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 cliché.”
“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 né à Montréal. Mon père est québecois et ma mère américaine, donc je parle couramment les deux langues.”
I give a dramatic, feminine sigh. “I bet you get all the girls to drop their panties when you talk like that, right?”
He leans forward a bit, looks at the lower half of my body with an arched eyebrow and says dryly, “Apparently not.”
I should be tired as hell and not up for witty banter, but damn if he doesn’t energize me with his quick wit and charm. I laugh and turn my face forward again. “But seriously, what did you say?”
“I said you’re not getting in my pants, no matter how much you beg,” he says devilishly.
And I can’t help it, I laugh again.
But then he turns serious. “I said yes, I am French-Canadian and I was born to a French-Canadian father and an American mother.”
“Your accent is very hard to detect though,” I point out.
He shrugs. “I probably mimic my mom’s accent some, plus I’ve spent the last eleven years outside of French-speaking Canada. It’s probably just diluted, I guess.”
“And do you have siblings?” I ask, my mind of course thinking of my one and only, who I lost.
“Three,” he says in a voice that tells me he loves his siblings the way I loved Melody. “I’m the oldest, then there’s Lucas, who is a year younger than me at twenty-six. He’s a center for the New Jersey Wildcats. Then Malik, who is twenty-four and exercised his dual citizenship by enlisting in the U.S. Marine Corps, and finally our little sister, Simone. She’s twenty-one and in her senior year at Dartmouth, where our parents met. She wants to follow in my dad’s footsteps and become a doctor.”
“Your dad’s a doctor?” I ask curiously.
“A radiologist. His name is Laurence,” he confirms with a nod, and I can hear the French part of his accent loud and clear when he pronounces it “Lor-ohnce.” And damn…that’s sexy.
“My mom, Marilyn, is a public speaking coach,” he adds with pride. “My family is amazing.”
“I can hear the affection in your voice,” I say with a smile. “That’s nice.”
And it is…so nice.
And foreign.
“Will you tell me about Melody?” he asks softly, and his voice washes over me with such care that I don’t hesitate in the slightest, even though she’s been difficult to think about much less talk about.
“She was three years older than me—” I start, but Max interrupts.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five,” I tell him and then continue on with my story. “Our mom ditched us when I was thirteen and she was sixteen, and my dad was a long-distance truck driver, so he sort of just let Melody take care of me when he was on the road. Which was fine. Melody was always really mature and she did take great care of me. Did all the grocery shopping, paid bills with money Dad left us when he was gone, made sure I did my homework. You know…mom stuff.”
“Was that here in Raleigh?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Fayetteville…about an hour south of here.”
“Military base there, right?”
“Fort Bragg,” I tell him. “In fact, that’s where she met her husband, Dwayne. He was a soldier there and they got married when she was twenty. I moved in with her and Dwayne for my last year of high school, but then he got out of the Army not long after I graduated and she moved with him back to Oklahoma, where he was from.”
“That must have been tough on you,” he observes.
“Really hard because Melody had just found out she was pregnant with Rocco,” I tell him in a sad murmur. “But she was in love and following her heart.”
“What did you do?” he prompts.
“Moved back into my dad’s house. Got a job and tried to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Finally decided on becoming a nursing assistant, and I figured I could go back to school later and complete my RN degree if I wanted.”
“And that’s when you moved to Raleigh?”
“Yup. Finished my degree, got a job at Sweetbrier and have been there ever since.”
Max sits up from his semireclined position and turns himself to face me, raising one powerful leg up onto the cushion and slinging his arm along the back of the couch. It’s not touching me but it is resting right above the top of my head. I shift my body, turn to lean on my hip so I can face him.
“What happened to Melody?” he asks quietly, his eyes pinned to mine.
I drop my gaze only for a moment, really just to collect myself, and then I look back up to him. “Ovarian cancer. By the time it was diagnosed it had spread everywhere. She went downhill really fast, maybe about three months total from the time she was diagnosed. Sweetbrier let me take a leave of absence—unpaid, of course. I went out there and took care of her until she…well, until the end. Brought the kids back with me.”
Max’s face has morphed into painful empathy and he reaches his hand out, runs his fingers over the back of mine resting on my thigh. It’s an intimate move, but not a sexual one. It’s full of support and care. He then wraps his fingers around my hand and squeezes.
“What about her husband?” he asks.
“He flaked out pretty much after Rocco was born,” I told him with only a slight hint of bitterness. Bitter that he hurt Melody so badly but very much consoled by the fact I have the kids and he doesn’t. I explain further, “He cheated on her frequently, often leaving for weeks, usually to stay with another woman. He’d then float back into her life, she’d take him back because she loved him, and lo and behold, she’d get pregnant again. Then he’d flake out again. When she got diagnosed, he’d been gone again for maybe six months. Moved to Arizona last we heard, with some woman. Never sent her any money and actually owes a few years of back support to them, but I doubt I’ll ever see that.”
“Did he even come back when Melody was sick?”
“Nope,” I tell him now with complete bitterness. “Melody was heartbroken he didn’t even care enough to come say goodbye but she defended him to the end, which drove me nuts. Said that it was too hard on him to see her that way. They had a few conversations on the phone and he made it clear he couldn’t handle the kids. Gladly signed off for me to get guardianship.”
“What an asshole,” Max mutters, his hand reflexively squeezing mine. And it feels good and secure.
“Totally an asshole,” I agree. “He was horrible to Melody and I never got why she kept taking his shit. He’s only called the kids once since they’ve moved in here, but honestly, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. They’re used to him not being in their lives and I think it only highlights his abandonment of them when he makes such infrequent calls. At first I thought it was strange they hardly ever asked for their daddy but then I realized he really wasn’t that to them throughout their lives.”
“Someone should kick his ass,” Max says on a low growl. “Or better yet, go kick his parents’ asses for raising such a piece of shit.”
He won’t get any argument from me there, that’s the truth. I lean until the side of my head rests against the cushion and smile at him in agreement.
Max bends his head down a little closer to me, his eyes brimming with stark admiration. “So here you are…probably leading a decent, stress-free life, and all of a sudden…you lose your sister and gain three kids. You had to cram everyone into this little apartment, and you’re struggling to make ends meet because it’s not cheap feeding and clothing and nurturing three children. So you work your ass off, morning, noon, and night and you make things work.”
“Pretty much,” I say with a heavy fatigue because my life sure as shit isn’t easy right now.
“You’re fucking amazing,” Max says quietly and my heart seems to squeeze for one intense moment, then it relaxes into utter calm and tranquillity just by having someone affirm what I’ve been doing.
“Thank you for saying that,” I murmur, appreciative of his validation and more than happy to have him holding my hand. Just that tiny bit of affirmation does wonders to help my confidence and almost makes me believe I can actually do this.
Is it bad that there’s a part of me that just wants him to lean his head a little farther toward me, and perhaps brush his lips against mine? Just a little touch?
Instead, Max releases my hand and pulls back a little, putting an easygoing smile on his face. “Okay, that’s our quota of heavy shit for the night.”
“Agreed,” I say with a smile, even though my hand feels cold now that his is gone.
“So what’s the deal with that painting hanging in your room?” he asks curiously. “It’s gorgeous and I’d like to maybe get something like that for my mother. She’s really into art and collects originals.”
My face actually starts to burn and I can imagine how red my cheeks are. I duck my head reflexively in embarrassment, only to find Max’s fingers under my chin, lifting me back up.
“What?” he asks curiously, his head tilted to the side.
I have to fight to look him in the eye when I say, “Um…I did that.”
His hand falls away and his eyebrows shoot sky high. “You painted that?” he asks incredulously, but not in a rude way…more like an I’m-in-fucking-awe kind of way.
“It’s a hobby,” I mutter, feeling my cheeks burning hotter.
“That is not a hobby,” he says inflexibly. “That is some major fucking talent. Did you take classes or something?”
I shake my head. “Nothing formal. Art in high school, and just dabbled here and there.”
Max shakes his head in an amused but disbelieving way. “You are just one surprise after another.”
Okay, my cheeks are now sizzling and I can’t stand it anymore so I brush him off with a forced laugh. “Well, that’s all my secrets. Now you know everything.”
Max’s lips quirk up and he shakes his head slowly again, totally not buying that for some reason. “I have a feeling you have layers upon layers, Jules. I look forward to peeling them.”
And God…I hope he cannot see the full-body shiver he just produced with those words.
“Do you have any more paintings?” Max asks.
My eyebrows knit together. “Um…yeah. A few in my closet and I’ve got some stored at my dad’s house back in Fayetteville.”
“You could sell them,” Max says confidently.
“No way,” I disagree.
“Yes, you could,” he says even more firmly. “In fact, I have a friend that works in a really upscale florist shop in Chapel Hill and I know he’d hang them there for sale.”
Oh, fucking no way. The thought of someone analyzing and critiquing my work? The thought of people hating it? I could never—
“Jules,” Max says in a low voice. “You could make money off that. Give up that shitty job at the gas station. Have some real money to take care of those kids.”
Okay, that catches my attention.
My voice is hesitant though when I ask, “You really think so?”
“I know so,” he says with so much belief in those words, it makes me want to believe it too. “If you give me what you have here, I’ll take them over there. What do you have to lose?”
“Well…nothing, I guess,” I say guardedly, my gaze falling to my lap.
“Jules,” Max says, and my eyes snap back. “You’re really fucking good and I’m not lying to you about that.”
I can’t help it. A rush of euphoria and hope rushes through me that maybe I can be more than what I am, which isn’t for me but for those kids, and I smile at him. “Okay, then…I’ll try it.”
“Excellent,” he says then stands from the couch but not before grabbing my hand and pulling me up with him. “Let’s get those paintings then I’m going to head out so you can get a good night’s sleep.”
Crushing disappointment hits me—he’s leaving, and I realize…he’s got me hooked.
He’s got me fucking hooked hard and apparently all of my spouting off about this being a bad time in my life doesn’t seem to mean shit. In fact, Max has decidedly made my life, if not a little better, at least rosier.
I sneak into my room so as not to wake up Annabelle and pull the picture he admired off my wall. It’s one of my favorites and I grab four more out of my closet. When I hand them to Max, who waited for me in the living room, I tell him, “I’ve got more at my dad’s house I can probably get next weekend.”
“Definitely,” he says and then turns to the door. I follow behind, again wishing he weren’t leaving, but on the flip side looking forward to a good night’s sleep. I know I’ll have a smile on my face when I close my eyes.
Max opens the door, the paintings tucked under his other arm. He turns to face me, his eyes running over my face for just a moment as if he’s checking that I’ll be okay without him.
I give him an encouraging smile.
He gives me one back, then leans down to me. My eyes close and I feel his lips brush against my cheek.
“Good night, Jules,” he says softly before he pulls away and disappears out my door.