No. He wasn’t. He couldn’t. “Max.” His name left her lips like honey dripping from a spoon. Sweet and achingly slow. She couldn’t conceal the emotion he still generated inside her. But this couldn’t happen. Not for a hundred reasons.
Especially not for one.
“I miss you.”
She missed him, too. And what did that say about her? She missed the man who represented her biggest regret in life. Not Cody, of course. He wasn’t a regret, even in spite of the heartache of the past few years.
But Max—big regret. Big heartache.
What was wrong with her? She was worse than a moth to a flame. At least the moths didn’t know better. She did—and was still tempted.
“I know it’s impossible.” He held on tightly to her fingers, as if fighting the inevitable, and finally broke eye contact to rub his thumb over her hand. “But if it wasn’t...I’d be tempted to do this.” He lifted her hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles.
Chills raced down her arms as heat—and memories—warmed her heart. His lips moved up to her wrist, sending tingles into her shoulder.
“Or this.” In one fluid motion, he scooted his chair a foot closer to hers, leaned over and cupped her neck with one hand, thumb grazing the side of her cheek.
She closed her eyes, knowing what was next. This was wrong. So wrong. But it was Max. So familiar. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe, much less form a coherent thought. When was the last time he’d kissed her?
Oh. Yeah.
She jerked away as if burned, nearly tilting her chair backward. “No. No!”
“I heard you.” Max held up both hands in surrender, still close enough to touch but obeying her protest. “I’m sorry.”
He’d tried to start it up again. And she’d almost let him.
It was almost enough.
Almost.
“It wouldn’t be right.” His words came out a statement but left a clear question mark ending. “You’re working here.”
“I’m working here.” She parroted numbly, unable to back away any farther from his magnetism but knowing if she didn’t, she might very well find herself pulling the same move on him. “I work here.” There, that was a reason he could understand. A reason she could actually share, anyway.
“You work here.” He repeated it back, nodding, until the sly charm she never could resist filled his eyes. “For three more weeks. Give or take.”
Three weeks. A lifetime. Same difference. With Max, time stopped and sped up and rewound and did all sorts of crazy things she couldn’t control. And that was the problem—with Max, she had no control. Never did.
And unfortunately, not a lot had changed, because if a year ago—six months ago, or even a week ago—someone had told her she’d have Max Ringgold’s hands in her hair, she’d have laughed in their face at the absurdity.
God really, really had a sense of humor.
She needed control back. Not just with Max—with her life. With her son. With the family she’d sacrificed for and fought to create.