Max:
The last song for the night, I sing just for Charlie. Billy Joel’s She’s Always a Woman. And as I mouth the lyrics, I try not to remember that Billy Joel wrote the song for his then-wife, and that relationship ended in divorce.
Instead, I focus on Charlie’s face, on the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips. She’s your friend, Max, I remind myself. Nothing good is going to come out of starting something. Neither of us are the type to stick around, we don’t know how. She needs space in her bed, and I need space in my life.
The applause is deafening as we finish up. Once we’re done with our encores, I jump off the stage and find Charlie again. “Hey,” I mutter into her ear, “I have to sign some autographs for a bit, and then we can take off?”
“You sure about the movie, Max?” She chews on her soft, pink lower lip. “You do have a lot of baking to do in the morning.”
My cock stiffens at the sight of her teeth nibbling at her skin. I push my lust down, and hide my discomfort with a joke. “Are you saying you don’t want my buns at dawn, Campbell?”
She grins. “I did warn you,” she says philosophically. “When Tomorrow-Morning Max is whining about waking up, remember that I thought this was a bad idea.”
Her body is lush. That pink top clings to her, and her jeans hug every curve. I want to grab her, throw her down on her bed and sink myself into her. Everything about this is a bad idea, Charlie. And yet I can’t stop myself.
From the table where we’ve laid out CDs for sale, Andy waves in my direction. “Max,” his voice booms across the bar, “you coming?”
“Go.” Her voice is amused as she eyes the crowd of women surrounding my drummer. “I think he needs rescuing.”
“Not just him.” I grimace, turning to leave. “Here’s your mission, Charlie Campbell. If women start offering their breasts for me to sign, you need to come and bail me out of there. Act like a jealous girlfriend.”
“Seriously?” Her eyes twinkle at me. “You’re telling me it’s a hardship to sign some tits?”
“Depends on whose they are.” I let my eyes linger over her body, and feel a perverse sense of satisfaction when her breathing catches. She’s not unaffected either, and I’m glad. I definitely don’t want to be the only one feeling this way.
7
Charlie
“This is nice.” I pivot on the balls of my feet, circling in place so I can take in every inch of Max’s studio. “Max, you’re tidy.”
He’s more than just tidy, and his place is amazing. It has exposed brick walls, high ceilings, large windows and crown molding. There’s a comfortable looking couch in one half of the room, and a large bed up against the back wall. Max even has pictures. It’s not what I expected at all. Max is so laid-back that I assumed his place would be the typical bachelor pad - sparse and under-furnished.
“Charlie, you sound surprised.” He sounds amused, no doubt thinking about the near perpetual mess my apartment is in all the time. “You want something to drink?”
“Just water, please.” I follow him to the tiny kitchenette. “I’m surprised you can work in a kitchen this small.”
“I don’t, not often.” He gestures toward the stairs we’d climbed to get to his apartment. “I rent the commercial kitchen downstairs for my business. I just use this space to feed myself.”
“No wining and dining the women in your life?”
He gives me a skeptical look, filling a glass with water and handing it to me. “Campbell, three dates, remember? I don’t get to the ‘cook dinner for the girl’ stage. You want some popcorn?”
“Yes please.” I ogle as he reaches for the air popper, which is stored on a high shelf. His t-shirt rides up and exposes the hard ridges of his abs, and I swear to God, it’s everything I can do to keep myself from biting him.
I gulp my water to cool down. “So the movie.” My voice sounds a little shaky. “Shall we?”
“Sure,” he says easily. He finishes making the popcorn and transfers it to a big ceramic bowl. Moving over to the couch, he sits down and sets the bowl on the coffee table, grabbing his laptop at the same time. I stay where I am, rooted to the spot, until he looks up. “Come sit, Campbell.” He pats the seat next to him with a wicked grin. “I won’t bite.”
It’s not you I’m worried about, Max.
I walk toward him and sit on the couch, making sure I’m far enough away from him that there’s no accidental touching. Or intentional touching. My hormones are galloping out of control, and I’m convinced I’m going to do something I’ll regret tomorrow morning. “So what’s the deal with the three-date thing?” I ask him. “That’s oddly precise.”
He looks faintly uncomfortable. “It isn’t three dates,” he mutters.
“What is it then?” He’s refusing to look at me, his gaze fixed on his laptop, and I clue in. “Wait, is it three times in bed?”
“I don’t want to discuss this, Charlie.”
If I were a better person, I’d let it go, but I want to understand. “So what happens? Do you actually lose interest after three fucks?”
He winces. “If you really must know, the first time, I’m learning what the other person likes. The second time, I’m putting that in practice. The third time is the reward.”
“And then?”
“I’ve a short attention span,” he admits, looking embarrassed. He runs his hand through his hair. “For it to go beyond three times, there needs to be something else. A connection that’s more than sexual, you know? But I’ve never felt that, and frankly, I don’t have the time. All my energy goes into establishing my baking business.”
I eye him thoughtfully, not sure what I think of this revelation. I mean, it isn’t a total surprise, but Max has never come out and admitted his philosophy quite so clearly. “I know I sound like an asshole,” he continues, “but I’ve never slept with someone who doesn’t know the score. I don’t lie. I’m honest.”
Part of me wants to judge him because of how superficial he sounds, but if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not that different from him. I break up with guys because I want to sleep diagonally on the bed, for heaven’s sake. But his confession has put a damper on my mood, and I’m ready to change the topic. “So, the movie?”
He’s just as relieved to let this conversation go. “Love Actually?” He tilts his laptop toward me.
My attention is caught by a bright red image in his Netflix suggestions. A woman holds a Samurai sword. “Hey, I’ve never seen Kill Bill.”
“What?” He sounds astonished. “Campbell, that’s a classic. Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who can’t watch gore on the screen?”
Giving him an offended glare, I reach for the bowl of popcorn and place it on my lap. If he’s going to make quips about women, he can do it without popcorn, because I’m going to eat it all. “I can watch gore.”
“It’s a two-parter.” He moves closer to me, and his hand dips into the bowl of popcorn, just inches away from my thighs. My entire body tingles in anticipation. My plan has a flaw. “You ready for five hours of TV?”
“It’s after midnight, Max. You have to wake up in the morning.”
“You keep telling me that, Charlie.” Max’s finger hovers over the keyboard. “Movie, yes or no?”
“Yes.”
* * *
Max:
It’s late. I’m going to regret this in the morning. Charlie’s sitting on my couch, her legs tucked under her, and I’m totally attracted to her.
But something else is true too. As I see her hands wrapped around the popcorn bowl as if it’s going to escape from her, I feel a warm gush of affection. Charlie’s my friend. In a very short time, she’s become an important, integral part of my life, and I don’t want to do anything to mess that up.
So we watch Kill Bill. I try and pretend that I feel nothing when she buries her head in my shoulder in the opening scene where Uma Thurman kills Vivica Fox in front of her child. I tell myself that my heart doesn’t cl
ench as I see her eyes begin to shut as it gets later, and the stresses of her day catch up to her. I watch her for a very long time, and this time, unlike the second time we met, I can’t stop myself from running my fingers over her hair.
“Charlie,” I whisper, my lips inches from her soft cheek. “Go to bed.”
Her eyes flicker open, though they stay cloudy with sleep. I incline my head in the direction of my bed. “You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch, okay?”
She blinks. “You’re too big for the couch,” she says.
“I’ll manage.”
“Don’t be silly, Max.” She sounds more awake now. “It’s a big enough bed. We can share.” Her lips lift up into a familiar grin. “Or are you afraid I’ll jump you?”
“Terrified.” It’s the complete and utter truth. I’m petrified that I’ll ruin something precious for the sake of sex. Sex would be magnificent with Charlie. But also temporary.
“I promise I’ll behave myself,” she says dryly. “Loan me a t-shirt to sleep in?”
Oh god. She’s going to sleep in my bed. This is going to be torture. Her legs will be bare and my t-shirt will ride up her hips, and I’m won’t get any rest tonight. I sternly tell my interested cock to pipe the fuck down, and I get up to find her a shirt.
8
Max
There’s a ringing noise in the apartment, and a warm body in my arms. The latter has happened before, but the former’s a little unusual.
I stir in the bed, and the woman moans in her sleep. When I hear that voice, I freeze. Charlie. I’m spooning Charlie Campbell, my dick is rock hard and grinding against her curvy ass, and that ringing noise is my alarm.
Cracking open an eye, I look at the clock by my bed, and when I see that the display says five forty five, I curse loudly and disentangle myself from the sleeping woman. Baking takes an hour, and I’m due at the farmer’s market at seven, which is when the crowds start filling the place.
I’m going to be late. Fuck. Not great for a business trying to get off the ground.
There’s absolutely no time to savor the smell of Charlie in my arms, the softness of her skin against mine. I jump out of bed, get the coffee maker going and take the world’s fastest shower. She’s still sleeping when I get out, and I make no move to wake her. Charlie doesn’t get enough rest, and there’s no need for her to be awake this early on a Saturday morning. Besides, she knows where to find me. I’ll be downstairs, baking like a fiend, trying to compress ninety minutes of work into sixty.
* * *
Charlie:
I’m having the most amazing dream. Max is holding me in his arms, his chin nuzzling my neck. His stubble scratches at my skin, and the delicious sensation sets my entire body tingling. I squirm into him, wriggling my ass against his erection, and I’m thrilled when I hear him groan in need.
There’s an alarm going off as well, but I refuse to let that distract me. I’m clinging to this fantasy as long as possible.
Max’s hand reaches forward to slap the alarm quiet, and I hear him curse before he gently pulls himself free. I keep my eyes closed, mortified by the fact that he was awake, and I was humping against him like I was in heat.
In a few moments, he’s showered, gulped down a cup of coffee, and tiptoed out, heading downstairs to start baking. I wait for the front door to shut behind him before I open my eyes. This isn’t good, Charlie, I mutter out aloud. You can’t crush on Max.
Eventually, I get up and shower, and change back into my clothes. The sparkly top was appropriate club wear, but it’s really not meant for the daytime. Still, there’s nothing I can do about it now, so I head downstairs and knock at the door of the commercial kitchen space Max rents.
“It’s open,” Max yells out.
I push it open and enter, feeling oddly shy. “Hey,” I greet Max, keeping my voice casual. “How’s the baking going?”
He makes a face. “I’m running late,” he confesses, pulling a tray of muffins from the oven. “Last Night Max had terrible judgement. I made coffee upstairs, you found it okay?”
“I did.” I move toward the pastry on auto-pilot, drawn to the delicious aroma. “If I offer to help, can I have one?”
He laughs. “Charlie, you don’t have to work for your muffins.” He winks at me. He flips the treats onto a cooling rack, his movements quick and efficient. “That being said, if you want to help, I could really use you.”
“Sure. What do I need to do?”
He makes an apologetic face. “Wash dishes, I’m afraid. I have to leave the kitchen in good condition, else the woman who runs this place will kick me out. Sorry. I know it’s not your favorite chore.”
“Is that some kind of joke about how messy my place is?” I mock-frown. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent dishwasher.”
An amused smile creases his face. “Is that so, Campbell?” He points to the piles of muffin trays on the counter. “In that case, get going.”
It’s oddly companionable working with Max. We chat amiably while he bakes and I do dishes, with none of the tension of last night. In the daytime, I’m better able to talk myself out of the sexual attraction I feel. I enjoy our friendship. What’s the point in ruining it?
I’m having such a good time that although I have five boxes of paperwork to sift through, I offer to go with Max and help him at the farmer’s market. “I’d love that,” he responds enthusiastically. He’s started loading up the van. It’s almost seven, and the market’s thirty minutes away. “I’m going to be scrambling to set up.” He looks at me with a grin. “You want to change your top?”
“Oh god yes. I feel like I’m doing the walk of shame.”
“Nothing wrong with that, Charlie.” He runs upstairs and returns with a black t-shirt that says Max’s Buns in bright pink lettering. “Really?” I start laughing. “The name of your business is Max’s Buns?”
“The ladies love it,” he says sheepishly. “And I’m not above exploiting the innuendo.”
My heart sinks a little. Of course the women love it. Today’s farmer’s market outing is going to resemble last night’s concert. A gaggle of star-struck women will surround Max, and I’ll have to fight to contain my jealousy.
I almost wish I hadn’t agreed to help.
9
Max
An hour later, the initial rush has subsided and I finally get time to catch a breath. Charlie has been a life-saver. She’s handed out muffins, made change and brewed coffee, with her customary good humor. She’s awesome.
“I owe you, Campbell,” I tell her, my voice sincere. I’m about to say more when I catch sight of a familiar face. George Pascal. My old head chef. George doesn’t source his food from this particular farmer’s market, so his presence here can only mean one thing. Trouble.
“Max.” George is all smiles as he draws closer. “I’ve been meaning to check out your operation here.” He reads my t-shirt and chuckles. “Max’s Buns. Funny.”
“How’ve you been, George?” If he wants me back, he’s capable of sabotaging my baking business. He’s a vindictive bastard, George. Great chef, but he’s a mediocre human being.
“Good, good. I’m still looking for a pastry chef, you know.”
My back stiffens. “I told you, George,” I say, keeping my voice mild with effort, “I’m not coming back.”
He glares at me. He doesn’t like being thwarted. “This gig of yours pays the bills?” There’s a sneer on his face. “A buck for coffee, two bucks for a muffin, and you think that’s a business? Fool.”
This is a very old argument, and I’m not about to make a scene here. I’ve been hearing some version of the same logic ever since I quit. Every week, George calls to try and convince me to come back. “It’s my choice, George,” I say evenly. “Now, can I sell you something, or did you just come to say hi?”
“Neither.” He reaches in his pocket and hands me a phone number. “You remember Annette Gorsky? Regular customer, big sweet tooth, loved your desserts?”
I nod.
“Her daughter’s getting married. She asked how she could contact you. She wants you to make the wedding cake.”
Wedding cakes are about the most boring thing in the world to make. Plain vanilla cake, and the way the cake looks matters much more than the way it tastes. Still, I take the phone number from him. The banks don’t want to talk to a start-up business, and I need to buy equipment in the next two months. Making a wedding cake for Annette Gorsky’s daughter might be the way to pay for it.
“Thanks,” I say reluctantly. “I appreciate it.”
“Call me when you’re ready to make real money again,” he responds. Asshole.
* * *
“Who was that?” Charlie asks, once George is out of sight, her voice curious. “You tensed when he came up to you.”
“George Pascal. He’s the head chef of the restaurant I used to work in.”
“Ah.” Her expression clears. “He wants you to come back?”
I nod. “I left three months ago,” I explain. “George doesn’t like his staff leaving. He prefers to fire them.”
“And you don’t want to do the cake because you think you’ll get sucked in?”
I look up, startled. She knows me very well. That’s exactly why I’d prefer to stay clear. “It wasn’t a bad place to work.” I sip at my coffee, grateful that there aren’t any customers in line. “But it was very monotonous. A place like the Waterfall Inn has four desserts on the menu.” I count them off on my fingers. “Apple pie with ice-cream, flourless chocolate cake, tiramisu and cheesecake. There wasn’t a lot of room to experiment, to innovate. I was going out of my mind with boredom. One day, I woke up thinking that life’s too short. So I quit.”
“You’ve done really well in three months.” Her voice is admiring. “You have tons of customers. You sell in what, three farmers’ markets? And you’re starting to supply a couple of coffee shops in the city?”
Max Page 3
