Max (Cold Fury Hockey 6)

But for now...this works.

I'm not in a rush.

"Let's play again," Levy says aggressively as he pulls all the gingerbread men back to the start. "I want to win again."

I groan internally but try to put a pleasant smile on my face. Luckily, I'm saved when Jules walks into the tiny kitchen that opens up into the living room and says, "Okay, kids. It's time to get to bed."

This is met by grumbles all around, but fuck...they're kind of cute doing it. They're each ready for bed, even though it's only a little after eight P.M. as Jules had them take their respective baths immediately after dinner. Annabelle has on a pink pajama set that has a unicorn on the front. It looks old and faded but totally comfy. Levy is wearing equally faded Batman pajamas while Rocco sports Superman pj's.

Jules levels them all with a stern look and holds an arm out, indicating for each of them to precede her down the hallway. More grumbling as Levy and Rocco mutter good nights to me, but Annabelle hops off the chair and runs around the table. "Thank you for the pizza and playing with us."

She looks so much like Jules, there's no wonder I originally thought she was their mother. This means that Melody and Jules must have looked a lot alike. Tonight I've been very impressed with how well adjusted the kids seem, despite losing their mom four months ago. And Jules...she's a fucking dynamo, easily alternating between loving aunt and stern guardian when needed.

"You're welcome, Annabelle. Can't wait to play with you again."

She gives me a huge grin and turns around to run down the hallway. Jules shoots me a soft smile before turning to follow the kids. That smile...the way in which she said thank you in about a million different ways with just that one look has me rising from my chair and following them down the hall, intrigued to see how she gets the kids to sleep.

The first door on the left is where I find all of them, as Rocco and Levy climb into a double bed and Annabelle waits patiently for Jules to tuck them in. Watching her hold the covers up so they can push their little legs in, then pulling them up to their chins...the way she leans across the bed and kisses first Rocco on the forehead, and then pulling back to do the same to Levy, touches me deeply. She may feel in over her head, and this I know because I've seen the look of frustration and defeat at times, she's a fucking natural at this. Whether it's raising her niece and nephews or her own children, she was destined to be a mother one day.

Jules turns out the light, picks Annabelle up, and perches her on her hip. She sees me standing in the doorway and her look is accepting of me watching the intimacy of their bedtime ritual. I even get a soft smile as I step back from the doorway to let her by before following her to the room on the opposite side of the hall.

I immediately know this is Jules' room because this is only a two-bedroom apartment and I quickly figure Annabelle sleeps in here with her. A small bedside lamp is on, casting the room in a warm glow. Her comforter is done in mint green with tiny roses embroidered around the edges. It's a little more feminine than I would have pictured a strong woman like her having, but it works, I guess. As Jules starts the process of tucking Annabelle in, which apparently includes reading her favorite book, I walk over to a dresser on the opposite wall of the small room and pick up a frame that holds a picture of two women.

I immediately know this is Jules and her sister, Melody. They're both outside and the sun is shining brightly on them. They have the same eyes, which seem to glow not only from the rays of the sun but from sort of an inner vitality that you can tell they both possess. Their arms are wrapped tightly around each other and their cheeks are pressed together as they look at the camera and appear to be laughing at whoever is taking the picture. It's both gorgeous and sad, knowing that one of those lights has been completely snuffed out and the other has been dampened.

I set the frame down, vaguely listen as Jules reads to Annabelle about a giraffe that can't dance, and my eyes slide to a painting on the wall to the side of her dresser.

It's done in gallery wrap canvas and I'm stunned by the boldness of the colors, only enhanced by the boldness of the brushstrokes. It's a night scene, the sky done in various shades of blue darkening at the horizon and getting lighter in the foreground. A lone row of autumn trees colored in oranges and reds are lit up from below by streetlamps, and a concrete walkway runs parallel. A woman walks along the path, her back to the viewer. She's wearing a trench coat and carries a bright yellow umbrella to shield her from the rain. But I don't need the umbrella to tell me it's raining in the painting. I know this because the leaves on the trees are dewy-looking and the streetlights are reflected on the concrete, which looks shiny and slick. What really strikes me about the painting though is that I immediately recognize details like that, but it's not because of fine brushstrokes. Rather, it's done in chunky swatches of color that if you were to look closely at it wouldn't make sense, but from afar I can tell without a doubt that it's a dark rainy night.

I wonder why she's got such a remarkable painting in this room and I also have to wonder how she afforded it, because it's quality work and I'd like to know more about the artist. My mother is a freak when it comes to original pieces of art, and our house back in Montreal is filled with all of her finds. She'd love something like this, I'm sure.

I turn to the bed and see Jules has finished the story and is pulling the covers up around Annabelle, so I make my way to the bedroom door. She bends down and kisses Annabelle on the forehead, same as she did for the boys, but Annabelle responds by grabbing Jules around the neck and giving her a hug that's very fierce for such a little girl.

"Good night, Mommy," Annabelle says in a sweet voice, and I don't miss the fact that Jules' body stiffens slightly.

But she holds still until Annabelle releases her, and when she pulls back she gives the little girl a warm smile. " 'Night, pumpkin. Sweet dreams."

"Okay," Annabelle says and then turns on her side, tucks her hand under her head and closes her eyes.

Jules turns to look at me as her hand goes to the lamp, and just before she turns it off, my gut clenches when I see the uncertainty rippling in her eyes.

I follow Max out of my bedroom, my heart pounding so hard I feel dizzy. Annabelle just called me Mommy and I didn't have a clue what the fuck to say to it. I've been Aunt Jules to them, and all three continued to call me that when they came to live with me. I think it was a comfort to them somewhat, as it kept it clear in their minds that they had a mommy that loved them very much and there was no pressure for them to feel anything otherwise.

I'm also stunned because while the kids have been with me for a little over four months, we still don't know one another all that well. Melody lived in Oklahoma and our ability to see each other was stunted on both sides by us each not having the money to travel for visits. As such, I probably saw the kids less than a handful of times in their short lives, so when Melody died, they were coming to live with a virtual stranger.

Thus, I'm completely shocked that Annabelle would consider me to be her mommy right now and I'm dumbfounded by what to do. On top of that, I'm just very, very tired of the pressure that comes with trying to make decisions that don't fuck their heads up more than what they already are.

And then there's Max.

Big, beautiful Max walking into my living room and I don't have any idea what to do with him. Oh, I know there are all kinds of things I want to do with him, but I'm afraid that might be the desperate part of me that wants to grab on to something just for myself, and that's completely selfish at this point in my life.

When Max hits the middle of my living room, he points to my couch and says, "Sit."

I blink at him in surprise but his face is so earnest...so intent on something...I don't even think to disobey. Besides, my back is killing me from bending over to scrub out the bathtub tonight.

I fall onto the couch heavily, huffing out a sigh of relief to be off my feet.

Max steps into the space between the living room and the cheap coffee table I got at a flea

market and sits down on it, facing me. I wince when I see it almost shudder under his weight, but impressively, it holds solid.

He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees, and says, "That bothered you. Annabelle calling you Mommy."

I hold his gaze solidly so he gets me. "It didn't bother me. But it concerns me. I have no clue if that's appropriate or not. Should I remind her I'm her aunt and not her mom, because I'm terrified that she'll forget her mom, or should I let her call me what makes her happy?"

"Not sure there is a right answer," he tells me softly, and oddly, that helps. Knowing that he sees how murky these waters are.

I give him a weak smile and nod. "I'm thinking I need to let Annabelle do what makes her feel the most comfortable, and still work hard to keep the memory of Melody alive."

"I think that's wise," he murmurs. "And you're doing a fantastic job with them, for what it's worth."

His gaze holds mine. Solid. Caring. Steady.

I can't for the life of me figure out why this enigmatic man who is famous and rich and hot would be sitting here looking at me this way. It's as perplexing as everything else in my life, and for once I just wish I could easily identify what the hell is going on so I could deal.

It will take work to figure it out. I wasn't lying to him when I told him this was a terrible time in my life. And yet, the feeling of comfort I have right now as he gives me validation feels so damn good, I honestly don't think I could push him away. He's the first real adult I've had in my life for a while, somebody whom I don't need to take care of.

Patting the cushion beside me, I say, "Okay...so tell me all about Max Fournier and why in the world he is sitting in my dinky little apartment trying to make me feel good about myself."

Max's eyes crinkle with amusement and he pushes his large body off the table, turns, and drops down beside me. He's so big, the cushions depress, and I can't help that my body tilts toward his, causing our shoulders to come to rest against each other. It would be so damn tempting to just lay my head there on that solid support and close my eyes to rest.

But Max's soft voice intrigues me and I get caught up by his words. "I'm a total fan of going to the theater, horror movies being my favorite. Not those blood and gore ones. They're okay, I guess, but the ones that are suspenseful and have you about climbing out of your skin. I prefer hot dogs over hamburgers, can't stand onions, and I'm not lying when I say I really do like moonlit strolls on the beach."

I burst out laughing, angle my head on the cushion to look at him. "Such a cliche."

"Not if it's true," he says in that deep voice that has a slight softness to it, the next word effortlessly starting before the previous one ends.

"You have an accent," I say in an abrupt change of subject. "I read you're French-Canadian."

"Je suis ne a Montreal. Mon pere est quebecois et ma mere americaine, donc je parle couramment les deux langues."