Crazy for Love

Jenn nodded and shooed her out as if there were a scrum of people at the door, all jostling for a seat outside.

Chloe spun and reached for the handle, but she froze with her hand wrapped around the cold metal. She didn’t like the fear creeping along her spine, didn’t like the panic making her fingers shake. Over the past month, she’d turned into a coward who jumped at every shadow and couldn’t even trust people enough to eat dinner near them. The mere sight of a working television squeezed her stomach into knots.

She didn’t want to run outside. She hadn’t been in a bar with a girlfriend in…forever.

Fear turned to rage for a brief, shining moment, and Chloe spun back to face the bar, determined not to run…just this one time.

No one was watching her. Not even Jenn.

She let go of her death grip on the door handle and took a deep breath. Thomas’s stupidity and cowardice had turned her into a paranoid freak. Or, if she were feeling fair, the twenty-four-hour media culture had turned her into that freak, but Chloe wasn’t feeling the least bit fair.

But she was feeling wonderfully anonymous, so she put her chin up, ignored the icy air-conditioning and took a seat at the nearest table. One baby step at a time, she’d find a way to start a new life for herself. After this was over, she’d dye her hair and get a new apartment and walk through life as if her name hadn’t become synonymous with psycho-bitch. But for now, she’d have a drink in the bar and not look over her shoulder while she was doing it. Baby steps.

TRYING HIS BEST to ignore the incessant sound of rumbling waves, Max prodded the hot coals in the grill he’d set up on the sand.

“Hey!” Elliott called from the porch. “You sure you don’t want me to do that?”

“I got it,” he shouted back. Elliott lived in a high-rise condo in D.C. He likely didn’t understand the dangers of wind-whipped fire. If Max didn’t man the grill himself, he’d just stand on the porch, arms crossed, watching Elliott to be sure he didn’t let the flames get too high. It was more relaxing to simply take control of the situation.

“All right,” said Elliott from right behind him. “I’ve got beer duty covered, tho

ugh.” He handed Max an ice-cold Corona and stood a little too close to the grill for Max’s comfort. Max shifted toward his brother to edge him farther away.

Jaw set as he stared out at the waves, Elliott moved a few inches to the side. Jesus, he looked even more miserable than Max felt. Max rolled his shoulders and put on his smile.

“Say,” he said, slapping his brother on the back, “there are women on this island.”

The creases in Elliott’s forehead deepened. “I think wild vacation flings are more your kind of thing.”

“Mm,” Max grunted, aware, as he always was, that the persona he’d crafted for himself fit him about as well as an extrasmall wet suit. Fun-loving, carefree adventurer. It couldn’t be further from the truth. But the wild woman part? That struck a little closer to home. “Yeah, well, I thought you were trying to add some spark to your life.”

“That last girl you dated sure threw off sparks,” Elliott offered, his mouth finally curving up in a smile.

“Don’t remind me,” Max groaned.

The smile twisted into a full-on grin. “What was her name?”

“Genevieve.”

“Right, the infamous Genevieve Bianca. She…”

“Hey,” Max cut in, “weren’t we talking about you?”

“What’s the point? Your life is a hell of a lot more interesting. It always has been.”

“The fucking plague is interesting, too.” Max deserved the laughter he got in response. Interesting was a mild word to describe his love life.

His woman problems had started out innocently enough. He liked to take care of things. To make sure the details of life were addressed. To make sure that people were taken care of.

There was no mystery about the origins of this neurosis. Their father had been an irresponsible, selfish bastard with no interest in taking care of anyone but himself. As the older son, Max had found himself stepping into that role. But something about the responsibility had gotten stuck deep inside him like a barbed hook. He couldn’t ignore it, even when any rational person would be able to walk away. The need to guide people out of trouble was a painful tugging in his brain. And women in trouble…

Christ, his love life had been a goddamn catastrophe from the moment he’d turned sixteen. Everyone thought he was attracted to bad girls. The truth was, they were attracted to him, and he was pathologically unable to turn his back on someone in trouble.

Nine months ago, in an era he liked to refer to as post-Genevieve, Max had taken a vow of celibacy. No more women, no matter how vulnerable and needy they were. He was strictly hands-off. Life since then had been perfectly lonely. As isolated as he could manage. He’d loved it.

In fact, he felt a stark envy for Elliott’s life. His quiet apartment. His office filled with papers and books and computers. His complete lack of any hint of drama. Elliott would never believe it, but Max would switch places with him in a heartbeat. Let Elliott deal with a wild, globe-trotting heiress like Genevieve. Max would live like a monk.

A monk who still took pleasure in watching the approach of two pretty women walking across the sand. “See?” he murmured. “Women.”