Falling for Max: Book Nine of The Kowalskis

by Shannon Stacey

  “So you paint toy trains?”

  He frowned, carefully replacing the packaging and closing the box. “They’re not toys. Model railroading is actually an expensive hobby, especially if you model brass, which most of my clients do. It’s my job to take this shiny engine and make it look real, and I’m not cheap, either.”

  “Do you have one done I can see?”

  He looked pleased that she asked and, after replacing the green box, walked over to a corner and turned on a section of overhead lighting. She saw a platform, done up to look like...land. There was a meadow with train tracks running across it, with woods in the background made of tiny trees. The wall was painted to look like a sky and it was all so well done it looked real. On the tracks sat a lone engine and, unlike the shiny brass one, this one was grubby and looked old.

  “This is another 2-8-0, but in Union Pacific livery. See how it looks real?” He went to what was obviously his primary workbench and picked up an engine, which he set on the rails behind the Union Pacific train. “Now look at this one.”

  She didn’t have to be an expert to see the difference. The one from his workbench had been painted, but it looked brand-new. Like a Hot Wheels car. “It doesn’t look real. It looks like a toy.”

  “Exactly. See those pictures?” He pointed to a frame hanging on the wall that held side-by-side eight-by-ten photos.

  She moved closer and saw that the pictures were almost identical. A steam train pulling cars along the track, through the woods, with steam blowing out of the smokestack.

  “One is a photo of a real engine and one is a photo of the brass model that the client sent me after I painted it. I work from historical photographs of the actual engines and rolling stock the clients are modeling whenever possible.”

  “That’s amazing, Max. It really is. So you didn’t paint that one, then.” She pointed at the new-looking engine he’d set on the tracks.

  “No, I didn’t. A gentleman sent that little 4-4-2 to a friend of a friend for painting to save money. I’d hoped to be able to weather it for him with minimal work—and cost—but the paint is bad, especially on the detail work. I’m going to have to strip it down and essentially start over.”

  “You’re such a wonderful artist.”

  “I have a reputation for quality work in the model railroading community.”

  “That’s very modestly put.” She wandered to his workbench, looking at the various tools of his trade. “Why do you hide what you do from people?”

  “I have the security system because I’ll often have thousands of dollars worth of rolling stock in here, and some of them are hard to replace, to say nothing of my equipment. Then the rumors started and I have to confess, I’ve enjoyed hearing the theories.”

  She laughed. “You’re a little twisted, Max. I like you.”

  * * *

  Max followed Tori back upstairs, feeling pretty good about the evening so far. Even though she didn’t know anything about trains, she’d recognized the artistry and skill of what he did, and a lot of people hadn’t in the past.

  Her eyes had never glazed over with boredom and she’d even asked questions about his process and how he’d gotten into it. His dad’s brother had done model cars when Max was a kid and had let him help. His love for trains, love of models and natural aptitude for the painting had all come together and that was that. Because of his meticulous attention to detail and willingness to put in hours of research for historical accuracy, it hadn’t taken long for his reputation to spread.

  Once he’d closed the door and reset the security panel, he led her back to the kitchen, where she took a seat on one of the bar stools at the island. “It should only take about fifteen minutes to make supper.”

  “What are we having?”

  “Marinated steak and mushroom kebobs, with rice pilaf.”

  “Uh-oh. What if I’m a vegetarian?”

  His brain froze for a second and then kicked into overdrive. He should have asked her if she had any dietary likes or dislikes. Or allergies. He hadn’t given any thought at all to her tastes and had simply rummaged through the chest freezer until he found something he thought he cooked particularly well.

  “Max?”

  “You can probably pick out the steak. Or I will, before I put them on the grill. It’ll be a mushroom kebob.”

  She laughed, and he blew out a sigh of relief. At least she wasn’t annoyed with him. “I’m not a vegetarian. I just wanted to see how you’d react.”

  A pop quiz, he thought. And he felt as if he’d failed somehow. “I should have asked you if you have likes or dislikes in advance.”

  “Relax. Chances are you’re going to have at least the first date, if not two, with a woman in a restaurant where you’ll be able to see what she orders. If she’s a vegetarian or has any allergies, you’ll probably find out at that point. Having a friend come to your house is different than taking a woman out to dinner.”

  That was true. And if, after a couple of dates, he wasn’t comfortable enough with a woman to ask her if she had any food allergies or preferences, it wouldn’t bode well for their relationship, anyway. He needed to feel as at ease with his date as he did with Tori in order to have a future with her.

  Though he’d had a moment of panic over her fake taste in food, he’d been almost totally free of awkwardness this evening. He’d learned at the diner that talking to Tori was easier than talking to other women. It was going to be very hard to replicate how relaxed he was with Tori, no matter where the date took place.

  He fired up the indoor grill that was his favorite way to cook and went to the fridge to get the marinated kebobs he’d assembled shortly before she’d been due to arrive.

  “Those smell delicious,” she said when they’d been sizzling on the grill for a few minutes.

  “Thank you. I enjoy cooking, which is why I rarely eat in restaurants.”

  “But it’s nice to get out once in a while. At least twice a month, maybe. Just to see people and socialize.”

  “I’m discovering that, and I think I’ll keep visiting the diner on a regular basis.” He turned the kebobs. “I’ll go set the dining room table.”

  “Do you usually eat in the dining room?”

  “No. I usually eat here in the kitchen, unless there’s something on TV I want to watch. Then I eat in the living room.”

  “I don’t mind eating here. There’s no sense dragging everything to the dining room and back.”

  He put out two place settings on the island and, when the kebobs were done, laid them out on a serving platter. After spooning the rice pilaf from the slow cooker to a serving dish, he set them out and then realized he may have screwed up the place settings.

  He’d set the plates and silverware side by side because that’s how the bar stools were—all on one side of the island. But it seemed weird to sit next to her. He felt like he should sit across from her so they could make eye contact while talking.

  “That food looks too good to let it get cold, so make up your mind,” Tori said. “Either move the stool around to the other side, like you want to do, or sit next to me and pretend we’re at the counter at the diner.”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  She shrugged. “You pick an object to look at, as if you’re pondering something, and I think you do it so you don’t make deer-in-the-headlights eye contact when you’re anxious about something.”

  “You’re very perceptive.” And, because of that, he chose to sit next to her instead of across the island from her. It was weird how she seemed to see him more clearly than other people, who were usually content to see what he showed them.

  “I’m an artist. Rendering emotion through body language and facial expressions is kind of what I do, and I’ve always been a people watcher.”

  She helped herself to a kebob and some rice pilaf, and then he did the same. The appreciative sound she made after her first bite of the steak and mushrooms made him feel a small glow of pride. The marinade was one of his
own making and it was nice to see somebody else appreciate it.

  “We’re supposed to be chatting so I can get to know you better,” she said between bites, “but this is so good, I don’t want to stop eating long enough to talk.”

  “Enjoy your dinner. We can talk after.”

  They did make small talk while they ate. Mostly about cooking, which wasn’t her forte, and their work. It felt nice to have company during a meal and a renewed commitment to finding a wife hit Max while he carried their dishes to the sink. Tori stepped up next to him at the counter with the serving dishes.

  “What are the chances of finding a woman in Whitford who’s as easy to talk to as you?” he asked without thinking.

  “Sorry, Max. I’m one of a kind.” She laughed. “But we’ll find you somebody awesome, I promise. I think we should go on a mock date so you’re not on your home turf. Next weekend, maybe.”

  “A mock date?”

  “Yes. But we’ll pretend it’s real. You can pick me up and drive me into the city for a nice dinner.” She grinned. “I’ll even let you pay.”

  “I’ll feel bad if I take up too much of your social time. You probably have better things to do than hold my hand through the dating process, like finding your own dates.”

  “I’m not interested in dating, by your definition.”

  He couldn’t wrap his head around that. “But you’re very pretty and friendly. And you’re funny. Any guy would be lucky to have you. And I bet you’d be a wonderful mother, too.”

  He wasn’t the most socially adept knife in the block, but even Max couldn’t miss the way her mouth tightened and the warm humor left her eyes. With his gaze fixed on the faucet, he wondered where he’d gone wrong.

  Maybe she’d been in a bad relationship. Or perhaps she couldn’t have children, which meant what he’d just said would be highly insensitive. If he’d hurt her feelings, no matter how inadvertently, he would feel horrible.

  He wracked his brain, trying to come up with something to say. Should he ask her what was wrong or try to change the subject? Somehow he didn’t think Hey, how ’bout those Red Sox was the appropriate thing to say at the moment.

  “That’s not going to happen,” she said in a tight voice.

  “Oh. I...” He looked at her and then back at the faucet. “I... Hey, how ’bout those Red Sox?”

  * * *

  The look on Max’s face made Tori wince and she put her hand on his arm. “You didn’t say anything wrong. It’s just something I’m oversensitive about.”

  He was wearing a blue button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled to below his elbows, and his forearm was warm and tense under her hand. “I must have said something wrong. You were happy and now you’re not.”

  “What you said was a perfectly normal, and rather flattering, thing to say to a woman. I just have issues and those are on me, not on you.”

  He finally stopped staring at the faucet and faced her. When Max made eye contact, it was intense, and Tori thought some lucky woman was going to drown in those green eyes someday.

  “If I say something stupid or something that hurts your feelings, I want you to tell me.”

  She squeezed his arm and the muscles twitched in response. “I will. Especially if it’s about something that might come up in conversation during a date.”

  “Would you like some decaf? We can go sit in the living room and talk.”

  “Decaf?” Tori didn’t even have the stuff in her apartment. What was the point of coffee with no caffeine?

  “It’s after 5:00 p.m.”

  Couldn’t argue with that. “Sounds great.”

  He brewed them each a mug of decaf and gestured toward the sugar bowl before going to the fridge for milk. Since she drank hers black, she picked up one of the mugs and took a sip. He didn’t cheap out on coffee, which was one more thing to like about him.

  She carried her decaf into the living room and shoved the coffee table closer to the sectional so she’d be able to reach it from the corner. When he walked in and saw what she’d done, he smiled.

  “I knew you’d be in the corner seat. It’s Katie’s favorite spot, too.” He sat on the far end, slightly sideways so he could see her, while still being able to set his mug on the table.

  “So tell me more about your list of desirable qualities in a wife. I need more to go on than intelligent and friendly, since not many people go searching for cranky, dumb people to spend time with.”

  “I guess at the top would be openness to a relationship with the hope of marriage and children.”

  It wasn’t a dig, but she hoped he hadn’t said it because he was still dwelling on what happened in the kitchen. She’d seen how upset he was by the possibility he’d offended her somehow. “I moved here because my parents divorced and there was so much anger and pettiness and, no matter how hard I tried to stay neutral, they kept dragging me into it. I have no interest in that being my future, so I’ll live my life the way I am now. Nobody’s responsible for my happiness and I’m sure as hell not responsible for anybody else’s.”

  He looked at her as if trying to read her as well as she seemed to be able to read him, and she escaped his scrutiny by leaning forward to take a sip of her coffee. “I’ve heard the effect divorce has on adult children is often underestimated, but your reaction seems extreme. Swearing off marriage and motherhood entirely?”

  She wasn’t sure she could find the words to explain how afraid she was that the same thing that had happened to her parents—whatever it was—would happen to her. The stable foundation of her life had been blown apart and she’d become a weapon wielded by and against the two people she loved more than anybody else in the world.

  “It wasn’t the divorce,” she said. “It was the hatred. Watching my mom and dad turn on each other and try to hurt each other after almost twenty-five years of marriage turned my life upside down. If I can’t trust my parents not to tear each other—and me—apart, then...Like I said, I have issues.”

  “With that much hostility, it must have been rough growing up under the same roof as them.”

  She rubbed the pad of her index finger over a rough edge on her thumbnail, wishing she had an emery board with her. “There wasn’t any hostility. Maybe that’s why I’m having such a hard time with it. Even though I’m pretty good at reading people, I didn’t see it coming.”

  “They didn’t fight?”

  “Not really. Sometimes there was tension and I’d notice they weren’t really speaking to each other, but they never fought that I can remember.”

  “Every couple has disagreements. They probably did you a disservice by hiding what is a normal aspect of any long-term relationship from you.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Says the foremost relationship expert in the room.”

  “Admittedly, I’ve never been married, as you well know. But I’ve spent a lot of time around married people, including my parents and sister, and I’ve had several serious relationships myself. Nobody agrees all the time.”

  “Really?” She propped her chin on her hands. “Several serious relationships?”

  “I believe we’re talking about your past, not mine.”

  “But we’re not supposed to be,” she pointed out. “I’m supposed to be getting to know you, not the other way around.”

  And one burning question she had was why he’d moved to town seven years ago. As far as she could tell, Max didn’t do any of the activities that drew people to Whitford who weren’t born and raised there. There was no snowmobile, hunting or fishing gear in the garage and nothing about him screamed outdoor activities.

  “How did you end up living in Whitford?” she asked, because the only way to find out was to ask and it would, hopefully, change the subject from her parents’ divorce. “I mean, you’re from Connecticut and you don’t seem to have any ties here. Why on earth, of all the places you could live, did you pick Whitford?”

  “You picked here.”

  “Because my aunt Jilly lives here, so I h
ave her and Uncle Mike and my cousins. If I didn’t have family here, I probably would never even have heard of Whitford, never mind moved here.”

  “This was my grandmother’s house.”

  She almost dropped her coffee mug. “What? How did I not know you had family here?”

  “I’m not in the habit of telling people my life’s history.”

  “Maybe not, but people here had to know your grandmother. I can’t believe Fran or Rose or somebody didn’t know her well enough to know her grandson bought her house. Or did you buy it? I just assumed...”

  “I bought it.” He shrugged. “She was aging and, after my grandfather passed away, my mother started worrying about her. It got really bad when they started talking hip replacement but, financially, Grams couldn’t move to Connecticut to be near my mom until she sold this house. Unfortunately, the market had tanked and nobody even looked at it.”

  “So you bought it and moved up here to the middle of nowhere so your mom could take care of her mother.” Tori felt an urge to sigh, but she squashed it. That was so sweet.

  “Gram couldn’t put off her surgery any more. Since I lived alone and already ordered most of my purchases online, there was no reason I couldn’t move to Whitford.”

  He said it in a very matter-of-fact way, but Tori didn’t think his decision had been purely rooted in logic. Online shopping was one thing, but moving hours away from your entire family to a place where you had nobody was another, especially for an introvert like Max. Obviously he loved his mother very much.

  Then another thought occurred to her. “Did you come visit your grandparents? When you were a kid, I mean.”

  “A few times, but my dad and Gramps didn’t get along very well.”

  Tori sipped her drink, studying Max over the rim of her glass. He was not only a puzzle, but he was one of those “spilled milk” puzzles where the pieces were all the same color and all a person had to go on were the slight variations in shape. She’d never had any patience for those kinds of puzzles, but she found Max a lot more intriguing than five hundred pieces of spilled milk.