“I’m hungry,” Becca announces. “Can we please eat?”
The muscles in Max’s jaw work. He looks like he’d rather shove broken glass down my throat—I don’t need a working throat to drum—but he finally nods. “Sure, Bean. Whatever you want.”
But the look he gives me says this isn’t finished.
Chapter Eleven
Devlin
Calling this brunch awkward is like saying the Rothschilds have a few bucks. Max is stabbing his three-egg omelet like it’s just butchered all the cute puppies in Vegas. I have a few bites of the French toast, which tastes like sawdust.
Becca, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying her pancakes. I knew it! She totally conned me into marrying her. She probably arranged things at the reception after the art show to get me to sleep with her, too. That guy who was hitting on her was probably a paid accomplice. Makes me glad I kicked him.
Meanwhile, Cole and Killian labor to carry a normal conversation. Cole talks about his fiancée, Teri, while Killian goes on and on about his wife Emily’s books.
Emily writes romantic comedies, and thank God, because women love that kind of stuff. Becca seems mesmerized by Emily’s literary career, oohing and aahing every time Killian talks about which of Emily’s books hit this or that bestseller list. Killian promises to send her an autographed copy of Emily’s latest book. Thankfully, Max doesn’t interrupt to talk about the supposed elopement.
When Becca’s half-done with her pancakes, she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. Finally, a chance to talk to her in private!
I start to lift my ass off the seat of my chair, and Max gives me a glare that would preempt a supernova.
Okay, so I can’t just get up and go after her. Time to use a variation of a maneuver many a woman has tried on me.
Very casually, I knock over a glass of water, making sure it lands in my lap. Cold water and ice cubes soak my pants instantly. I fake shock and jump up.
“Ah, shit.” I try to wipe my pants with a napkin, but of course it doesn’t work. “Lemme go take care of this. I’ll be right back.”
Before the guys can say anything, I stride rapidly off to the bathroom. I can feel Max’s gaze boring into the spot between my shoulder blades. He’s likely fantasizing about throwing a knife at it, but I can’t let that stop me.
I wait in the hall in the back where the bathrooms are. A few minutes later, Becca comes out.
“We have to talk,” I say before she can run off to Max.
“About…?” She blinks up at me.
Does she think saying it innocently makes it all better? “About what you got me into.”
She sighs. “Fine. I won’t tell Max about your side job.”
“Side job?”
“You know…” She lowers her voice. “The escort service gig.”
My jaw almost hits the floor. “I am not an escort.”
“I know you said all that stuff about payment and sex, but you don’t have to be embarrassed about it.”
“Okay, lemme explain something to you. I’m a rock star. I mean literally a rock star. Millions of adoring fans, lots and lots of money. I don’t have to whore myself out on the side to make ends meet.”
“Okay. I believe you.”
She lies worse than a four-year-old.
“We should get back to the table before Max comes after us. After we’re finished eating, we can talk privately, since you seem to have forgotten everything I said in the contract.”
“Fine.” There is no contract, but we can hash this mythical paper out later. We won’t be able to have any kind of real conversation if Max is around.
When we’re back at the table, Max gives me a funny look, which is an improvement over the expression of evil he gave me earlier. The level of his rage must’ve gone from “murderous” to just “really, really mad.”