Obviously a gentleman.

“Max –”

He twisted, leaned toward me, put one forearm on the table, the other arm on the back of the booth and considering his sudden proximity, the sheer size of his frame, the effect of his clear, gray eyes on me and the fact I was pinned in a corner, I stopped talking.

“Tell me, Duchess, how does an American come to sound like you?”

I stared at him another second then murmured, “It’s a long story.”

He looked over his shoulder at the restaurant, turned back to me and noted, “This ain’t fast food.”

“That’s too bad, considering I’m hungry.”

“So, the American passport and the English accent?” he prompted, ignoring my comment.

“In England, they say I have an American accent,” I informed him.

“They’d be wrong.”

“Actually, they’re right.”

He shook his head. “You aren’t answering my question.”

I sighed then I said, “I’ve lived there for awhile.”

“How long?”

“Long enough, evidently, to pick up a hint of an accent.”

“A hint?”

“Yes.”

“More than a hint, babe.”

I shrugged, looked at the table and gave in. “If you say so.” Then I arranged the placemats and silverware, one for him, one for me, all the while I did this I tried not to think about how it felt, him calling me “babe”. Unfortunately, I failed not to think of this and decided it felt nice.

When I was done arranging the table for our dinner, he asked, “How old are you?”

My eyes shot to his and I told him, “That’s a rude question to ask a woman.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It just is.”

“You older than you look?”

“Probably.” Or at least I hoped so.

“Should I guess?”

I felt my body get stiff and I declared, “Absolutely not.”

He gave me a grin and got closer. “Give me a ballpark figure.”

“Older than Becca, younger than your mother,” I told him.

His hand not dangling from the table came up and touched my shoulder. I looked down to see my shirt had again slid off. I rearranged it so it covered my shoulder, his hand fell away and then I glared at him.

“That’s quite a range,” he commented and I shrugged then he said, “You look thirty,” well, that was good, “you act ninety.”

I stiffened then leaned toward him. “I don’t act ninety.”

“Honey, it was possible, I’d think you were born two centuries ago.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you’re uptight.”

I leaned in closer and snapped, “I’m not uptight!”

He grinned again. “Totally uptight.”

“I’m not uptight,” I repeated.

“Don’t know what to make of you,” he said, his eyes moving down my torso to my lap and he finished with, “contradiction.”

“What does that mean?” I asked but I really shouldn’t have and I knew it.

His eyes came back to mine. “It means you look one way, you act another.”

I leaned in closer. “And what does that mean?”

He leaned in closer too and we were nearly nose to nose. “It means a woman who owns those jeans, those boots, that shirt, deep down, is not uptight.”

“That’s right, I’m not uptight,” I snapped and then jumped when two bottles of beer hit the table.

I looked up to see a waitress standing there, tray under her arm, white t-shirt, jeans, ash blonde hair in a ponytail, pretty mountain fresh face, no makeup.

“Hey Max,” she said.

“Hey Trudy,” Max replied.

“Hey,” she said to me then she smiled.

“Hi,” I replied, not smiling.

Her smile got bigger and without leaving menus she walked away.

I looked at the beer and Max, thankfully, moved away, grabbed both, put one in front of me and took a pull off his.

“Is that for me?” I asked and his eyes came to me around his beer bottle then he dropped his hand.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t order that.”

“I did.”

He did? When?

I decided not to ask and informed him, “I don’t drink lager.”

“What?”

I dipped my head to the beer. “I said, I don’t drink lager.”

“What do you drink?”

“Ale, bitter, stout.”

“So, you’re sayin’ you don’t drink American beer, you drink English beer.”

“There are lagers that aren’t American. Heineken. Stella. Beck’s. In fact,” I went on informatively, “I think lager was invented by the Germans. In fact, I think beer, on the whole, was invented by the Germans.” I didn’t actually know this for a fact, I was just guessing.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dropping his head.

“What?”

He looked back at me. “Duchess, you can argue about anything.”

“No I can’t.”

“So, now you’re arguin’ about not arguing?”

I decided to be quiet.

Max twisted and shouted, “Trudy!”

Trudy turned from the table she was standing at, hands up, notepad in one, pencil in the other, table of tourists interrupted in mid-order and she shouted back, “What?”

“You got any ale?” Max asked and I shrunk into the booth.

“Ale?” Trudy asked back.

“Ale.”

“I think so, sure.”

“Get the Duchess here one, will you?” he called, dipping his head toward me.


Her eyes slid to me, she smiled and shouted, “Sure thing.”

At the same time I leaned forward and hissed, “Max!”

He turned back to me and asked, “What?”

“Don’t call me Duchess in front of Trudy.”

He grinned and replied, “All right, you tell me how old you are, I won’t call you Duchess in front of Trudy.”

I looked at the ceiling and asked, “Why? Why me, Lord? What did I do?”

My body went stiff and my chin jerked down when I felt Max’s fingers curl around the side of my neck and I saw that he’d gotten close. Not only did I see he’d gotten close, his face had grown soft and he looked amused and the combination was phenomenal. So phenomenal, I held my breath.

His eyes dropped to my mouth and my lungs started burning.

“Christ, you’re cute,” he muttered.

“Max!” I heard a man yell, Max’s head turned and I let out my breath.

Then Max muttered under his, “Fuck.”

I looked into the restaurant to see a tall man with a handsome, open, boyish face, light brown hair and a lanky frame headed our way. He was smiling.

At his side walked a tall woman, thin and utterly beautiful in a very cool way. Flawless skin. Long, ebony hair, perfectly straight and gleaming, parted severely and then pulled back just as severely in a ponytail at her nape. She also wore no makeup. She had on almost the same thing as Becca this morning except her poofy vest was less poofy and was a muted, sage green and her shirt wasn’t a thermal, it was long sleeved, ribbed and dusky blue. She and the man were holding bottles of beer, Coors Light to be precise.

Her eyes were on Max and she was not smiling.

Then her eyes slid to me and for some bizarre reason her expression turned glacial.

“Max, didn’t know you were back in town,” the man remarked sociably as they made it to our table and stopped.

Max slid out of the booth and shook his hand. “Harry.”

Harry looked at me and greeted, “Hey.”

“Hello,” I replied.

“Nina, this is Harry,” Max said then jerked his head to the woman and I noticed Max was also not smiling, “and this is Shauna.”

Shauna? Shauna with a U of the password on Max’s computer? No wonder her look was glacial.

Oh my God.

“Hello, Shauna,” I said, trying to cover my surprise and discomfort.

Her eyes grazed over me and she said to the wall at my side, “Hello.”

“Man, it’s packed tonight,” Harry noted, looking behind him. “They’re clearing our table, you mind if we hang here with you while they do?”

Then without allowing Max to answer, he shoved our coats and my purse to the side and slid in the booth opposite me. Shauna’s entire face grew so tight I thought it’d split open but Harry just grabbed her hand and pulled her in, oblivious to her state of mind. Or maybe he didn’t know his partner’s name was the password on Max’s computer and all that implied.

I looked up at Max and saw just his mouth had grown tight but his face had grown that scary dark I’d seen the first night I met him. Nevertheless, without a word he slid in beside me.

“So, Nina, you come back with Max?” Harry asked me.

“Back?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” Harry said, grinning a somewhat goofy grin.

“Um…” I replied, answering his confusing question the only way I could, “no.”

“Nina rented the house,” Max told Harry and Harry nodded.

“Yeah, fuckin’ great house,” Harry remarked then took a drink of his beer.

“It is,” I agreed, not knowing what to do in this situation and hoping the icicles Shauna was so obviously willing to shoot out her eyes and pierce my flesh wouldn’t actually form.

“Pretty unbelievable, Max built it himself,” Harry said.

I stopped trying not to look at Shauna without looking like I was trying not to look at Shauna and my eyes shot to Harry.

“I’m sorry?”

“The A-Frame, Max built it himself from the ground up,” Harry informed me and my eyes moved to Max.

“You did?” I breathed, actually breathed. Then again, I was surprised. And impressed.

“Designed it too,” Harry went on before Max, who’d turned his head to me, could reply.

“He did not,” Shauna put in coldly and I looked back at them.

“Well, Rudy helped,” Harry grinned, seemingly impervious to her frosty demeanor. “He looked over the plans.”