“Sorry!”

Gotham giggles as his piece lands on top of mine. He takes way too much delight in moving my little peg to the beginning of the board.

“What? You cheated!” I exclaim with mock despair. I pick another card and grumble, moving my displaced piece forward one position.

That only serves to make the boy giggle even more.

“You can’t cheat at Sorry, Mr. Arrows,” he explains with the weary air of an old man telling a child that he had to go to school uphill in the snow. He picks a card and scores a six, leading his last peg on the home stretch to winning.

“Well, you’re doing something to beat me,” I say wryly as I pick for my turn. I come up with a two. “I’m not used to losing.”

“I’m not, either,” Gotham says. He goes again and gets the exact amount he needs to bring his peg home.

Meaning that he won his third game in a row. The boy whoops as he counts the steps to have his peg join the other three and throws his hands up in the air. I have the feeling that due to his condition, he has a lot of pent-up energy that he can’t just run off—not with his leg braces. He’d be bouncing off the walls right now if he could, as he’s so happy about his win.

I chuckle and sit back. “I don’t get it!” I shake my head and cross my arms. “You’re too good, Gotham.”

The boy grins. “Play again?”

I’m about to tell him that my ego is bruised too much from losing to him, but his mother interrupts us from the doorway. “Not now, Gotham. It’s time for bed.”

She’s changed out her ballgown and is wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a singlet that shows off her smooth skin and slim figure. It’s not something I could imagine any of the people at the gala wearing, but she looks at home.

This is yet another side of Max that I’ve never seen before.

The boy lets out a groan and sits back, resting on his palms. “Mo-ooommmm,” he says. “But I don’t want to go bed.”

You would have thought bedtime—especially after a visit to the hospital—would be welcome, but he’s acting like it’s the worst thing ever.

“You’ve had a very busy day,” Max says, “and I’m sure ‘Mr. Arrows’ wants to get home, too.”

I can’t help my smile as she helps him to his feet and hands him his crutches. I’ve learned that the boy can get around very well with those things, even if he can’t run around like other kids. He can still keep up with his mother as she leads him out of the living room.

“Good night, Mr. Arrows!”

“Night, Gotham,” I say, thinking that would be the end of it, but Gotham turns to his mother, eyes wide.

“Mommy, can Mr. Arrows come over tomorrow?” he asks.

Max opens her mouth to answer and then looks at me helplessly, the color in her cheeks draining. “We’ll talk about it,” she says as she takes him down the hallway, presumably to his bedroom.

Alone, I sit back on the sofa and look around at Max’s house. It’s a single-family home in Jersey City, about a half-hour commute from Manhattan. It has both her mark and her father’s mark, a blend of someone from New York who is trying to update the place to be more chic, and an old man who is completely set in his ways.

Painted wood paneling is on the walls of the living room, and the floor has been updated to a slate gray wood. But there’s a La-Z Boy recliner with an afghan over one arm and the New York Times crossword on the other. The sofa I’m on is a gray suede, a few shades lighter than the floor.

And despite the warring styles between Max and her father, toys are on the sofa and the floor. Pictures of the boy dot the wall, and there are marker drawings on the refrigerator.

I like this blend of Max’s family. It’s like there’s a little bit of all three of them here, and it makes it far homier than most other places I’ve been. I can honestly say it feels like home.

I sigh and sit back. Unlike where I live.

“Sorry.”

I look up to see Hector shuffling into the living room. He’s wearing a robe that is loosely tied around his middle, although it doesn’t cover up his bare chest or tighty whities.

He lets out a groan as he picks up the folded newspaper from his chair. “Gonna do some crosswords before I go to bed.” He holds up the paper for evidence.

“No worries,” I say, lifting a hand.

“Dad!” I hear Max hiss from the hallway. “We have company, get some clothes on!” She appears and takes her father by the arm.

“I was just grabbing my puzzle, Max,” he protests, but there’s no conviction in his voice. He sounds like a scolded child that knows he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to do.

I get the feeling that she spends a lot of time herding her family around.

I suppress a smile as she comes back into the living room, looking as flustered as I’ve ever seen her.

“Sorry,” she says with a sigh.

“For what?”

“You weren’t supposed to see all of this.” She indicates the house with a sweep of her hand. “I just…” Her voice trails off and she sighs again, combing her hand through her hair. “Today was such a bust.”

She’s beating herself up for stuff beyond her control, and all I want to do is take away her embarrassment.

“I wouldn’t say so,” I say honestly. “We showed up at the gala—”

“Yeah, and left it early.”

“—you looked beautiful—”

She blushes, stunned to silence, and I keep trudging ahead.

“—and I got to meet your son and charming father.”

She snorts. “Charming is not the word I’d use to describe Dad, but…”

“Everything is charming, Max,” I tell her, giving her a pointed look. “I understand now.”

She grimaces and puts her head in her hands. “I hope you didn’t take what my dad said to you to heart.”

I grin. “The part about me being an asshole boss? Keeping you from your son?”

She groans.

“I wish I knew, Max,” I tell her. I reach out and put my hand on her knee. She looks down at it like it’s going to bite her, but I don’t move it. “I would have helped out sooner.”

She clears her throat, meeting my gaze. “You are helping, Damien.”

We look into each other’s eyes for several heartbeats, and I’m aware of our proximity to each other. I could reach out and kiss her, but there are no cameras here to capture that moment, so I don’t need to play up our relationship for the media.

But I want to kiss her.

Shit.

She sits back, shifting her leg, and my hand falls from her knee. “Gotham was born with cerebral palsy,” she says at length, her gaze getting a faraway look in them. “He was premature, and they thought he wouldn’t make it. But he’s a fighter.” She smiles softly. “He’s a good kid.”

“I can tell.”

“He’s actually really fortunate,” she says. “A lot of kids with cerebral palsy have learning difficulties, but most of his challenges are physical. He has to have help walking, and his motor skills need work. And the seizures.” She sighs. “He gets one every so often. Dad knows not to take him to the hospital unless they’re bad.”

“From what I can tell, today’s was bad,” I say gently. “It’s fine.”

She nods. “Again, that’s why I didn’t want you coming over here. Dad had his stroke ten years ago and tries his best, but there’s a lot that I can’t help with.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I wanted to protect Gotham and Dad from the public life.” She pauses, considering her next words. “Do you want to know why I agreed to be your fake fiancée?”

“Why?”

It takes a little longer for her to answer, but she finally does. “This is my parents’ old house. When I—when I left Gotham’s father, there was nowhere else for us to go. Turns out, Dad hadn’t paid their property taxes in years, and when Mom died… Well, there’s a lot of back taxes. And there are structural repairs that need to be done—”

“You should have told me,” I tell her again, not unkindly.

She gives me a hard look. “Why?”

“Because I could have done something about it.” What, I don’t know. Even if it were making her a partner earlier, I would have done so. I know that the money I’m giving her for our agreement is helping, but I could have done so much more.

She shakes her head. “I don’t want your pity.”

I stare at her, aghast. “It’s not pity, Max. It’s kindness.”

She swallows and licks her lips before she gives a dark chuckle. “Kindness?”

She looks pained at the thought. There’s something else she’s not telling me.

“If I don’t know, I can’t help,” I tell her. “And I want to help.”

“Why?” she asks, her bottom lip trembling.

“Because…” Now it’s my turn for my voice to trail off as I reflect on what I should say. Instead, I just stare at her. My gaze trails to her full lips, which still have hints from the rouge lipstick she was wearing earlier. We stay like this, too far apart to be lovers but too close to be coworkers.

So many lines have been crossed, but learning about her like this, I want to keep learning more. To get under her skin and help her shed all her layers and just be the real Max.

“Damien?” she asks breathlessly.

“Yes?”

She pulls back, looking even more vulnerable. “It’s time for you to go home.”

Not “I think it’s time” or “You should probably go home.”’ She’s telling me to leave, and I feel the sting in my chest at her words.

“Okay,” I say, even though it pains me.

That releases me from her spell and Max immediately pops to her feet and goes into the kitchen to grab the phone to call me an Uber. I released my limo a long time ago, so I’m on my own to head back into the city.

I sit back, feeling that sense of rejection festering in my chest. I clench my jaw, fighting every urge I have to follow her.

“Sorry,” I murmur. I don’t know what I’m sorry for, not exactly. Only that I wish I could fix whatever is happening between us.