Smokescreen

“You must be a miracle worker because my email is blowing up with messages from Laci. Apparently Dana got to her.”

I smile to myself and make a note to send Dana on a cruise if Stella agrees to meet with me.

“Fine! What time tomorrow?”

I give her the address and time, sighing in relief.

“Maxwell, I’m not sure what you expect out of this. You hurt me. Four days with no words and then a barrage of messages from Dana. I deserve more than that.”

Her continuous use of my formal name is not a good sign. “Yes, Bella, you do. And after you hear what I have to say, I hope you understand. I can’t lose you over this.”

The doorbell rings in her background and I hear her moving. She gasps when she opens the door.

“You didn’t!”

“Yes, I did. I know where you are but respect your space. I have to get my shit together today so tomorrow I can prove to you that I’m crazy about you.”

“Please don‘t say that.”

“It’s the truth, and tomorrow you can decide whether or not to believe it.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait.”

She hangs up and I sit back in my chair. Shit, this better go well. Because if it doesn’t, my alternate plan may piss her off.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say to myself driving up to the meticulous high-rise. There’s a valet station, but I purposely find a spot with a meter across the street. If I need to run, no need to wait for my car.

Trying my best to be professional, I tell the doorman where I’m going and he inserts a key into the elevator, directing me to the twentieth floor. There’s only one door in the entire hallway. I knock hesitantly, willing myself to calm down.

There’s a sound inside that sounds like scraping and then the door flies open. Holy hell!

Max looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but he’s still beautiful. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches over his tight chest, like it was made for his body. A thin black line peaks out from one of the sleeves, exposing his tattoo. Stubble from lack of shaving covers his jawline, which gives him a new level of sex appeal. I have to literally look away to keep from embarrassing myself.

“Stella,” he moans.

Instantly, I warm, my blood racing. My insides grow tight and my thighs reflex. His voice alone brings down my resolve. Our eyes meet and his are full of concern and sadness.

“Max, why are we here?”

“This is my house, you need to see some things.” He opens the door wider and motions for me to enter.

As soon as I do, a familiar scent of him fills the air, but also a stench. A terrible, nasty aroma of rotting food, and awful perfume.

He leads us into an open room that has floor to ceiling windows over-looking downtown. There is a casual living room that leads to a spacious kitchen. The living area is really non-descript. There’s minimal contemporary furniture filling the space, but it’s sterile and uninviting. The only thing that even remotely looks like Max lives here is a huge screen TV on the wall.

The kitchen, on the other hand, is a wreck, the beautiful granite countertops, covered in hardened food. The exquisite travertine tile, littered with broken dishes and more dried food. Wine glasses and other glassware, shattered all around.

Max watches me carefully as I take it all in. I try to ask what happened, but he hushes me and leads me down a hallway. We stop in front of a doorway and he looks at me cautiously while opening the door. It’s a gorgeous bedroom filled with Egyptian flare. Deep hues cover every surface including rich purple silks wrapped around the bedposts. Clothes draped across the wingback chairs and perfumes that fill the dresser, tell me this room belongs to a woman. I back out, uncomfortable with invading her space and Max leads me further down the hall to another door.

Without a word, he opens this door a

nd I feel a chill. The room is huge. Holding not only a full bedroom, but also a sitting area and a small office. It’s decorated in deep blues and greens with tan walls and sparse knick-knacks. There are a few personal pictures but mostly empty space. His bookshelves hold a handful of books, but nothing else.

I turn to him with wide eyes. “Is this your room?”

“Yes.”