Max leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. It was a gentle, patient kiss that warmed me all over. "Yes," he whispered. He kissed me again, both hands on my ass now and his shaft rubbing against mine. "I'll marry your ass off, and I'll wait two years to do it because that will make you happy."
"I love you."
"Love you too," he replied. "I have since that very first day. Decided I wanted to keep you close and keep you mine the minute I saw you on that sidewalk."
"And look what you did," I said, waving a hand at the boxes around us. "You made it happen."
He nodded, his nose skimming over mine. "I know."
"Should we tell Mallori? The part about us getting engaged, not that you had some big, confident feelings last summer."
"Let's keep that to ourselves for a few days," he said. "We can't have her crying into all of our pillowcases."
I nodded. "I can agree to that."
Max blinked away, humming to himself. "I guess it's a good thing I saved that lady's card."
"Which lady's card?"
"The one from the pumpkin patch," he said, as if that made total sense. "The one who wanted to shoot our engagement photos."
There it was. The teeny, tiny reasons that added up to the enormous mountain of reasons why I loved this man. "Yeah, Max," I said as my eyes filled, "it's a good thing."
An Excerpt from Professional Development
They really hate each other.
This would be fine except for the issue of them sharing a job title
…and an office
…and now a five-hour-long drive to a conference their boss has made mandatory to resolve their issues.
I couldn't remember whether there was a coffee shop in the hotel lobby. I hadn't paid much attention when we'd arrived last night.
After hours in a confined space with Drew, the only thing I'd cared about was getting away from him. The entire situation was bad enough but after we'd stopped at a sandwich shop for a quick meal, he'd rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and drove the remainder of the distance with bare forearms.
The audacity of that fucker. Really.
But, with respect to coffee, I knew hiking around downtown Albany was a possibility. I shrugged on my coat, hoisted my bag to my shoulder, and headed toward the door. I didn't mind leaving the hotel this morning, considering I'd be closed up in a windowless ballroom for the next eight hours and—
—and I walked straight into Drew freakin' Larsen.
"Oh my god, what are you doing here?" I cried, stumbling back against the door and slapping a hand to my galloping heart.
He responded with a slow blink and a scowl that told me he wasn't concerned with the fact he'd scared ten years off my life by lurking outside my room.
He extended his arm toward me and it was then I realized he was holding two cups of coffee. "Here."
I took the cup and examined the order label on the side. Large almond milk latte with extra cinnamon sprinkle. My exact wintertime order. "What—how—I mean—thank you?"
He shook his head as if my gratitude was annoying. Typical. Leave it to Drew, with his impeccably pressed trousers and dress shirt that fit like skin, to blow off the one pleasant word I said to him. If there was justice in the universe, Drew Larsen wouldn't have made clothes look this good.
"Everything about that order sounds terrible," he said, taking off in the direction of the lobby.
I followed but refused to match his near-sprinting strides. We had plenty of time and I required all of it to figure out how he knew how I took my coffee. "And yet you still ordered it."
"Only because I wasn't going to risk arriving late because you require specialty coffee." Drew glanced over his shoulder and realized I was several paces behind him. He stopped, waited for me to reach him. He raised his paper cup before continuing down the hall. "Black."
"Congratulations," I replied. "Unfortunately, the only prize for drinking bitter, boring coffee is the hollow sense of self-importance. I hope you enjoy it."
"You could've just said thank you," he grumbled.
"I did. It was the first thing I said."
"No, you screamed like I was holding a decapitated head rather than a cup of nausea-inspiring coffee," he replied.
"Perhaps I screamed because you were lurking outside my door and that shit is creepy. You could've knocked or even texted me."
"I was waiting for you," he snapped. "I didn't want to bother you."
"Oh, so you'd prefer to give me a heart attack first thing in the morning? How kind of you."
"There is no winning with you," he murmured.
"With me? You're out of your damn mind if you think I'm—"
Drew edged into my space, his hand hovering over the small of my back but never actually touching me as he shuffled me around a corner.
Completely unamused by this morning's antics, I leaned back against the wall and took a sip of my coffee. Cinnamony perfection. He watched me for a second, so damn perturbed by my refusal to take his bullshit seriously.
With his hand flattened on the wall over my shoulder, he leaned down to meet my gaze, his chest nearly brushing mine. "Say thank you."
I arched a brow. "I already did."
"Say it and mean it."
We stared at each other for a moment, the scents of coffee and cinnamon swirling around us.
We hated each other, that was fact. But there were instances like these where I wondered if I understood the full spectrum of hate.
Maybe there were corners of hate that were more than wanting someone to burst into flames or, less fatally, never be able to find a phone charger
