It’s worse than I could have imagined.
Not only does the perfect man do everything for me on a physical level, but he also wants to pay my bills and now he’s a freaking mind reader.
He knows something else is going on, so why can’t I just tell him?
Tell him that I’ve been running from an invisible stalker who leaves mysterious notes and followed me halfway across the country.
Yeah. Right.
I feel my mouth tighten and I shake my head from side to side. Totally not looking like someone who doesn’t have anything to hide or wants to admit she’s in more trouble than she knows how to deal with.
“I see,” Max says to himself, nodding slowly. “Like I said, crazy huh?”
I laugh nervously, sounding more like a dying donkey than anything else.
“And what happens to little Trixie when her mommy goes to work?” he asks me, changing the subject while still letting her be my baby after all.
“She’s pretty good on her own, I think,” I tell him. “Mrs. Peterson lets her stay here, and nobody’s complained, so I guess she’s fine. She’s always asleep in my bed when I get home every morning,” I add.
I’ve actually never really thought about it. It’s a long time for a little dog to be all alone. No wonder Trixie’s so clingy. And it’s no wonder I love her so much, we’re all each other has really.
Max doesn’t say a word, just looks at me with those piercing eyes. I know he can tell what I’m thinking, but I’m still not sure exactly what it is he really wants from me.
If he was gonna make a pass at me, if that’s all he wanted he would have done it by now. And me? Well. I know my way around a man about as well as I can build bridges.
I glance at the clock again, mainly out of habit and Max seems to think it’s a cue that I really want him to go which I don’t.
But I’m kinda terrified he’ll stay too. Scared to death in a good way that we might both get so close we actually touch again.
Maybe more.
The thought gives me chills and I wish I was able to actually have a day off so Max and I could get to know each other a little better at least.
His body jolts with a little start and he seems to have decided some things.
“I guess I should let you get some sleep,” he reasons, holding up a palm before I can say a word about anything else.
“And don’t worry about your landlady, I actually had a run-in with her before, years ago. I’ll see her about your rent and maybe tomorrow after you finish work I can drop by and we can talk it over?” he suggests.
I feel like a huge weight’s been lifted off my shoulders. Well, one at least.
All the other stuff seems so far away with someone like Max in front of me.
“I’d like that,” I whisper, stifling a yawn as I realize just how tired and hungry I really am, today has wiped me out.
“Lock the door behind me then, and I’ll see about a lock for that window tomorrow too,” Max says, moving to let himself out the front door.
“I will,” I pipe in. “And Max?” I ask, feeling my heart swell as he turns, our eyes locking.
“Thank you,” I tell him, meaning it more than I can show him right now.
“You’re more than welcome,” he says huskily, bowing a little with his hand over his heart before he closes the door behind himself.
Chapter Six
Maxwell
No way in hell I’m letting Phoebe out of my sight, but if she says she needs her rest and if she wants to go to work, I can’t stop her.
I can’t make her do anything. But I can make sure I watch over her.
I can also do a little sleuthing of my own, as well as get that landlady of hers off her back. Old Mrs. Peterson might prove useful too, which I find out sooner rather than later.
Once she has her money, and once I do a little sweet talking, slipping in an extra month’s rent to make up for the inconvenience, she changes her tune.
A little bit.
Funny how money makes some people feel more secure. Like it can solve almost any problem.
Mrs. Peterson likes having her cake and eating it too, which is why she wants to keep her building and collect rents every month.
I get that now. Lesson learned.
It also makes her sing when I start to ask questions about Phoebe, who I discover is actually one of her favorites.
Go figure.
“Such a pretty girl. Lovely hair, wouldn’t you say?” she asks the space behind me, looking like she’s slipped into a memory of her own from the past.
“She’s beautiful,” I agree. No arguments from me there. “But can you tell me,” I ask, “Have you seen or heard anyone suspicious hanging around, asking about her?”