An Ounce of Hope(68)

"I think you just might be." He patted the hammock. "Wanna join me?"

She frowned. "There's room?"

Max shifted, leaving a small space for her. "There is now."

Grace placed her water on the ground and, with zero elegance, sat down heavily on the hammock's edge, pushing it sideways sharply and causing her to fall back onto Max.

"Oh shit!" he exclaimed.

A loud, dirty laugh burst from her as Max, with flailing arms and legs, attempted to steady the damn thing and keep them both on top of it. He managed, just, despite Grace not helping one bit.

With them both lying back, Grace still wheezing with laughter, Max shook his head.

"You're nuts," he commented with a wry smile.

"I feel nuts," she replied, placing a hand on her chest in an effort to calm herself. "I feel great." She looked over at him, their noses mere inches apart. "I love it here. I've had such a good time."

"I'm glad." Max's gaze did a slow circuit of her face. "You've caught the sun."

"You, too." She pressed her index finger to his nose. "You have freckles."

"I do not!"

Grace giggled again. "Don't worry, they're adorable."

Max rubbed his hands down his face in an attempt to rid himself of said adorableness. "Whatever."

She grinned and looked back at the sky, her hand grazing his. "It's been nice seeing you so happy."

He looked at her, surprised.

She closed her eyes. "Your smile is far too nice not to show off."

Without thought, Max pushed his arm under her head and pulled her close. The scent of sun-heated skin, sun screen, and wine filled his senses. "You're flirty when you drink, huh?"

Seemingly unfazed by his holding her, she nodded. "Apparently." She opened one eye. "Does that bother you?"

Max shook his head. "It's adorable."

She laughed and moved her hand so that it rested on his bare stomach. His muscles immediately clenched. He cleared his throat. "You kept my T-shirt on."

Grace hummed in reply. "You have a tattoo."

He sighed. "I do."

Grace's eyes opened slowly, their prior haziness fading to something more sensitive. "Wanna talk about it?"

Did he want to talk about it? Not really. But Max knew there would come a time when he would have to open up, to tell people about his past and what he'd been through. Who better to start with than Grace, with her innocent questions and open face. Besides, she'd shared such a dark and painful part of herself when she told him about Rick.

"Christopher was my son," he said quietly, the words scratching his throat like fractured pieces of his heart slipping up from his chest.

Grace became very still. The only movement the gentle sway of the hammock. "Was."

Max turned his head, looking straight at her. "He died."

A small breath escaped Grace's lips. She pulled her hand away from his stomach but he clasped her wrist quickly.




 

 

"Don't," he urged. He placed it back, needing the contact while he told his story, the story of Christopher, the story of Lizzie, the story of why he'd taken the path he had and why he was the way he was.

Grace stayed silent throughout, her fingers moving ever so slightly against his skin when he described losing Christopher and then Lizzie. The drugs, the drinking, the women, all of it spewed from him as they lay on his father's hammock under the shade of the trees.

It was minutes after he'd finished before Grace spoke. "I'm so very sorry, Max."

He shrugged. "Don't be."

"How could she just leave you like that?" She lifted onto her elbow, looking down at him, and moved her hand to his heart, pressing carefully. "This has been hurt so much."

"S'why it doesn't work anymore." He licked his lips and his eyelids fluttered closed when her fingers whispered across his nipple.

"Sure it does," she retorted with a gentle shake of her head. "You just don't realize it." Her hand traveled down the center of his chest, pausing briefly at his belly button. "You're very special, Max."

He gripped her waist gently, hoping to God that she'd move her hand farther down. Despite the gravity of the conversation they'd just had, his need for her touch was overwhelming.

"Gracie." Her stare remained glued to the waistband of his shorts and the undeniable shape of his cock, as it grew hard under her attention. "Touch me."

Gradually her hand shifted, over the material of his shorts, over his erection, drawing a hiss from his lips. Her touch was tentative, careful, causing Max to lift his hips to chase a firmer grip, a rougher stroke.

"That's it," he encouraged, rubbing his palm down her back. "That's it."