“Here ye are,” she repeated suspiciously, eyeing him. “To give me something?”
“Oh, yeah.” He fumbled for his pocket, pulling his coat aside. “Hold on.”
“Is it my other shoe?” He still hadn’t returned that.
But he looked up and shot a crooked grin her way. “No, I’m keeping that to remind me of the lass I fell in love with, who made it. But it was helpful, you see, in procuring this.”
With a flourish, he presented her with a folded piece of paper.
And Ember could do nothing more than stare at it, struck numb at his casual declaration.
The lass I fell in love with.
Surely…had he meant those words? Hungrily, she switched her gaze to his expression, looking for proof of his sincerity.
And he stared back, looking hopeful. Then he waggled the paper, and she forced herself to move, to reach out and take it. She tried to unfold it but remembered the gouge still in her hand at the last moment and shoved it in the pocket at the front of the apron before she could open the paper fully.
She could read, but this was a bunch of fancy-sounding mumbo jumbo. “Whereas…the holder…hitherto and forever…” She glanced back up at him. “Max, what is this? And why is there a sketch of my shoe?”
He took a deep breath. “It’s a patent application, Ember. It’ll be a while before we hear back, but I wanted to give you something, something meaningful. You designed and made those shoes, and I just know they’re going to be a sensation. If you’re willing to allow Oliphant Engraving to manufacture them, I’d like to offer you a place in the engraver’s studio upstairs. I assume it’ll be a small operation at first, making custom orders—”
Suddenly, Max stopped speaking as he finally took in her shocked expression. He shook his head, then scrubbed a hand over his face as he sighed.
“Sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. I wanted to give you something to tell you—show you—that this is yours. Even if you choose to have the shoes manufactured someplace else, or if you sell the idea entirely, they’re still yours. They represent your future, and once they’re patented under your name, they’ll ensure your future.”
Not quite sure what to think, Ember switched her gaze back to the paper in her hand. “A…patent?”
“The shoes are yours, Ember,” Max declared in a low, fervent tone. “No one can take that from you. No matter what you decide to do with your future, you can take that design patent to any factory owner, and if he’s smart, he’ll understand a fashion sensation when he sees it.”
“And ye…?” In her hand, the patent application crunched as she tightened her grip. “Ye said ye wanted Oliphant Engraving to produce them?” she whispered, hardly daring to hope.
When he stepped toward her, she started, her gaze jerking up to meet his. He hesitated—likely at her response—before glancing briefly at the gouge in the front of her apron, then back up. One corner of his lips curled upward wryly.
“Ember, I would be honored to arrange for you to create your art here. I’ll write up a contract and everything, if it will make you feel more comfortable. And everything will be strictly business.”
Strictly business wasn’t what she wanted. Not from Max.
“Is… Do ye want us to be strictly business?” she whispered, not sure how else to phrase it.
“Hell no!” His breath burst out of him in a harsh huff of laughter, and he reached his hands up. She thought he might be reaching for her at first, but instead, he dragged his hands across the close curls on his head. “No, I don’t want just a business partnership with you, Ember! I want—I want a real partnership!”
Her heart felt as though it was slamming against her ribcage. “A real partnership?”
Dare she hope he might actually…love her? Want a future with her?
“Yes!” Golden passion flared in his eyes, and the muscles in his jaw tightened. “Why shouldn’t I want a partnership with you?”
He still didn’t understand, did he? Her hands shook as she folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her apron. He’d given it to her, after all, and he was right; in many ways, it did represent her future.
But only if she couldn’t have her first choice of futures. One more chance for him to back away, before she grabbed hold with both hands and never let go.
“Because I’m a serving lass, Max,” she whispered to his lapels. “My stepmother might be a lady and put on all sorts of fancy airs, but I’m little more than her slave. I have dreams, aye, but for now…I’m just a serving lass.”
“And I’m a cowboy,” he snapped in return.
Before she could point out his new position, he was the one reaching for her, wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her flush against him. And because she was the one who’d vowed to hold onto him, her hands closed around his lapels, and she surged up on her toes to meet his lips.
Their kiss tasted of hunger, and frustration, and anger—not at each other, but at the world—and need. His lips weren’t gentle, but insistent, and when she welcomed him inside, he groaned against her lips. His hands were pulling, pushing, heightening her desperation, and she moved her hands out of the way so she could press her breasts against his chest.
The omnipresent ache between her legs blossomed into a full-blown yearning, and she pressed her pelvis closer, moving her hips insistently against his hardness. Oh, she knew what that hardness meant, and as he gasped her name, she rejoiced, knowing he was as ready for her as she was for him.
“Ember…”
“Aye,” she groaned, her lips finding the
