ‘kitchen closes in ten minutes. If you want to eat, you need to do it now.’”
Her features pulled into an adorable frown. “That sounds rude.”
“Say it however you like, but that’s the general message you need to convey.”
She plopped down hard on a step. Her expression twisted with such misery, he almost took pity on her.
Almost.
“You know, there are a few things I’d like to ask him.” He started up the stairs. “Why don’t I just—?”
“No!” Emily surged to her feet. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it right now.”
She backed up several steps before she turned and started to climb. At the top, she snuck a glance back at him over his shoulder.
He gave her a stern look. “You can do it.”
“I’m not very good at talking to p-p-people.”
A pang wrenched his chest. “Visualize.”
One eyebrow inched upward.
“Studies prove visualizing success increases the likelihood you’ll succeed.”
“It does?”
He had no freaking idea, but he heard a lot of such talk at the seminars Cynthia kept sending him to and he had to say something that might bring some color back into her cheeks.
“It’s true if you make it so.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Okay, listen to me. You’re a piranha,” he said. “A small fish with a big bite.”
Her startled laugh knocked him in the chest.
Truth be told, he couldn’t find a single humorous thing about the moment. Not the thundering beneath his breastbone, nor the white-hot lawlessness surging through his veins at the light, tinkling sound of her laughter.
When he’d started this, he’d wanted a distraction, and certainly he’d gotten that much. What he hadn’t bet on was the desperate quality of his growing desire for her.
And as she turned from him, her terror palpable, something inside him shifted and forever changed what he saw when he looked at her.
A small smile touched her lips as she made her way down the hall.
He’d taken the time to figure her out, and he used his knowledge to challenge her, a fact that rendered her insanely giddy. Maybe she should’ve been upset that he’d manipulated her, but she wasn’t. Not even a little bit.
Her mind turned to the task ahead of her. She visualized herself knocking on the bedroom door and informing Max that a scrumptious breakfast awaited him downstairs.
She lifted a hand and knocked two soft taps on Max’s door. She waited. No noise reached her from within the bedroom. Was he asleep? Was he dead?
With an audible gulp, she knocked again, louder this time.
A crash and thump sounded on the other side of the door, and then a clatter of noise erupted. The thunder of footsteps shook the floor. Emily took a step back just as the door swung open and Max loomed before her.
He wore black running pants, but nothing else, and his dirty-blond hair stood on end. He peered at her with bloodshot eyes, red rimmed and heavy lidded. It appeared as though he hadn’t slept in days.
“Are y-y-you hungry?”
“No.” He pushed the door.
Her hand shot out and stopped it from
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