We have no way to speak. Ever again.
Gritting my teeth, I stand and leave my bedroom slash office, walking into the living room and dropping onto the couch. The apartment is modern and warm, another gift from dad… another loan I vow to repay him, once I’ve got my degree and made my mark on the world.
I try to lose myself in some mindless TV, but my thoughts keep returning to the argument with Smolder. I curse myself over and over again for storming away like that. If I’d stayed, we could’ve talked about it, found a middle ground which suited both of us—
The apartment buzzer screeches through the apartment, jolting me out of my haze.
I haven’t ordered any food and I’m not expecting any packages. Plus it’s too late for deliveries.
No one drops by my place without texting first. Even mom.
I walk over to the intercom and press down on the button. “Hello?”
“Madelyn…”
For a second I’m sure I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch.
The voice sounds like it belongs to Maxton Miller, gruff and husky, a man who defies all stereotypes of what a nerd should be. I remember how, as a teenager, I’d watch his press conferences and interviews with starlight sizzling in my belly, my mind captive to his azure eyes and the intensity in every word he spoke.
“Yes?”
“It’s Maxton. Maxton Miller.”
“Yes?” I cringe, wondering if I sound as stupid as I feel.
Even the sound of his voice makes my skin tingle, provoking a feeling of guilt to swarm through me. What would Smol say if he knew I was crushing on this older, handsome man?
But Smol left, and surely Maxton isn’t here for that.
“Wait a second. Is dad okay?” My words tremble as I picture a hundred images of my dad, none of them good. “Is he in the hospital—”
“Your father’s fine.”
“Oh. Then why are you here?” I ask, confused.
“To see you. Buzz me up.”
There’s a note of command in his voice, making me think about him using that same tone in other circumstances. I imagine him looking over as I lie back on his bed, tearing off his shirt to reveal the rippling muscles beneath, his manhood jutting out of his pants.
But of course, he doesn’t want me for that.
Buzzing him up, I scurry around the apartment, clearing away books and a few plates from the coffee table.
Is he here to offer me a job?
I told dad I didn’t want any freebies – except for a roof over my head and my education, which I consider a loan anyway – but maybe he’s enlisted the help of his business partner and his old friend to try and convince me. Not for the first time, I’m touched with a sense of profound gratitude for how lucky my situation is, even if I’m certainly going to tell Maxton no.
It has to be about work. I can’t think of another reason why Maxton Miller would come here.
I can’t even remember the last time I saw him in person. I was a kid, I know that much. My teenage crush fueled by Ted Talk clips and magazine covers.
A confident knock comes at my door.
Walking on shaky legs, I pull the door open and stare up at him.
He’s huge and wide, his muscles filling his custom suit, the same shade as his hair. His eyes are even more intense than I remember, far more serious and perceptive than a camera could ever capture. His scent is manly, musky, making me want to burrow myself into him.
And then his eyes go wide, roaming over my body.
Heck.
All too late I realize what I’m wearing…
A ratty tank top that shows the straps of my bra, and a pair of PJ shorts. It’s my comfy at-home gear.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” I say quickly, cheeks burning red.
He looks disgusted, angry even.
“That’s fine,” he says, his voice tight as though he’s holding back a hundred other sentiments.
A cruel laugh rings through my mind, like the douchebags in high school – it reminds me of Dirk the Jerk – as though my subconscious is scorning me for ever having a crush on this man. I remember filling notebooks with I love Maxton Miller when I was a teenager, and that seems like the biggest joke in the world now.
I’d often told myself that when I was a grownup, maybe he’d want me.
What an idiot.
But even now, as I think about this, I feel a stab of shame for Smol.
He left me. He’s gone. I’m never going to see him again.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t still care about him.
I jolt back to the present, realizing we’re just staring at each other.
He’s got that pissed-as-hell twist to his lips, his eyes burning.
“Did dad send you?” I squeak.
The silence is impossible to manage, giving my thoughts too much freedom to leap around to self-hating places.