"I can't imagine," I said. "Dealing with that all the time."
He shrugged.
"I know you must get used to it," I said. "But I can't imagine just ignoring them."
"They're very skilled," said Max, leaning back in his seat. "Manipulative as fuck. You can beat them at their own game, but only one way - by not playing. If you say nothing, eventually they stop chasing. They won't waste their time."
"Easier said than done, I guess."
"At first," he said. "And they'll always pop back up when there's something juicy. But you just have to remember, if you say anything, they win. Even if you think you're not giving them what they want, you are. All they want is a reaction. When they're buzzing in your ear, just remind yourself what they are. They're flies. Just brush them off."
I had to smile, but I was still incredulous. How long could you possibly ignore that kind of obnoxious, invasive behavior? I suddenly had a lot of sympathy for every celebrity who'd been accused of punching a photographer in the face, or breaking their camera, or...
"Jillian," said Chef, snapping me out of my train of thought. He had that look in his eyes.
"Yes, Chef," I said, automatically.
"Speaking as your boss. You're forbidden to talk to these people. Do you understand?"
I swallowed thickly. "Yes," I said. "Of course."
His eyes flickered, as if acknowledging the sudden switch between friendly conversation and Chef Dylan's Orders™. Did I see a hint of...self-doubt? No, surely not. He cleared his throat and glanced at the floor briefly before looking back at my face.
"My reputation's on the line," he said. "Everything you do, and say, reflects on me. For as long as you work for me, you just can't engage with them."
"I understand." My heart throbbed in my chest. I felt ashamed, scolded, like a little kid who'd done something bad, just because they didn't know any better.
***
"That is one thing I'll always appreciate about this city over Boston," said Max, finishing his umpteenth vodka tonic. "Bars closing at two o'clock? What kind of nonsense is that? God bless New York."
"Come on," I said, eyeing my latest designer martini with suspicion. Would this be the drink that finally came back to bite me? I was fast approaching the "one drink too many" line, but I hadn't crossed it yet. "Has anything good ever happened in a bar after two A.M.?"
"Plenty," said Max, grinning. I wasn't sure when it happened, but he was splayed out far enough on the lounge that his leg was pressed up against mine. And I wasn't making any concerted effort to move it.
In my knee-length cocktail dress and black tights, I felt sadly underdressed compared to the V.I.P.s I saw milling around us. But Max was looking at me like I was the best thing he'd ever seen, and really, that was enough.
"This, for instance," he said, still looking at me. "This is good."
"I don't think it's after two," I said. "I mean, I'm pretty sure."
"But how sure you can you be?" His mouth, I couldn't stop staring it, and the tip of his tongue flicked out, going for the tiny straw in his glass - God. A sudden wave of arousal crashed through me, and thanks to the alcohol, I was powerless to stop it. I shuddered a little, feeling a slow, steady ache set in between my thighs.#p#分页标题#e#
This is ridiculous. Stop it, Jill. Stop it.
But I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't help but remember every time we'd touched or almost touched, and when he'd invited me into the ring, his muscles so taut and strong, a body that could easily hold me down until I begged for mercy.
How drunk was he? If I put his hand between my legs, right now, in this bar - what would he do?
My lips were parted as I struggled to catch my breath, and I realized he was staring at me. In the low light, would he be able to see how flushed my skin was? How dark my eyes had gotten?
I didn't know if he could or not, but he looked a little breathless too.
Our mouths crashed together a second later - who started it, I couldn't be sure, but his tongue slipped hot and wet into my mouth and I moaned, muffled, against him. All I wanted was to climb onto his lap and grind down on him, until he understood what he'd done to me - what his ridiculous, sexy, infuriating self had inspired - but I wasn't sure I had the coordination.
He broke away, panting.
"No," he said, shaking his head, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "You're..."
"Drunk," I supplied. "So are you. But I know what I'm doing."
He hesitated long enough for me to kiss him again, sliding my hand around the back of his neck, reaching for the arm that was closest to me, and bringing it...closer...