Maxim (Carolina Reapers 10)

Shit. Did she have someone else? I’d never even asked her, but she would have said something when I kissed her, right?

I hauled my carry-on out of the back, draped my suit coat over my arm, and headed inside, taking the extra five seconds to move Evie’s keys over one hook and hang mine on the correct one.

We were on a streak, and I wasn’t about to fuck with it now.

“Maxim?” Evie called out. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” I answered her, walking through the hot mess that was my kitchen, following the sound of her voice. “We just got in.” From the edge of the living room, I saw her stretched out on the couch, a bowl of popcorn at her side and too many varieties of baked goods to count covering the coffee table. “Someone’s been baking.”

“Absolutely.” My chest did that clenching thing as she answered me with a glowing smile. “There are brownies, chocolate-chip cookies, and even two different types of zucchini muffins. They used to be warm, but you’re late.” She cocked an eyebrow at me.

“And I never, in a million years, thought you’d be sitting at home on Valentine’s Day.” And yet, I was selfishly glad that she was.

“Where else would I be?”

My mouth opened, then shut. I didn’t have an answer for that question, and from the sound of her sigh, she knew it.

“Well, why don’t you get out of…” Her gaze ran down my body, an unmistakable flare of heat in her eyes that somehow raised my own body temperature, “...all that, and come veg out with me?”

Note to self: she likes the suit.

“That is,” she continued. “Unless you have plans.”

I scoffed. “I swore off all plans for the season.”

Her brow puckered in confusion for a second. “Okay, then pj’s only, if you can’t tell.” She gestured down her body.

Walking closer, I saw that she was decked out in a long-sleeved baseball-tee that said I Bake So I Don’t Punch People in the Face, and a set of fuzzy pajama pants that made my palms tingle with the urge to feel that fabric against my skin. She looked comfortable, relaxed, and…welcoming.

And after a lifetime of dressing up on Valentine’s Day to take whatever girl I’d been seeing for the month out for an expensive dinner I’d ended up hating anyway, seeing Evie smile up at me was everything I didn’t know I needed.

“Be right back.” I took my carry-on upstairs and put everything away, sliding the luggage into my closet. Then I pulled out a pair of plaid pajama pants Mila had given me for Christmas and its matching Slytherin shirt.

Evie grinned as I walked back into the living room, drawing her feet up to make room for me on the couch. I sank into the leather sofa, put my feet up on the coffee table, and reached for Evie’s calves, drawing her legs over my lap so she could stay stretched out.

Her lips parted.

I focused on the television and rolled my eyes as period actors crossed the screen. “Are you seriously watching Bridgerton?”

“We’re seriously watching Bridgerton,” she answered, tossing a piece of popcorn at me.

“Can I veto the show choice?” I grumbled.

She reached over to the table, picked up the plate of muffins and handed it to me. “Stuff it. This show is awesome.”

“It’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever been forced to watch,” I argued before biting into one of the muffins. “Man, these are good. Thank you.”

“Zucchini!” She said with a grin. “And of course it’s cheesy. It’s supposed to be cheesy, romantic, and just a little sexy. It’s Valentine’s Day, for crying out loud.”

“I could argue that Jurassic World is equally cheesy, romantic, and a little sexy.” I took another bite as she put the plate back on the table.

“But is anyone getting it on top of their desk in Jurassic World?” A corner of her lips rose in a smirk. “I think not.”

I sighed and settled in, knowing a lost argument when I saw one. About twenty minutes later, I’d had one too many muffins, and at some point had begun to idly stroke my hand along her leg, moving from ankle to knee over and over again.

Then the Duke proclaimed that he burned or something, and Evie’s soft sigh caught my attention.

“It’s so hot,” Evie mock-groaned. “Even if it’s a false promise of stuff that doesn’t exist, it’s just. So. Hot. I mean look at that!” She pointed toward the television and put the popcorn on the table. “Kiss? Hot. Passion? Hot. The way he looks at her? Hot. The way he manhandles her? Hot. Real life? Nope.”

“That stuff exists,” I argued.

She scoffed.

I pivoted slightly to face her. “You’re telling me you’ve never had a boyfriend who looks at you like that?”

She pressed her lips in a firm line and shook her head.