It communicated a fierce sort of protection covered over with a tender mixture of worry and affection.

I couldn’t bear the hope it made me feel so I couldn’t witness it anymore. I dropped my head and fell forward so my forehead was resting on his chest and I curled my fingers on his bicep.

“I pretty much hate my Dad,” I whispered to his chest as his hand slid from my waist, up my back, to wrap around the back of my neck.

“Reason why, darlin’. I’m now gettin’ why you don’t talk about him.”

I nodded, my head moving on his chest then I admitted, “I hate it that you saw me that way, too.”

He gripped my neck and used it to pull me back.

When I looked at him, he asked, “Why?”

“It’s unattractive,” I answered, my voice soft and there was a tremor in it I couldn’t control which denoted a fear I didn’t want to admit but I still couldn’t hide. “And it isn’t nice.”

His hand at my neck gave me a squeeze, he put his coffee mug down and circled me with his other arm.

Then he ordered, “Put your arms around me, baby.”

I decided sharing time was over, so I suggested, “Max, we should make breakfast.”

He gave me a steely look that said clearly he wasn’t going to repeat his order so on a sigh I put my mug down too, pushed my hands under his arms and wrapped them around him.

“There was nothing unattractive about what I saw.”

“But I lost my temper,” I explained.

“You stuck up for yourself and then you stuck up for the memory of your brother. You didn’t take any shit, not even a little of it.” His face dipped close and he whispered, “That’s not unattractive, baby, that’s beautiful.”

My eyes filled with tears, my body melted into Max’s and the only thing I could think to say was, “Shut up, Max, you’re going to make me cry.”

He grinned a small grin, his head slightly slanted, he touched my lips in a light kiss then, regrettably, he pulled away.

“I had other plans for this mornin’, Duchess, and, much as it kills me to delay them a-fuckin’-gain, I want to take my time. We’ll have to save those for after we get Bitsy to the Station and then take her home.”

He might not have used a lot of words but all of them meant very frightening things since I had a pretty good idea what he meant by his “plans”. I couldn’t quite figure out what was most frightening so I picked what was safest.

“We?” I asked.

“We what?”

“We’re going to get Bitsy?”

His head gave a small jerk as if my question was surprising and he answered, “Yeah. Why?”

“I thought I’d stay home, read, maybe plot how I’ll drug and kidnap my father, drive him to the next state and dump him outside a Police Station with a note pinned to him saying that he killed JFK and was there to confess.”

“As worthwhile a way that is to spend your time, you’re comin’ with me to Bitsy’s.”

“Maybe Bitsy doesn’t want me to come,” I suggested halfheartedly for Bitsy lived in town and pretty much everyone in town had shown a rather healthy curiosity about me.

“Oh, Bitsy wants you to come, it was her idea,” Max informed me unsurprisingly.

That was what I was afraid of.

I sighed then I asked, “How much of a chance do I have of getting out of this?”

“Zip,” was his short, also unsurprising answer.

“Great,” I muttered, looking at his throat.

His arms gave me a squeeze and he called, “Duchess.”

I tipped my head back to look at him.

“She’ll love you,” he whispered.

Then, while I was processing his words, he kissed me. I forgot about Dad, Niles, Bitsy and his words.

I forgot about everything except the fact that his mouth was on mine, his tongue was in my mouth, the latter he could do amazing things with, I was in his arms and he was in mine.

When he seemed happy to keep making out in the kitchen, I was more than happy to let him do it and I took advantage of the fact that my arms were around him. I pulled up his shirt and slid both hands in.

Then I explored. And I liked what I felt, too much. So much, I moaned a little in his mouth and pressed closer.

If I could think, it might have dawned on me that Max just meant to make out in the kitchen. When I pressed in closer, the kiss grew deeper, wilder and his hand fisted in my nightie at the waist, bringing it up, while his other hand slid over my bottom.

I hadn’t had that in awhile, too long, and more importantly, it had never felt like that. In fact, it felt so good I moaned again, lost the ability to stand, gave him my weight and dug my nails in his back.

He growled into my mouth. I pressed my hips into his. His hand at my bottom slid up and then back down, this time in my panties.

That felt infinitely better.

“Max,” I breathed against his lips, liking his hand there a lot.

“Fuck, Duchess,” he growled against mine then repeated, “Fuck.”

His hand was moving over my behind and my head dropped forward, my lips against his neck, I touched my tongue there.

His lips went to my ear and his voice was even rougher when he asked, “You wet?”

I wasn’t thinking, couldn’t think, so, confused, I asked, “Sorry?”

“You wet for me?” His gruff words sounded in my ear and they made me shiver from top to toe in his arms and, if I hadn’t been wet before (which I was), his words would have done it.

“Yes,” I whispered my honest answer against his neck.

“Fuck,” he muttered into my ear.

“Max,” I breathed again, I had no idea why but it sounded like a plea.

Unfortunately he was immune to my plea. I knew this because his hand came out of my undies, both his arms went tight around me, he buried his face in my neck and he held me close for a good long while.

Eventually he said quietly into my neck, “After we get this done in town, we’re comin’ home and, swear to God, anyone gets close to this house, I’m fuckin’ shootin’ ‘em.”

I pulled my head back, his came up but he didn’t drop his arms. Neither did I.

“Do you own a gun?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he answered. “You have a problem with guns?”

I thought about this for a moment and realized I’d never really thought about guns so I replied, “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about guns.”

“I’ll take you out shootin’,” Max decided instantly.

I had a problem with that. “I don’t think –”

“Later.”

“Max –” I started to protest.

“Tomorrow.”

“Max –”

His arms gave me a squeeze and his face grew attractively lascivious. “Maybe the next day.”

“Max!” I snapped, losing patience.

He grinned and changed the subject. “You bought a little pitcher, baby.”

I decided to let him change the subject as this one was safer and less likely to make me angry. I’d been angry enough that day for at least a week. Maybe a year.

“It’s a gift,” I informed him, “for taking care of me when I was sick.”

“You bought me a little pitcher as a gift?”

“Yes,” I said. “And a sugar bowl.”

He shook his head like I was adorable then he stated, “My gift was better.”

“Sorry?”

“The ring.”

I immediately pulled my hand from behind his back, placed it on his chest and stared at the ring he gave me that I hadn’t taken off.

Then I looked at him and said, “Yes, agreed, this ring is a whole lot better than a little pitcher even with a matching sugar bowl.”

He threw his head back and laughed, one of his arms sliding high up my back as he crushed my arm between us and gave me a tight hug.

“Are you saying you don’t like my gift?” I asked after he stopped laughing.

“I’ll like the one you’re givin’ me this afternoon a fuckuva lot better,” he replied and I shivered again in his arms before his face got close and I saw he was fighting a grin. “Go take a shower, honey, I’ll make breakfast.”

“I can make breakfast.”

He shook his head. “You take an age to get ready. You’re gettin’ a head start.”

He wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t one of those women who was ready to face the day after a shower and an application of deodorant.

Though I didn’t take “an age”.

Even so, instead of arguing I looked over his shoulder and mumbled, “Whatever.”

His arms tightened before he let me go, grabbed his mug and turned toward the fridge.

“What do you want, oatmeal, toast, granola?” he asked.

“Toast.”

He opened the fridge but turned to me. “Jelly?”

“What do you think?”

He smiled, tipped his head toward the ceiling and said, “Shower, it’ll be done when you get down.”

“Thanks, Max.”

His head was in the fridge when, as if the two words he said didn’t hold colossal meaning, he muttered, “Anything, baby.”

Anything, baby.

Simple as that.

Anything, baby.

Before I could let those words settle in my soul, I grabbed my mug and nearly ran to the stairs.

I was quickly making the bed when Charlie spoke to me.

What’d I say, Neenee Bean?

It sometimes used to annoy me, but I had to admit, Charlie was rarely wrong.

“I think, just maybe,” I whispered under my breath but even I could hear the hope in my tone, “just maybe you’re right, Charlie.”

Charlie didn’t respond as I finished smoothing the duvet, fluffing the pillows and then I took a shower.

***

We were driving through the streets of town and I was looking out the side window, thinking maybe I could go for another buffalo burger sometime relatively soon when Max asked a question.

“Niles loaded?”

I turned to look at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Niles. Is he loaded?”

Something clawed at my insides coming close to tearing away precious tissue.

“He makes good money,” I said off-handedly, looking out the side window again. “His parents, however, are loaded.”

“Your Dad looked loaded.”

I pulled in breath through my nostrils then said, “Dad’s loaded too but Niles’s parents are on a whole other level of loaded.”

There was silence a second before Max said softly, “Thinkin’ today, Duchess, you might’ve gotten written out of your Dad’s will.”

That claw curled up and slid away and the tension in my body relaxed as I murmured, “No big loss.”

He glanced at me and stated, “You make good money too.”

That claw came back with a vengeance.

“I’m not loaded.”

“Nina, don’t know much about ‘em but your fuckin’ purse looks like it cost more than my couch.”

“It didn’t,” I replied sharply and hurriedly.

“You know how much my couch cost?”

“Unless you got a major bargain, it didn’t cost less than my purse,” I retorted.

He glanced at me again and said, “All right, relax.”

“I’m relaxed,” I lied.

“You’re wound up tight,” he observed accurately.

“I am not,” I lied again.

“You got a problem makin’ more money than me?”

“I don’t know that I do.”

“Honey, you’re a lawyer.”

“So?”

He didn’t answer my one word question, instead he asked one of his own. “Can you practice in The States?”

I looked out the side window again and informed him, “I passed the bar and practiced here before moving there, worked for a small firm and I’m still licensed in America. I had to take a conversion course when I moved to England.”

“Then you’re set,” he muttered under his breath but I heard him.

I looked back and asked, “Set for what?”

He again didn’t respond to my question but turned my attention back to one of his. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I was getting confused. “What question?”

“You got a problem makin’ more money than me?”

“If that is, indeed, the case, why would I?” I asked back.

“It’s important to know.”

“Why?”

He glanced at me again and repeated disbelievingly, “Why?”

“Max, seeing as you’re a man and you brought this up then my question would be, do you have a problem with it?”

“Nope,” he replied immediately.

“Then why are we talking about this?”

We’d driven out of town and he made a turn into a residential area as he said, “You get used to that kind of life.”

“What kind of life?”

“The life you get bein’ with someone who’s loaded.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed.

“Duchess, not sure I get what’s funny,” Max said over my laughter.