“Then get a condom, Max Lambert, and fuck me like you mean it.”

  Yup. I’m even harder than I’d thought possible. Seconds later, I’m covering my dick, then hiking up her legs, pushing her knees toward those gorgeous tits so her pussy’s spread for me. “Look how wet you are,” I say.

  “Do something about it.”

  I notch the head of my cock against her wetness, then hiss in a sharp breath. I close my eyes. I need a moment. This is so fucking good. All this slickness, all this softness, all this arousal for me. I open my eyes and I sink into her, filling her completely.

  Her breath comes in a staggered gasp. Then, I comply with her demand. I fuck her like I mean it. I grab her hips, jerk her down on my cock, then work her on my dick. She’s moaning and gasping, her lips parting, and it’s so damn good. And it’s even better when her hands fly to her tits and she plays with them.

  “Mine. Those are fucking mine,” I say, possessiveness gripping me.

  “Then touch them,” she challenges me.

  With one hand holding her right hip, I thrust into her again and again, reaching for her breast with the other hand, playing with the nipple.

  She shudders with each touch. She gets wetter. Her pussy grips me. I’m so turned on from her desire, but I want her to truly understand the depths of my lust. That nothing stops me from wanting her. That no scars will scare me away. I lean closer and rasp out, “Want to get you naked. Put you on all fours. Fuck you from behind. Touch you everywhere.”

  I’m taking a chance but that’s my nature.

  “You do?” She gasps, a little disbelieving, a lot turned on.

  “I really fucking do, Everly,” I say, making a dirty promise I plan to keep. “You want that?”

  She nods quickly, desperately. “Yes. Soon, I promise soon,” she says, and lets go of her breast to grab the neckline of her shirt. In one quick move, she tugs it over her head.

  My breath halts. I’m floored. “I wasn’t expecting that,” I whisper.

  “Me neither,” she says, her eyes wide, her voice nervous as she drops down to the bed. The view is no different for me. I can’t see her back. But I can see the courage that move took. The guts. She’s naked with me.

  I lower my chest to hers, feeling her against me as I find our pace again, picking up the rhythm, thrusting deep, the way she likes it. She wraps her arms around my neck, holding me close.

  “You have no idea how sexy you are,” I tell her, because it’s what she needs to hear, and because it’s true.

  She tosses her head back against the pillow and unleashes the hottest groan ever. “Coming,” she cries out, shuddering.

  Pleasure charges down my body in a hot, sharp, electric spike. I come hard, then collapse onto her, kissing her face, her neck, her hair.

  She bands her arms around me, keeping me close to her for a minute till she whispers, “Give me a sec.”

  I take my cue, ease out, and head to the bathroom, giving her privacy. When I return to the bedroom, she’s put the shirt back on. After she pops into the en suite, she comes back to bed, and I pull her next to me, then inhale the last traces of gardenias in her hair. Hair that I’m privileged to touch, that I mightn’t have been able to touch if those emergency responders hadn’t arrived when they did. All I can think is just in time.

  I don’t say that though. I’m not sure that’s what she needs to hear. “So, when’s our

  next secret date?”

  “Better be soon.”

  Perfect answer. “Ah, so you learned saying yes to me is your real favorite thing.”

  She laughs softly. “You and your ego.”

  “You like both,” I tease as I pepper kisses along her neck.

  “Clearly. Since I’m not very good at saying no to you.”

  “Let’s keep it that way,” I say, because I don’t intend to back down. With her like this, here with me, it’s hard to believe we can’t date. It feels like we could be so much more.

  She might have said this thing between us can’t be anything more.

  But I heard in her voice what she didn’t say.

  And I see the emotions in her big brown eyes when we’re together.

  I feel the way she melts in my arms when I touch her.

  Most of all, I know we have to be a thing. She might not know that yet, but that’s okay. I’ll convince her with my actions that I’m worth saying yes to, one secret date at a time.

  In the morning, she’s awake first, dressed in last night’s clothes. Groggy, I push up in bed, yawning and bleary-eyed. It’s six a.m. and there’s a kitten on my pillow.

  “I have to work,” she says quietly. The skies are still dark. The sun hasn’t risen.

  “I’ll drive you home,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “I’ll call a Lyft.”

  Athena stretches her front legs against my head and Everly laughs. “I don’t think you’re fostering this cat. I think you’re going to adopt her.”

  I toss off the covers, swing my legs out of bed, and pull on some clothes. “You’re probably right,” I admit. “But I’m right too.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m driving you home,” I say.

  When we’re in the car, one thought runs through my head — It’s what a boyfriend would do.

  39

  MY GREEN THUMB

  Max

  Let the record reflect that I am not a gardener. But I’m playing the role of one today, and I’m going to win the Stanley Cup of gardening.

  That’s my goal—be as excellent on the soil as I am on the ice.

  It’s Thursday morning and we’re helping The Garden Society with its final plantings for the fall season. It’s the second community outreach event that Everly had planned as part of step two in her so-called Max Makeover Tour. I breathed a sigh of relief when I arrived this morning and Lyra wasn’t floating over the garden in a hot-air balloon, waiting to rappel down and crash the event with a fake-ass smile.

  I didn’t think she would since Everly told me Lyra had returned to going out on the town with Fletcher, breezing in and out of LA establishments with him. What she does with him means nothing to me, but it was sexy as hell that Everly’s theory on Lyra was right. The return to her so-called “regularly scheduled programming” seems to prove that.

  But even if she shows up, I’m not letting a damn thing go wrong today as I plant peas at an abandoned-lot-turned-community-garden at the edge of the Mission District. The Sea Dogs are one of the sponsors of these community gardens, along with the Renegades, so there are hockey players and football players here planting veggies in November for a spring harvest.

  Since it’s a promo opportunity, a handful of photographers are here too, snapping pics, along with Everly, who’s capturing the event on her phone. She’s next to a brunette a few years younger than she is, who’s got a big Nikon in her hands and is snapping images too.

  I’m digging up the soil to plant some pea seedlings when Asher says, from his row of peas, “Dude, you’re doing it wrong. They need to be two inches apart—not one.”

  I glance down at my row, then his, then him. “You know how to plant?”

  “What? Do you think I’m just a pretty face?”

  Miles coughs from a row over. “That’s kind of what I thought.”

  From his spot on the other side of me, Wesley shoots Asher a deadpan look. “Aren’t you, though?”

  Asher sets down his garden shovel and lifts his gloved hands our way, like he’s going to flip us the bird, since we’re classy like that.

  Laughing, Miles makes a subtle slicing motion at his throat. “You can’t do that right now. There’re photographers around,” he whispers, nodding to the pack with cameras, but the end of the sentence dies off when his gaze lingers on the brunette next to Everly.

  But Asher’s eyes widen, then he mutters a curse, like he’s pissed with himself for forgetting the media. “This is your fault, Lambert. It’s like I’ve been infected with your grumpy attitude. I almost flipped you assholes off in front of reporters,” he says under his breath.

  Wesley wiggles a brow. “Maybe this is like one of those movies where someone trades souls with another person. I saw that in a flick the other night on Webflix,” he says. Then more earnestly, he asks me, “Come to think of it, how’s everything going with the Webflix doc? When does that start?”

  “Supposedly they’re coming to town pretty soon for some pre-interviews,” I say as I plant more seeds, two inches apart this time, like Asher the Gardener told me to. “Sounds like everything’s on track from what my agent’s told me. And Everly.”

  I steal a glance at the corner of the gardens where Everly’s now chatting with a lifestyle reporter and a couple influencers, I think. Maybe garden influencers? She’d said some were coming along with a few of the usual sports crew, but not the beat reporters. But I don’t linger on the press here. I linger on her, in her black slacks and gray blouse, a silky scarf around her neck, her blonde hair high in a ponytail, and damn, my heart thunders. My chest swells with pride, too, for how she’s pulled this event off.

  She wanted a different type of community outreach than the rescue dogs one—something where we had a chance to help people living right here in this city.

  I want the event to go well because I want everything to go well for Everly—every job, every chance, every opportunity. I return my focus to the soil and shoot the breeze with the guys as I pull weeds and plant peas.

  A little later, I grab a bag that needs composting and walk across the gardens to drop it in a bin. Everly’s standing next to a raised silver planter, chatting with a man who looks familiar. He’s wearing jeans, but his shirt is clearly custom-made. Pretty sure that’s Wilder Blaine, the owner of the Renegades football team.

  Is she networking with him? Oh, hell yeah. That’d be a smart move. When I’m closer, I pick up their conversation as he says to her in a cool, confident tone, “You did a great job with this event. Thank you for putting it all together.”

  “It was my pleasure. I’m so glad both teams could do it,” she says.

  He glances around once more, his gaze shrewd, assessing. “I’m a good businessman, so I’m not going to poach you, but I appreciate what you’re doing and how you’re handling your team.”

  She beams. “Thank you,” she says. “It’s a good thing I love what I’m doing.”

  “Keep up the good work. You’ll go far.”

  That makes me think…what if, what if, what if?

  When the event winds down, I grab a minute with her in the corner of the gardens as I’m gathering the little shovels we used. “Would you work for him?” I ask quietly.

  “He’s not going to make an offer. He has a great relationship with the Sea Dogs team owner, so he meant it when he said he wouldn’t poach. But it was nice to hear he admires my work.”

  “Who wouldn’t? You’re amazing.”

  She offers a closed mouth smile before she says, “My, my. Isn’t your tune changing, Max Lambert?”

  I scoff. “I’ve always thought you were good at your job.”

  “You had a funny way of showing it before.”

  And a good way of showing it now, I want to whisper, and I’m tempted to, especially since Elias isn’t here. But reporters are, and this is how rumors start. A whisper here or there. I know what it’s like to be the subject of them, and I can’t let that happen to Everly.

  I have to find the will to tear myself away. “Good job with the event,” I say, perfectly businesslike, then I return to my friends without giving her a second glance. But I pull out my phone and tap out a text.

  Max: I deserve a medal for resisting kissing you just then.

  Everly: I want one for not flirting with you.

  Max: And I’ll accept mine for not touching you.

  Everly: I’ll take another for not getting in your car and leaving with you when this ends.

  Max: Fuck, baby. I want that.

  And I do want that. Badly. How to get it is the question though. When I’m heading to the gate of the garden to take off, a reporter calls out to me. It’s Jamie, a hockey podcaster. “You’ve been doing a lot of appearances lately,” he says, and he sounds incredibly skeptical.

  Here we go again. But I smile, waiting for the question that’s coming any second—the one that tries to call my bluff.

  “Is this a new Max? A Max who’s focused on charity, or is this just an image makeover? Now you see it, now you don’t?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Everly striding over. This is her turf, and she’s not going to let a reporter corner a player. Even though I know the answer to his question, I still wait till she arrives before I answer him. “This is the real me. I just haven’t shown it before.”

  Jamie blinks. Maybe he wasn’t expecting that reply. He recovers quickly though, adding, “So will we see more of this you?”

  If this me helps me win the woman, then yes.

  I don’t tell him that. I don’t let on, either, that most good stories start with a woman. That most people change when they realize there’s someone worth changing for. I don’t tell him any of that because we’re still a secret. But if I can help her rather than create more problems for her, that has to assist our cause.

  “You probably will,” I say, meaning it.

  He asks a few more questions, and when he wraps up, she thanks him, then says I’m free to go. When I slide into my car, there’s a text waiting for me on my phone.

  Everly: I could kiss you for those answers. They were so good! So natural, so real, so simple. The Real Max Lambert indeed!

  My chest is warm. A little glowy even. I’ve made her happy. That’s something. No, that’s everything.

  I don’t turn on the car yet. I stare at the message for a good minute, enjoying this feeling till I catch sight of her in the rearview mirror, heading to her car.

  But that feeling in my chest shifts. Turns into a pang. An empty ache. I want to be the man to walk her to her car, open the door, and kiss her cheek—the kind of kiss you could give your girlfriend in public.

  As she drives away, I mull on what it’s going to take to make that happen somehow. How many jerseys do I need to give to Elias to solve this? How many upbeat comments do I offer up to the press? And would all of that even be enough to counterbalance the weight of an unwritten rule that she has to bear?

  Is she going to have to take a job someplace else for this to work? Could I ask her to? Could I schmooze Wilder Blaine on her behalf?

  Not if you want to keep your nuts.

  I shut down those ideas so fast. I can’t do either of those things. Or ask her for either of them. That’s not fair to her and all she’s worked for as she aims to live her best life.

  I resign myself to figuring that out later. For now, I need to focus on something that’s in my control—winning her heart.

  Without that, I’ve got nothing.

  40

  ICE KISS

  Everly

  I’m on my way out the door Friday night when Zaire stops me in the hall. “The documentary filmmakers are going to be stopping by next week for B-roll,” she says.

  My ears perk all the way up. “Does that mean it’s officially happening? Are they going to feature Max in an episode?”

  Zaire crosses her fingers. “It’s an excellent sign. It’s not a done deal yet and B-roll is the kind of thing they can toss if they decide not to feature him. But it’s a positive indication that they want to have it in the can. They said, and I quote, ‘We’re happy with how things are going so far.’”

  I smile brightly. That’s what we’ve been working toward. “That is great news.”

  “And let me tell you something, Clementine is happy, too, so you know what that means?”

  “You’re happy?” I ask playfully.

  “I am cautiously happy,” she says, then spins on her heels and leaves.

  I’m glad she feels that way. I don’t want anything to destroy that happiness. I have a father who’s disappointed with me most of the time. I have a mother who barely cares. But I have a job that has given me a lot of joy and I don’t want to risk that.

  That’s why this thing with Max has to stay a secret. Truly it does.

  Even if I’ve started entertaining possibilities for the future.

  Even if I’ve started wondering if we could make a go of it.

  Even if sometimes I think about smashing unwritten rules to smithereens.

  The more time I spend with him, the less I want to be hidden.

  This woman has serious shutterbug skills. “These are amazing,” I say to Leighton a little later at Elodie’s Chocolates because why have business meetings anywhere else?

  She already showed me the pictures I hired her to take at the gardening event yesterday. I posted some on the team’s social and one on Max’s, but now we’re reviewing the rest of them for a bigger photo drop over the weekend.

  “I love this shot of all the guys huddled together planting,” she says, and I peer at it on her tablet. It’s such a cute picture of Max, Miles, Asher, and Wesley.

  “The hockey players planting the seeds of victory,” she says, then laughs—at herself. “That’s super cheesy. Do not use that as a caption.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t,” I say with a playful smile, then pick the photos I like best and ask her to send them to me. After we’ve done our work, Maeve, Fable, and Josie sail into the chocolate shop. I smile even as nerves flutter in my chest. But they’re butterfly nerves.

  “I’m excited for my friends to meet you,” I say, and I know they’ll like her since I do. Leighton and I have become friendlier over the last week or so. I sort of feel like a friend matchmaker tonight.