Peter winked at her. "I did miss you, Nic. Sleep tight, kids." He shut the door.
Max paused, head cocked, and Nicola also held her breath waiting to see if Peter would return. When he didn't, after a long moment, they stared at each other.
The bulk of the whole house seemed to be weighing Nicola down. Max appeared equally daunted. Peter's appearance was a bit like having the wrecking ball of their past crash through the bedroom wall. Their night now felt like a timeout, a stolen interlude. As if they'd found a window to the past and climbed through together, but now the glass was broken and they had to figure out a way to scrape the pieces off the floor bare-handed. "Peter really is a mood killer," she muttered.
"Story of my life." Max rolled his eyes. "Hey, I always wondered: why did you start taking German classes? Peter and I didn't speak it in front of you too often, did we?"
"No . . . sometimes when you and I would be . . . in the middle . . . when things were intense you'd, um, start speaking German."
Max opened his mouth then shut it with a click. He cocked his head to the side and puffed out a laugh. "What would I say?"
Ich liebe dich, Nicci. Ich liebe dich so viel. Her eyes prickled as she remembered. I love you, Nicci. I love you so much. "Usually it was some variation on 'You're so hot' or 'You feel so good.' Sometimes it was just 'I love you.'" She twisted her hands together. Her body was still tingling, loose-limbed and languid from their earlier love-making, but her stomach was churning.
He reached up, hesitated, then cradled her jaw, smoothing his thumb along her cheekbone. "Shall I sleep in my room for the rest of the night?"
NO. The thought seemed to tear itself straight from her chest, a visceral, gut-level certainty. But still she found herself avoiding his gaze and nodding. They'd managed to wade through their past for these few stolen hours, but now they were drowning in it again.
He kissed her forehead and squeezed her arm. "We'll talk in the morning, OK?"
"All right."
She returned to the guest room and stretched out on the bed, but the smell of Max was all over the sheets, the mattress still warm from his body. Ich liebe dich, Nicci. Ich liebe dich so viel . . .
She buried her face in his pillow, waiting for morning to come and her good sense to return.
***
Max hovered until Nicola's door closed, then he set his jaw and made his way to Lachlan's bedroom. He wanted to bang on the door, knock it down to get at Peter, but he didn't want to disturb Nicola. So he settled for opening the door without knocking and closing it firmly behind himself.
Peter lay facedown on the edge of Lachlan's bed, snoring already. For the first time, Max noticed the circles around his brother's eyes, the hollows under his cheeks. Peter had to be exhausted to go from a fight to unconscious in under ten minutes. Poor Pete.
Max put his hands under his brother's arm and flipped him over. Peter startled awake, flailed, rolled, then fell backwards off the bed to land on the floor with a satisfying thud.
Peter clawed his way upright using the edge of the bed. "What the fuck, Max?!"
"What are you doing here, Pete? What are you really doing here?"
Peter pushed to his feet and cracked his spine. He turned from Max, sitting on the foot of the bed. "I was worried about my idiot baby brother. Things didn't end well the last time you tried to make it work with Nicola."
"You didn't fly back from Vancouver just to get me away from Nicola."
Peter threw his hands up, his face muscles stiff with annoyance. "No, I'm visiting Ma too. I told you that. I've also got a meeting with my agent and my manager. My publicist. All the usual LA bullshit errands I have to do when I'm in town. You know the drill."
"No." Max clenched his hands, his blood firing with anger, a hot, pulsing anger which wasn't entirely Peter's fault. But it was Peter's problem now. "Your people come to you if it's urgent. There's something else. What is it?"
"Max – " Peter stood and tried to shove past him.
Max caught his brother's shoulder, holding Peter still. Max's hands were shaking. "You are not doing this to me again. You fucking asshole. Don't do this to me again. How can you do this to me again?"
"What are you talking about?" But Peter's gaze slid away as he said it.
"Henry the fucking Fifth!" Max yelled. "You came into town to meet with Isabelle about the part. Didn't you?"
Peter patted Max's arm, his voice gentle. "Nothing's decided."
Max's blood seemed to pop inside him, actually boiling. "I've worked my ass off at that company. I've studied Shakespeare. I've done three full seasons with the RSF and you fucking waltz in and get Henry handed to you. This is such bullshit. You don't even know what iambic pentameter is!" Max shoved Peter's hand away and stalked toward the door.
Peter bounded after him. Max grabbed the door handle but Peter slapped a palm against the wood, holding the bedroom door closed when Max tried to pull it open. "Max, I'm at a critical point in my career. I want to break out of the soapy, heartthrob hero roles. Doing something like Henry V with a bit more gravitas could help, could show people in this town that I'm not a one trick pony."
"Right." Maybe this one hurt so much because Isabelle knew Max, knew what he was capable of, how diligently he worked, but she was still willing to throw Max over to work with Peter instead. "You need this opportunity so you'll screw me over to get it. That's fine, Petey. At least I'm used to it."
"It's only a meeting, and I only took it because I was coming down here anyway for you. I'm worried about you – "
Max shouldered Peter aside, and yanked the door open. "Save it."
Chapter Nineteen
Nicola couldn't sleep, and if she couldn't sleep then there was a good chance Max couldn't sleep either . . . but before she could work up any kind of initiative to do something about this realization, someone scratched at her door around 3am.
Smirking to herself, she padded across the room. "What's a nice boy like you doing – " She jumped as she opened the door to find Peter standing there. "Peter? What's up?" She frowned at the travel bag clasped in his hand. "You're leaving? Did you and Max fight?"
"No. Well, yes, but that's not why I'm leaving. Here, um," Peter paused, head cocked to listen as he peered at the closed door to Max's room. "Can we talk for a minute or two?"
"Uh, sure. Of course."
"Kitchen, I think." He led the way, skittering down the stairs on tiptoe, sneaking uneasy glances at Max's door, as if his brother were a sleeping bear he didn't want to wake.
Peter led her toward the large kitchen, but she craned over to check Lachlan on the couch as they passed the living room. Lachlan was bundled in a rose colored chenille comforter, snoring.
Nicola hadn't yet had a good peek at the kitchen. It was enormous and decadent as the rest of the house, with what felt like miles of light wooden cabinets and counter space. The focal point was a white marble-topped kitchen island which would have been the size of a normal family's kitchen table. The Bunkhouse also had a formal dining room, though, so the kitchen island felt a bit superfluous.
Four high kitchen chairs were arranged around the island, and Peter dumped his bag on one of the chairs then pulled out another one for her. "You thirsty?" he asked. "Hungry?"
She hoisted herself into the high, high chair and scooted her butt back so she wouldn't overbalance. "No and no. Thanks."
Peter shuffled to the fridge and hauled the massive wood-fronted door open. He stuck his head in, staring all around like he was sight-seeing. "Bacon? Tsk tsk, Max. What would Mother say?"
"I think that's Lachlan's."
"Don't make excuses for Max or you'll be non-kosher by association." Peter grunted. "No orange juice. What's the world coming to when a man can't get a glass of OJ in the middle of the night?"
"Peter, what is it?"
"I'm stalling, aren't I?"
"Yes. Badly."
He closed the fridge then leaned against the front, a grin on his face which looked so much like Max'
s that she blinked. Peter eased onto the island, mirroring her posture as he leaned on his elbows. "Would you say, aside from you and Max, that I am the most intimately acquainted of anyone with the details of your relationship?"
She recoiled, thrown for a loop, then she shrugged. "More or less. You were around for the beginning, the middle, and, I guess, the end?"
"Oh, yes."
"So?"
Peter tilted his head sideways, a wry, apologetic gesture. "You've figured out we're having a 'leave my brother alone' talk, right?"
She sat straight in her chair, and sucked in a calming breath. "I thought we might be."
"I like you, Nic. It's not about that. It never was."
"What is it about?" Blood thundering in her ears, she folded her hands on the table, ready to be amazed.
"I pissed you off," he said.
"A little bit."
"I'm batting a thousand tonight." Peter fluffed a hand through his hair then slapped his palm against the table like a judge calling the court to order. "All right. Let's try it this way: what are your intentions with Max? What's the endgame?"
"Max and I haven't even figured that out yet. I think I should talk to him about it first, don't you?"
Peter narrowed his eyes, his mask of geniality falling. "All our friends, everyone who's been close to you two, they always talk about how Max broke your heart. Twice. But no one ever talks about how you broke his."
Nicola swallowed, sick to her stomach, as if Peter had physically socked her instead of just delivering an emotional sucker punch.
"Max asked you to marry him," Peter continued. "You said yes."
"I remember."
"So, it's not like you two have ever been casual."
She scowled at him as her heart thudded with anger, with fear. "Why are you dredging all this up? Yes, Max asked me to marry him back then. I said yes at first, but then I thought better of it. We were kids. We'd never even seriously dated other people, and we were going to get married? It was a bad idea."
It was. She had to believe that. She couldn't play what if, couldn't second guess the decision her younger self had made. She smoothed her palm along the marble, found an uneven crack and wormed her nail into it to avoid Peter's probing gaze. "Anyway, you're forgetting, Max was pretty relieved when I called it off. I remember the pictures in all those magazines. Seemed like he was drinking and partying every night. And don't tell me there weren't any girls at those parties. Max was fine after I left." Relieved to be rid of her? Her eyes prickled, and she gritted her teeth to keep the tears back.
A long, drawn out moment of quiet followed. Peter went to the sink and got himself a glass of tap water, and all the small sounds were overloud, echoing in the quiet kitchen, the clink of glass, the flow of water, the sound as he took his first long gulp. Torture.
Nicola curled her hands into fists, her fingernails making red crescents in her palms. Peter set his glass down, a precise click of glass on stone filling the kitchen, then he said, voice going hoarse, "I never told you how I got the part in Fortune's Fool, did I?"
"I always assumed you knocked it out of the park at the audition as usual. You make a fantastic pirate."
"Mmm. Not exactly. I don't think it's a secret that back then Max and I were going out for a lot of the same parts."
"Right. You both auditioned for that football movie he ended up making."
Peter grimaced, clearly it still rankled Max got that part over him. "Yeah. Well. On Fortune's Fool, the producers screen-tested both of us."
"He never told me that." Seeing Peter's face, his deep guilt, she reached out to touch his hand. "Oh, Petey, I'm sure Max doesn't harbor a grudge about that. Like you said: you guys were competing all the time."
Peter ground his teeth, a muscle in his jaw flexing. He dropped his gaze from hers. "Max booked Fortune's Fool. The director cast Max in the lead role first."
"What?"
"They cast Max. He had the part. His big fucking break. Shit." Peter rubbed his face, looking tired, as haggard as someone that beautiful could manage.
"What happened?" Nicola asked.
Peter stole another gulp of water.
When he lowered his glass and just stared at the counter, Nicola jiggled his arm. "Peter. What happened? You started the story. Tell me."
Peter sucked in a long breath then blew it out on a sigh. "The week of the first big production meeting was the week you broke the engagement with Max."
"Oh shit." Nicola hunched on her stool, holding her stomach as every particle of alcohol she'd drunk that night seemed to slosh sickeningly into the back of her throat.
"Max went on a bender after you left him. He was dead-drunk for weeks. Yes, he partied a lot after you broke up, but that was because he didn't give a damn about anything anymore. Not his career. Not his family. Not himself."
Nicola held her hand up, trying to stop the tide of his words, but Peter just barreled on, "Max showed up drunk to the production meeting, and they fired him on the spot." As Peter went on his voice became harsh, ragged. "But the director liked Max's look, his physique. Someone from casting said, 'Hey, doesn't he have a brother?' I got the call, and I accepted the job even though I knew what it would do to Max. And my baby brother spent the next year drunk. I've got one of the best careers in Hollywood right now, but it all started at the expense of Max."
She turned away, sliding out of the chair to land on her feet. "You bastard. How could you do that?" She wobbled, and slapped a hand onto the island to steady herself. The marble cool against her flaming skin.
Peter crossed the island to stand next to her, towering over her, a full head higher. Max was as tall as Peter but somehow he never used it against people, never made them feel small.
Nicola pushed against Peter, trying to get past him, but he caught her wrists, holding her in place as he hammered her with his words. "Between us, Nic, we managed to royally fuck Max's life up. His name is still mud with the studios. I've tried to get him small parts in my movies. In friends' movies. He's been sober for years, but Max is still on the blacklist. When you left it destroyed him, Nicola. It killed him. And I had to put him back together." Peter gave her a small shake, just enough to startle her into meeting his gaze. His face was bleak, his eyes sad. "Don't start things again. Don't hurt him again."
Her face was wet and, as a small sob broke from her throat, she realized she was crying.
"I didn't punch you for Henry V," Max's voice rumbled from the doorway, "but you can bet your ass I'll pound you for upsetting Nic."
Peter released her and lifted his hands in surrender. "We were talking before I leave for Mom's house."
Max stepped close to her and smoothed his palm along her arm. "Are you OK?"
She scraped at the betraying tear tracks. "I'm fine."
"Are you?"
"Yes. Don't pound Peter." She tugged on Max's shirt, pulling him to her level so she could whisper, "And don't make Peter stay with your mom. He's a jerk, but he doesn't deserve that."
Max chuckled and straightened. "Peter, go back upstairs. We're OK for now."
Peter hesitated then grabbed his bag. As he passed Nicola, he kissed her cheek and murmured, "I don't like to see you get hurt either, kiddo."
"I know," she whispered.
"Be careful," Peter said.
Nicola managed a small grin, but as Peter left and she stared at Max, warm and sleep-rumpled and wonderful, she could only think, How?
How could she be careful? She'd been trying to stay away from Max for weeks. How could she manage that now? How can you push the flood waters back when the dam's already burst?
***
The boards creaked on the stairs as Peter bounded back to Lachlan's room. Nicola circled around the counter to put a glass into the sink, probably Peter's, because she grabbed a fresh glass for herself out of the drying rack and filled it. "Peter found your bacon," she said.
"Crap. I'm glad I let him stay. Now there'll be time to smother him and hide the body bef
ore he can tell Ma." Max watched Nicola, her stiff, uncertain movements, and knew he should have punched Peter when he had the chance. What did Pete say to her?
Max didn't know what he'd hoped from her, what he wanted the two of them to be. But, staring at her hunched, defeated frame, he knew it wasn't this. If he couldn't make her happy then he shouldn't be with her. "Say it, Nic. Quick cuts hurt less."
She still had her back to him, but he heard the click as she set her glass on the counter. "How would you feel about a fling?" she murmured.
"A fling?"
"Yes." She whirled to face him, her eyes red. "These feelings we have aren't going anywhere. I want to pull you down and have my way with you right now, in fact. But I think we can both agree any kind of a real relationship between us is not a good idea. So: we have a show fling. We don't fight the chemistry. We screw our brains out."
"After the show's over?"
"You stay with the RSF, and I . . . don't. I meant to tell you before, I got offered another national tour. Anything Goes. I'm going to do it." She gave him a wobbly smile. "But we'll have a few more good memories out of the whole thing." Her voice cracked and one tear rolled down her cheek.
He smudged the tear away. "A fling, Nicci? Really?"
"I can't do it, Max. My heart can't take it." She was crying now, tears tumbling from her eyes too fast for him to wipe away. "But I would like to have you again. To borrow or something. For the short time we can steal until Midsummer is over and I leave." She sucked up a breath that rasped into her throat. "I understand if you don't want to do that, but a fling is all I can handle, all I can give you. Light and fun. No strings."
He cupped her cheeks, smoothing tears away with both thumbs, and offered her a wry grin. "Light and fun, huh?"
"Yes?"
He wrapped her in his arms, aching, mad at her, mad at himself, but wanting her more than he wanted his next breath. He leaned forward. "OK," he said against her lips. He kissed her and hurt inside.
Chapter Twenty
After their talk in the kitchen, their "light and fun" fling didn't start so well: her blowing her nose and Max leading her to his bedroom where they fell asleep without making love.
A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1) Page 20
