CHAPTER THIRTY
JORDAN
I pounded on Max’s door, my anxiety getting worse by the minute. Reid, Jason, and Colt had decided to go down to the bar while Becca and Milo hit up the slots downstairs. I knew it would take forever to find the girls, and I could only hope that Max had one of their numbers so that I could call them and ask for help. Why hadn’t I realized I didn’t have anything good enough to wear for a night with Reid?
“Max!” Pound, pound, pound. “Max.” Pound, pound, pound. I waited and then—“Max!”
The door jerked open. Max was dressed for battle—dark skinny jeans with a dark V-neck shirt that should have made him look feminine but just showed off his lean body and bright eyes. “You’re late.”
My hand was still in the air, ready to knock on his forehead. “I’m sorry, what?”
Max checked his watch and sighed heavily. “I expected you five minutes ago.” He frowned and looked me up and down. “Hmm, you’re all out of breath—clearly your cardio needs work. Maybe join a gym when we get back and stop taking the elevator. Correction, stop taking the elevator once you get that epic elevator kiss. Until then, carry on.” He pushed the door open and held out his hand. “After you.”
“Where is everyone?” I glanced around the empty suite, feeling stupid for running to Max, of all people, for help.
“Told them I had an important meeting.” Max handed me a glass of champagne and took a sip of his. “And I do, now. Sit, sit.”
I had no other option but to sit, drink the champagne that had apparently been waiting for me for the past five minutes, and stare openmouthed while Max pointed to the chair opposite me, on which sat a black garment bag.
“Yours.” Max yawned. “I hope you don’t mind, but before the trip I snatched one of your dresses while you were sleeping in order to get the right measurements.”
“Sure, why would I mind that you snuck into my room stalker style and swiped one of my dresses for your own personal amusement? Nothing weird about that.”
“Oh, good.” Max nodded. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
Was anyone ever on the same page as Max? I’d really like to know. I made a mental note to ask Reid later.
“Well . . .” Max handed me the bag. “Don’t just stare at it. Open.”
I set my glass down and excitedly unzipped the bag. It was a gorgeous Dolce & Gabbana dress in my size.
It was lacy and red.
I couldn’t focus on anything else other than the fact that something red and lacy—something gorgeous, with a crazy price tag—was within my reach.
“Lace doesn’t bite,” Max whispered. “But fun fact, it makes Reid want to, so there’s that.”
“It’s . . .” I gulped. The front of the dress dipped really low, low enough that my boobs would definitely be having a good time tonight. The waist was tight while the rest of the skirt spread out in a cute sweetheart style.
All in all, it was something I would have picked for myself had I wanted to spend almost two grand on a dress.
Though I would have chosen black.
And possibly gotten a scarf to cover up.
Or a parka.
“How’d you know?” I gently caressed the lace dress. “How’d you know I would panic and not want to wear anything I brought?”
Max grabbed me by the arms and turned me very slowly to face him. “I have something to tell you.”
“Wh-what?” I’d never seen him look so serious, all hints of amusement were gone.
“I’m from the future,” Max whispered. “And I’ve traveled back in time to find you the perfect dress and save the planet from flesh-eating aliens masquerading as bad hair.” He grabbed a piece of my hair. “Oh, look.” With a tug he pulled it out, then hissed.
I rolled my eyes. “Very funny.”
“Or . . .” He smirked. “I’ve seen your closet. You’re Jordan Litwright. Prone to panic. I put two and two together. Oh, and I’m a genius—my mom says so.”
“All moms say that.”
“Remember.” Max released me and ignored my jab. “Your hair is your superpower, making you the Samson in this scenario. So Delilah’s going to have a hell of a fascination with your hair. Word to the wise, don’t let him cut it.” He leaned in. “You may lose your power.”
“Power?”
“Magic girl power that has Reid, at this very moment”—Max checked his watch again—“most likely drinking and wondering what the hell you’re doing and why the hell it matters.”
“You’re an odd duck.”
Max got a teary-eyed gleam. “I’ve always wanted to be able to yell, quack, quack, quack, without having to use the excuse of watching Mighty Ducks one.”
I laughed.
“Or two, or three for that matter.” Max sighed. “Emilio!”
“Okay.” I put my hand over his mouth. “Thanks for the dress, but maybe stop ruining the moment with your words.”
I brought my hand back.
Max opened his mouth.
I shook my head.
He pouted and slumped his shoulders.
With a grin I pulled in him for a hug and kissed his cheek, then whispered, “You did good, Max. You did real good.”
He hugged me back and whispered. “Only crazy bitches melt at midnight. Don’t go doing that disappearing act once things get hot and heavy. My advice is this . . . take it or leave it.”
“I’m not sure I want your advice.”
“Life,” Max said, spreading his arms wide, “is like a box of chocolates.”
I rolled my eyes. “I think I know how this ends.”
“You buy the box because you think you want variety, but if you’re really honest with your greedy little self, all you really want are the caramel ones. But they don’t sell chocolates that way, so you do what everyone else does. You follow the crowd and try ones you know you’re going to hate. Why?”
I swallowed. “Because you’re trying to find the caramel ones.”
Max nodded. “Exactly. You think, maybe this time I’ll get lucky, only you’re left disappointed when it turns out to be some weird coconut shit.”
“Or hazelnut.”
Max nodded. “Or even dark chocolate, which, let’s be honest . . .”
“Isn’t caramel,” I finished. My eyes for some reason filled up with tears as Max put a hand on my shoulder.
“Exactly.” He nudged my chin. “I think we both know where this is going.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve found your caramel,” Max said softly. “But you’ve refused to bite.”
“But—”
“Biting,” Max said with a shrug, “can be scary . . . terrifying, hell, what if you don’t even like caramel anymore?”
“RIGHT?” I shouted, half wondering if Max had pumped illegal drugs into the air vents and we were both high on ’shrooms, because, let’s be honest, Max actually making sense was scarier.
“There’s only one way to find out if he’s the chocolate for you,” Max said soberly. “I think you know what you need to do.”
“Bite,” I whispered.
“Louder. I didn’t quite get that?” Max cupped his ear.
“Bite,” I said, a little louder.
Max frowned.
“BITE THE CHOCOLATE!” I shouted, then thrust my fist into the air for good measure.
“Max,” Milo called.
I turned on my heel.
Colt, Milo, and Becca were all standing in the doorway.
“Just don’t let him tell you to be the doughnut.” Milo nodded. “That translation gets lost really easy.”
“Eye of the tiger.” Max sighed. “If you listened better you would have had Colt faster. I can’t work in these conditions!” Max raised his hands into the air and then, as if remembering our talk, grabbed the garment bag, thrust it into my hands, and nodded. “You got this.”
“Okay.”
He eyed me up and down, then up again, his eyes watering slightly as he took in my hair.
I patted my head.
“Maybe, just . . .” He tucked it behind my ears. It popped loose.
With a curse he tried it again.
This time my hair nearly poked his eye out.
“Damn it!” He flailed back and nearly landed on the couch. “Okay, what if you just let your hair be free. Maybe it’s trying to tell you something.”
“Well,” I said, sighing, “it’s naturally wavy and just . . . huge. I straighten it and—”
Max held up his hand. “You what it?”
“Straighten,” I said slower.
“Aw, it’s like you’re brand-new.” He smiled patronizingly and without taking his eyes off me yelled, “Colt, as a man—though the jury’s still out on that one,” Max said out of the corner of his mouth, “what say you? Straight hair or fluffy sex kitten hair that goes roar?”
Colt took a step away from Milo and said, “Roar.”
Milo charged him.
“Max’s fault.” Colt held up his hands. “And baby, I love you regardless of your hair.”
Milo was midswing when she dropped her hand and kissed Colt on the mouth instead.
“Take that in your bedroom,” Max yelled. “Animals.”
Becca came up to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Why don’t I help you with your hair and makeup? Max has done enough thinking for one night . . . after all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Or was it?” Max tapped his chin.
“Go,” Becca directed. “Take a shot of whiskey, put on some cologne, and make sure your hair doesn’t look like crap. I won’t have you trying something trendy just because we’re in Vegas.”
Max grinned. “You take such good care of me.”
“Take your pills!” Becca directed.
“He’s on pills?” I whispered.
Becca rolled her eyes. “Advil. He likes to be preventative when he drinks.”
“Ah.” I nodded. “Smart.”
“As a nail,” Max fired back as he nearly collided with the couch, then stumbled up the two stairs and down the hallway.
“So.” Becca laughed. “I’m guessing he told you to be a food group?”
“Huh?”
“In order to get your man.”
I winced. “Chocolate caramels.”
She nodded knowingly. “So let’s envision those while we sex you up.” She led me down the hall.
“Becca?”
“What?”
“Does it scare you when he starts making sense?”
She shuddered. “Keeps me up at night . . . it really does.”