Goldie Locks: Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance - Page 36

“I’ll be in touch then, Max,” the Barbie doll voice wails out behind us both. Max puffing air out of his cheeks only once the elevator doors close and we’re heading back down to the street.

“What the hell was all that about?” I ask, amazed at how Max just brushed her off like she was something Trixie might leave on the pavement if we didn’t pick it up and bin it.

“That was a realtor I’d never have dealings with,” he smiles, but I can tell it’s only for my benefit.

“What is it Max, what happened?” I ask, my stomach knotting with anxiety without me even knowing why.

“Nothing,” he assures me. “Just a waste of time but we’re here now, so let’s go get your things. Maybe I could drive over once we’re done. I could show you the city apartment?” he says, which is odd.

It’s not like Max to want to show off or anything, but I shrug in agreement, already planning on maybe just taking everything I have that’ll fit in Max’s car and leaving the rest behind, hopefully for good.

“You could’ve stayed up there, Max,” I try to tease him. “I can tell she wasn’t your cup of tea, but no point throwing off a deal just because she said no pets allowed,” I add.

But he shakes his head in silence, his eyes focused on each person in the street as we cross the road to my apartment building.

“You okay?” I ask him, worried now that I’ve said or done something to upset him.

“It’s not you, Phoebe,” he assures me, stopping once we reach the sidewalk and hugging me close to him.

“I’ll just feel better once we have you out of here,” he says with a crooked smile. Trying to look calm but I can feel how tense he really is through his clothes.

A man the size of Max can’t be tense without someone across the street noticing it.

His eyes move to a plain white truck parked right out front before he hooks his arm in mine again and after checking that Trixie’s alright too, he suggests we all head on up.

“I can fit quite a lot in that jalopy of mine,” he jokes. The car I know is probably worth more than this whole floor of the apartment building.

The same car I’m still paranoid about Trixie scratching the upholstery in, but again it’s something Max doesn’t even register let alone mind.

Just as we turn to enter my corridor, we both freeze in our tracks.

There’s a man in a dark baseball cap and a dark jacket sliding something under my door.

“Wait here. Don’t move,” Max demands.

My heart’s in my throat and I clutch Trixie closer to me, leaning back against the wall.

The guy’s big, but as soon as Max is upon him, I can see at a glance who’s bigger.

Max lifts the man clean off the ground by the scruff of his jacket.

“The fuck man?” The guy calls out, growling and starting to swing his fists, but Max holds him outstretched with one hand, like a dirty bag of garbage.

I feel myself breathe again, but a single glance from Max all the way down the hallway tells me to stay put.

“Alright, asshole, talk,” Max snarls, lifting him a little higher in the air and even starting to shake him.

A bunch of yellow envelopes fall from the man’s jacket pocket and then I can see the logo on his uniform.

“I’m a fucking delivery driver asshole,” the man growls back at Max. “Got a message a whole bunch of parcels were to come here instead of the other address. I’m checking if the story fits,” he shouts, Max, lets him down slowly, picking up and examining one of the cards that fell from his pockets.

“Delivery for Maxwell Bear?” Max asks him.

The delivery guy looks taken aback, then even angrier as he straightens his shirt and jacket.

“Yeah. Maxwell Bear. That you? ‘Cos you’re an asshole, you know that? Scaring the shit out of me like that. The fuck you think you are anyway, man?” the guy shrieks, all his bravado gone, his voice shaking now.

“Sorry,” I hear Max tell the man. “Been having some trouble with someone leaving nasty notes, following us around, you see anyone else on your way up here?” he asks, reaching into his pocket and handing the guy a wad of folded bills and his business card.

“If you could take the parcels to this address,” he stresses, scratching on the back with a pen from his pocket. “I’d appreciate it,” he says, waiting for the man to calm down some more and count out the money before he motions me over towards them both.

“This is Phoebe Gold, she lives here,” Max explains. “If anyone else stops you to ask about any of this, I want you to call this number on the card, okay?” Max tells him a matter of fact.

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