And he stands there, in his crisp charcoal suit, shaking his head you want to be treated like an adult? This is what it means to be an adult. You acknowledge consequences and make hard decisions.
And then the pain in Max's eyes chimes in. Reminds me he's suffering and in need of understanding. And also in need of distraction. And possibly thinking about me naked too.
Between class, workouts, homework, studying, and dinner, they fight for supremacy. When I can, I push them aside and pour my thoughts into my art project, the one I was pursuing with Raul.
It's personal. I didn't feel comfortable sharing with him at first, but it was the only way to get his help. And Raul hadn't seen me naked or heard me come.
This is it.
This is what wins: My need to grow as an artist, express myself, find space.
I can't do that if I'm sleeping with Max. Or trying to sleep with Max.
I need to do as he's asked, and pretend it was someone else, somewhere else.
But… given the actual content of these drawings—
This is difficult.
Friday afternoon, I spend all my time polishing my project. I talk myself into ignoring the desire in my core or the flutter in my stomach.
I sip coffee; I eat an egg and avocado sandwich for dinner; I take the subway to Max's building, move through security, take the elevator to his floor.
The office in the corner, with the light on, that's his.
And it's the only occupied office.
Max and I are spending Friday night together.
Alone.
With no one to stop us from crossing the line.
Chapter Eight
OPAL
"Good evening." Max stands, moves around his desk, offers his hand. "Did you find the place easily?"
I shake with a steady grip. It's strange, touching him in this all-business manner. Somehow, it screams both I need that hand between my legs and I'm absolutely not thinking about your hand between my legs. "Yes. It's close to my brother's office." I'm here to work. I need to stay professional, but I need to stand on my own too. I'm not Opal Pierce, sister of the Pierce brothers. I'm Opal, the budding artist with the talent and tenacity to ask for help and deserve it. "I know the city well."
"I imagine." He motions to the plush armchairs in front of his desk. "Would you like to sit or stand? There's an easel in the conference room."
"Here? Really?"
"It's normally used for pie charts." He shakes his head. "The trouble with mixing art and business, business wins."
"It could be worse."
He raises a brow.
"It could be a spreadsheet."
He laughs. "Small victories."
"Exactly."
"Good attitude."
"I try." Like this, tonight. Max is now off-limits, which is tragic. He isn't going to sleep with me again. Also tragic. But he's here to teach me. He's volunteering his time and expertise. I'm going to focus on the win. Not on my desire to mount him.
In theory.
He looks so good tonight, in a sleek black suit and bright blue tie, his dark eyes intense and focused.
Fuck.
"Opal?" he asks. "Do you want to sit?"
I'd like to sit on your face. "Coffee?"
"Huh?"
"Do you have any coffee?"
"At this time?"
"At every time."
"In the kitchen. I'll fix it," he says. "How do you take it? We have almond milk and oat milk."
My stomach flutters. He remembers my allergy.
Get a grip. It's not a sign of love. He's conscientious, that's all.
"I'm particular," I say.
His lips curl into a half-smile. "I respect that." He offers his hand. "Shall we?"
"Thanks." My fingers brush his.
He pulls me to my feet and leads me down the hall, around the corner, to the small, clean kitchen. It's a lot like the space at Simon's office. A long counter with two sinks, a microwave, a drip coffee maker, another Keurig, an electric kettle, and said French press.
Besides the appliances, soap, and paper towels, the counter is clear. The snacks and coffee must be in the cabinet. Or the stainless-steel fridge at the end of the counter.
Max pulls a bag of beans from a high shelf, a blend from an expensive roaster.
"Are you a coffee lover?" I ask.
"Raul was," he says. "He was a sensualist."
"He seemed that way."
He nods and stays busy grinding beans, filling the electric kettle, setting the water to boil.
"Whenever I told him he had an artistic spirit, he said I should see his partner," I say. "I imagine that was you?"
"He liked to cultivate a reputation as a mercenary businessman, but he was a romantic at heart."
The kettle steams. Max waits for the temperature to fall to two hundred, then he fills the French press, sets the timer.
I find the almond milk in the fridge. It's a good brand, my go-to at a friend's house or a coffee shop (no one has coconut milk straight from the can).
"He wasn't ruthless," Max says, "but he had capabilities I don't, capabilities I'd never have."