She trails off on a sob, and I jerk because, for one infinitesimal moment, I instinctively move forward to comfort her, and then I remember.
I remember it all. Who she is and what she’s done.
I fold my arms across my chest and watch as a shaky hand comes up to cover her mouth as she cries.
“I’m scared, Max. I’m so fucking scared I’ll never walk again. I don’t know what I’ll do. I have nothing, no money, no home, no way of supporting myself if I can’t walk, and I just don’t know what I’ll do.”
I hear the tremble in her voice. I watch the tears track down her cheeks and drip from her chin. Her nose is running, and despite her desperate attempts to wipe it away with the back of her hand, it flows onto her lips where she swipes at it with her tongue. That act alone should maybe repulse me, make me flinch at least, but still, nothing. I’m numb to all things Whitney Federov.
That doesn’t make me a monster, though, so as little sympathy I have for her, despite the zero empathy I feel, I know I have no option but to help her out.
“You can stay here for the next few weeks. Keep up with your physio and decide whether you want to remain living here.” Her eyebrows shoot up, and I know that I haven’t made myself entirely clear. “By here, I mean in the UK, or if you want to go back to the States, where, at least, you’ll have the support of your parents and sister. If you choose to go back, I’ll help you out financially with a flight.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Max. Thank you so much.” She reaches out to touch my arm, but I step back out of her reach.
“This changes nothing, Whit. I’m doing this because you’re Layla’s mum, no other reason. It doesn’t mean I feel anything but contempt for you and the things you’ve done.”
She carries on wiping at her face and letting out little sobs, but none of it touches me.
“I’ll talk to Aaron about all of this tomorrow, and, in the meantime, I need you to focus on getting better. If you choose to go home, which I sincerely hope you do, we’ll figure out how to make that happen.”
She nods while stuttering out another thank you.
I turn to leave, but as I reach the door, she calls out, “Max.” I look over my shoulder at her but keep moving. “Can I see her tomorrow? Layla, can I see her?”
And there it is, the moment when I finally feel something. “No,” I tell her and keep on walking.
Billie
I pull a plum-coloured hat with a pom-pom on the top onto my aching head and wrap a scarf around my face. I’ve had a shit night’s sleep and woke feeling tired and miserable. Despite a long, hot shower, my head’s still pounding, and my ribs are aching from tossing and turning all night.
I have this horrible sinking feeling in my gut since Whitney arrived, I’m not sure if it’s just her presence that has me on a downer, or if my female intuition is trying to warn me of something and I’m so consumed by thoughts of Max, that I’m not getting what it is.
I close my eyes and attempt to relax my shoulders and relieve some of the tension I’m feeling. On opening my front door, I’m hit with a blast of cold air, which I breathe in deeply. It instantly helps clear my head until I step out onto the gravel, and the media frenzy at the gates starts up. I keep my head down and make a quick dash towards the back door of the main house while ignoring their questions. I hear them but, as instructed, I say nothing. Not even when I’m asked if I’m fucking Max Young.
I close the door to the laundry a little too hard and press my back against it, letting out the breath I think I held the whole way. I pull off my hat and scarf and make my way to the kitchen. Max and Layla are nowhere to be seen, but the blonde from yesterday, who I now know to be Deana, Whitney’s sister, is making herself a coffee.
“Hey.” She smiles at me over her shoulder. “Do you know how this works? I seem to be having a little trouble with it.”
“Sure,” I tell her without cracking a smile.
The compartment that holds the water is sometimes hard to slide into place, and that’s what she seems to be having trouble with. She hands me the plastic container, and I slot it into place first try.
“Ha, you made that look easy. I’m Deana, by the way, Whitney’s physical therapist . . . and sister.”
For some reason, she rolls her eyes when she says sister; although, I’d be rolling more than my eyes if I had a sister like Whitney. I’d probably roll said sister off a cliff and straight into a deep ocean . . . one full of sharks.
“Billie,” I offer. “I’m the nanny.”
“Oh, cool,” is all I get in reply.
An awkward silence then ensues as I lean against the worktop and watch Deana make two coffees. I’m gagging for one of my own. The pods that came with my machine were used up by the boys when they were over at my place yesterday. I need to do an online shop and stock my fridge and cupboards. I was going to go out to the supermarket today, but after experiencing the local, friendly press at the front gates, I think I’ll now give that idea a swerve.
“So, how’s your sister doing, since the accident, I mean?” I’ve gathered from the little Max has said that Whitney’s recovery has been slow. But I’m female, therefore naturally curious and want to know.
“Not great, I’m afraid. In the grand scheme of things, she was hella lucky to survive in one piece and escape with her life, but, yeah, spinal trauma is one of those injuries that is just so unpredictable.”
“But long term, will she walk again?”
She nods slowly while leaning into her hand that’s splayed on the counter.
“Yeah, eventually. At least I think so. I mean, I’m no neurosurgeon, just a PT, but the signs are all there. She has lower back pain, which isn’t great, but at least it means she has some feeling, and she has sensation in her feet and along the outside of her legs now, so I think it’s just a case of stimulating the nerves and waiting for them to fire up again.”
Unsure of how I should respond since I actually don’t give a flying fuck as to whether the bitch walks again, I simply nod. But then I can’t resist adding, “Yeah, I suppose, like you say, in the grand scheme of things, unlike Alix, she’s lucky to come out of it with her life.”
She pauses the flow of milk from the frother into the coffee cup she was pouring it into and looks up at me. “Did you know Alix?”
“I’ve met him.”
She licks her lips before giving a small shrug. “Look, working here, you probably know all that’s gone on between Max, Whitney, and Alix, and I’d just like to say, my sister is a fucking idiot. I’m here because she’s my sister and she’s in trouble, not because I condone in any way what she’s done. As far as I’m concerned, she deserves everything she’s got coming at her right now.”
Wow!
She gives an emphatic nod, in a so-there kind of gesture, picks up both the cups before saying, “I’ll catch you later, Billie. If you hear any screams, ignore them, it’s just me torturing my sister with therapy.”
“Have fun,” I reply while I set about making my own coffee. “Ya’ll be sure to hurt her good and proper, ya hear me?” I mumble under my breath in my amazing American accent.
When I’m fully caffeinated, I make my way towards the stairs to go in search of Max. Passing Whitney’s room, I hear voices and pause to listen at the slightly ajar door.
“Red hair, you say?”
“Yeah, stunning red hair.”
“Well, there can’t be many redheads called Billie. It must be Callum’s little sister, but I thought she was working out in Los Angeles for some Hollywood producer.”
“Oh, that Billie, okay. The husband attacked her and his wife shot him. It was all over the news when . . .”
My phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans, and I quickly move away from the door and head up the stairs in case I’m caught. When I get to the top, I pull it out and read the message. It’s Dan again. Desperate for an inside scoop, he’s been bombarding me with questions regarding Max and Whitney, and even the “sexy redhead” Max Y
oung is supposedly banging. I sent him back an eye-roll emoji and a statement about the nondisclosure clause in my contract and a zipped mouth emoji, none of which has stopped him annoying me with more questions. In truth, there is no nondisclosure clause because there is no contract, but Dan doesn’t need to know that.
I lock my screen and tap gently on Max’s bedroom door. I listen for any sound of movement, and when I hear none, I open the door and peek inside.
Oh, fuck me!
Max is lying in the middle of his bed, still sleeping. He’s flat on his back, one arm bent above his head, the other angled, so his palm is resting flat against his bare chest. The quilt, too, is angled, up to his waist on his right side, then it slopes all the way down to the top of his thigh on his left, which is the side closest to me.
He’s naked, nothing but inked skin covers the hard plains of his stomach, the defined muscles of his arms and pecs, all the way down to his wrists.
My breath comes in short choppy bursts, and my cheeks burn. I know what I’m doing is wrong, but even as I think it, I can’t help but take in his messy hair, the grey flecks in his dark beard, his dark brows and lashes, and the length of his fingers.
I breathe in deeply through my nose and blow out gently through my mouth in an attempt at slowing my racing heart.
He’s a beautiful specimen of maleness. Toned but not bulky, slim but not skinny, gorgeous but not perfect.
And that ink!
Fuck. Me. That ink!
Everything about him gives me fanny flutters and causes my body to warm from the inside out. I’m not the most sexually experienced person, but I’ve never been so turned on by a man in my life.
I catch movement inside Layla’s cot, and after only a moment’s hesitation, I make my way over to her.
Her legs are kicking, one arm is flailing, and her other hand is fisted and shoved into her mouth. When I lean over her cot, she gives me a smile. When I lift her, she snorts like a little piglet and attempts to suckle on anything within reach.
“You hungry, Miss Layla?” I whisper, dodging a headbutt as I do. Noticing a bottle in the warmer sitting on the bedside table, and unsure if there are any made up in the fridge downstairs, I take it, pop the cap off, and slide the teat into Layla’s mouth. She sucks like her life depends on it, which, obviously, it does.
“What are you doing?” Max enquires from behind me.
My breath catches in my throat as he startles me, and I spin around to face him, still holding and feeding Layla as I do. He’s leaning back against the headboard, knees pulled up, elbows resting on them, hands hanging loosely between. The quilt is now pulled up to his waist, leaving his abs, pecs, and arms still bared to me, which is more than adequate.
“Whoa, you made me jump.”
“Why are you in my bedroom?”
“Ah . . . Layla.” I offer as an excuse, heat climbing up my chest to my cheeks.
He quirks one eyebrow and then the other.
“I came up to ask if you wanted me over here or at my place today, but you were sleeping and Layla was getting upset because she was hungry and I didn’t want her to wake you and I wasn’t sure if there were any bottles downstairs, so I just took the one from the warmer and started feeding her. It’s still warm, so I assumed it was fresh, and yeah, that’s what I’m doing here,” I blurt out without once pausing or drawing breath.
He blinks slowly. Twice. He again scratches at the stubble that’s almost a beard and says, “I had a quick shower while her bottle warmed. When I got out, she was still sleeping, so I got back into bed to wait for her to wake up. I must’ve fallen asleep for a few minutes.”
I nod at the same time as I sit on the edge of the bed then panic that maybe sitting on a bed while my naked boss is in it might be deemed inappropriate, but then I remember I have his daughter in my arms, so, fuck it, I’m sitting down.
Silence settles between us, but it’s not awkward, it’s just silence. I stare down at Layla, who still hasn’t come up for air. “I barely slept a wink last night,” I finally say.
“You and me both, that’s why I crashed out like I did.”
I want to look at him, but I’m concerned my whorey eyes won’t stay on his face and will wander to the naked parts of him.
“You should’ve brought this one over to me.” I gesture with my chin at Layla. “You could’ve gone and played in the studio.”
“Ha, I don’t play in my studio; I create.” He gives a small laugh before adding, “Play? Fucking cheek.”
I give up the fight, slide my eyes to his, and roll them. “Sorry, maestro. You could’ve gone to your studio and created your next masterpiece.”
As soon as I finish speaking, my eyes dart to his chest. I have absolutely zero willpower where this man’s bare chest is concerned . . . or any other part of him, bare or otherwise.
My gaze wanders from his pecs, across his ink-covered shoulders, up to his throat. They settle on his lips for a moment, causing me to involuntarily lick my own before meeting his intense stare. I watch as his brows rise and fall quickly while a small smile causes his lips to twitch.
“No need.” He tips his head towards the corner of the room. An acoustic guitar leans against a black velvet chair and a pair of purple headphones lay on the floor next to it. “I got creative here. Layla sleeps pretty well through the sound of a guitar. It’s when I start to sing that she objects.”
“Should’ve connected her headphones up to Spotify and let her listen to Ed or Lewis Capaldi—you know, someone with a decent voice.”
“A decent voice?” He nods as he speaks. “I remember a freckle-faced kid once telling me I was her favourite singer, better than JT and James Morrison.”
“Pfft, what would a kid with freckles know?”
He rests the corner of his forehead against the back of his hand and smiles at me. It’s a soft, gentle smile that radiates from both his lips and his eyes and warms me from the inside out.
“You should smile more often,” I tell him. “It suits you.”
“Is that right?”
I nod slowly and lick my bottom lip before dragging my teeth over it. He watches the action, and I like that he does.
“I’ve not had much to smile about lately, Bamm.”
“Hopefully, a long weekend in the country can help with that.”
“Oh, I think just getting away from here can help with that, and we’re not only going for a weekend now, we’re probably gonna stay a few weeks, maybe a month. You okay with that?”
A month in the country with Max Young, hmm?
“I think I could endure a few weeks away from London.”
“Good, I’ll probably sleep better tonight knowing that.”
“Well, if you can’t, you could always bring Layla to my place and get creative.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, Billie, I could most definitely get creative at your place.”
“I meant . . . I didn’t mean . . . I meant . . .”
The alarm sounds, letting us know the gates have been opened. We stare at each other, and I realise I’ve never flirted with anyone like this in my life. I have explosions in my chest, and cartwheels being performed by many things with wings inside my belly. But I don’t care.
He’s a married man.
He’s my boss.
He’s my brother’s best friend.
He’s all the forbidden things.
But I don’t fucking care. He’s what I want. I haven’t survived all that I have not to go for what I want in life, and right now, Max Young is exactly what I want.
“I need to go down and see who that is, Bamm,” he tells me quietly.
“Do you?” I question.
“Unfortunately, yeah, I do.”
I shrug. “Then you best do what you gotta do.”
He looks down at his lap before tipping his head towards the bedroom door. “You need to go first, I’m stark bollock naked under here.”
My cheeks burn, but I don’t move. I don’t say anything ei
ther. My eyes slide from his face to his lap, then back to meet his eyes. His brows rise when I do.
The bottle I’m feeding Layla makes a sound, and I pull it from her mouth when I realise she’s sucking on air. “Shit,” I mutter and stand.
Layla lets out a wail as I lift her to my shoulder and head towards the door.
“Bamm,” Max calls, and I turn and meet his hawk-like gaze over my shoulder. “At some stage, we are gonna get creative, you know that, right?”
Despite the fact I’m standing absolutely still, the room feels like it sways and tilts as the sound of my blood whooshes through my ears.
Without saying another word, he turns, allowing me to witness the perfection that is Max Young’s bare back and arse retreating into his bathroom.
Max
What the actual fuck am I doing?
Could be the stress Whitney’s return has caused me. Could be the total lack of sleep caused by the stress of Whitney’s return. Could just be that I’ve lost my fucking mind.
Standing naked in my bathroom, I take in the bleary-eyed reflection looking back at me from the mirror above my sink, and I sigh while I smile. I don’t care what the reasons are. I don’t care about the rights and the wrongs. I want Billie Wild.
I just have no fucking clue what I’m going to do about it.
Everything?
Nothing?
Something?
I have no clue. My life is already a fuck up of catastrophic proportions, and starting something with Billie will only take that to another level.
I exhale a long, slow breath before splashing my face with water. My beard needs a trim, my hair’s a fucking mess, and my life . . . my life is in need of some divine intervention.
I tilt my head back and stare up at the white emulsion on my bathroom ceiling and think about Pete. He was always the father figure I turned to with any “blokey” problems I’ve had in the past.
“What do I do, Pete? Fuck it all and give this a go? Ignore it? Run far away?” This is the level of tiredness I’m at. I’m asking a dead man whether or not I should pursue a relationship with his daughter, his twenty-two-year-old daughter.
All the Forbidden Things Page 23
