Her mouth falls open. “You didn’t.”
“Ah, Ms. Santos, I did. I knew I’d never be able to earn brownie points with you, so I figured I’d try for pão de queijo points.”
She grins. “What do you need points for?”
“Insurance. If my past conduct is any guide, I will most definitely screw up in the future, and I’ll need to cash in on any credits. I’m working on building a reserve now.”
“Smart man,” she says, still grinning.
A few beats of silence pass, during which she blinks so excessively I wonder if a lash is trapped in her eye, then her shoulders drop in resignation. “May I have one, please?”
“A cheeseball?”
She grimaces. “If you want to earn points, don’t call it a cheeseball.”
I scoff at her. “That’s the literal translation.”
“No, it isn’t. The literal translation is cheese bread. And anyway, it’s so much more than a ball of cheese. It’s this morsel of goodness that’s flaky on the outside, and gooey and warm on the inside, and when you break it apart, the cheese stretches for miles.”
“Do you want it or not?” I ask.
“I want it,” she says breathily, sticking out her hand.
“Ah-ah-ah. Safety first. Both hands on the steering wheel, please.”
Her mouth twitches, but she does as she’s told. I need to keep her in the driver’s seat. She’s much more agreeable in this position.
Despite the limpness of her expression, she opens wide as my fingers approach, then she takes the entire ball in her mouth. I will not make a smart-ass remark here, and to ensure it, I bite down on my bottom lip hard enough to make a small tear in the skin.
“It’s good,” she says as she chews. “But it’d be a thousand times better fresh from the oven.”
“That’s what your mother said. Luckily for me, I had a few at the store that were still piping hot.”
She grumbles a few unintelligible words and says more clearly, “You’re losing pão de queijo points here.”
“Want another one?”
She nods. “One more.”
I feed her another, then pop one in my own mouth, relaxing into the seat in preparation for the long drive. When she gets on Rock Creek Parkway, I twist in my seat to face her. “Sure you don’t want me to drive a leg of the trip?”
“I like driving. It’s actually a stress reliever for me, so if it makes no difference to you, I’d prefer to stay at the helm the entire way.”
I shrug. “Makes no difference to me so have at it. What about music?”
She bares her teeth as though she’s anticipating a negative reaction from me in response to whatever she’s about to say. “I rarely listen to music in the car. That stress relief I mentioned? It comes from sitting in the driver’s seat, watching the road, and working through my thoughts. But I’m not a car hog, either. If you want to listen to music, be my guest.”
“No, no. I was just wondering. I’m comfortable with silence.”
She nods. “Great.”
We’ve finally reached a point when there’s no animosity between us. It’s a welcome change, and I figure now’s an ideal time to ask her about her former job. “So Andrew mentioned that you were a paralegal before you became a wedding planner. Why’d you decide to make the switch?”
In the span of seconds, her expression hardens like quick-setting concrete. If she tried to crack a smile in her current state, her face would probably splinter into a thousand pieces. “Hmm. You and Andrew have been talking about me?”
Whoa. Okay, I didn’t think I was going to need those pão de queijo points so soon. And sure, out of context, I can see why she wouldn’t appreciate that revelation, but I can easily explain this away. “Not really, no. He made an offhand comment about wedding planners and their organizational skills and suggested that some of your skills come from your experience as a paralegal. He said I should ask you about it.”
Staring straight ahead, she grinds her teeth a bit, then she sighs. “I didn’t choose to make the switch from paralegal to wedding planner.”
“You didn’t?”
She shakes her head. “No, Max. I was fired.”
Dammit. We were doing so well. Now I’ve raised a topic she obviously doesn’t want to discuss. I squeeze my eyes shut, mentally cursing my brother for suggesting that I ask her about her old job. Even when Andrew’s not around he’s wreaking havoc in my life.
Chapter Seventeen
Lina
I’m not mad at Max for posing an innocent question at Andrew’s suggestion; I’m annoyed that Andrew fiendishly encouraged his brother to ask it in the first place. Andrew doesn’t understand how that experience impacted my life—because I never explained it to him—but he knows I don’t like to talk about it. No purpose could possibly be served by rehashing that drama. Andrew’s goal was to undermine Max, plain and simple.
I sneak a glance at Max, my heart twisting at his stricken expression. I’m feeling surprisingly protective of my travel companion, and I never imagined I would. “It’s old news, okay? But yes, wedding planning is my do-over.”
He clears his face of any evidence of his agitation. “Do-better, you mean.”
“What?” I ask, frowning.
“You told me there’s no such thing as a do-over, remember? So this is your do-better. I think the term fits perfectly. And I’m . . . I’m sorry if my question brought up bad memories.”
I shrug off his apology. “Don’t sweat it, Max. It’s not a big deal.”
He fidgets in his seat, then reaches for his travel mug, changing his mind mid-stretch. “How can it not be a big deal? It played a part in the person you are today. That matters.” He shakes his head as he taps on the passenger window.
I understand why he’s frustrated with his brother, but I also get the sense he’s frustrated that he doesn’t know this part of my background. It’s puzzling—and a weightier subject than I want to tackle during a quick excursion to Virginia farm country. Unable to bear the silence any longer, I reach out to turn on the radio. Before my finger hits the dial, though, Max swings around, startling me.
He scrapes a hand through his hair and clears his throat. “I’m going to be honest here and tell you I fucking hate that Andrew knows your secrets. He doesn’t deserve to.”
Okay, then. I guess we’re talking about this whether I want to or not. “So, what? You think you do?”
“I’d take better care of them,” he says softly.
I believe him—and that scares me. Max would never use my past in an immature attempt to outwit his brother. But as much as I’d like to take his words at face value, I can’t ignore their problematic nature. Because even though Max can’t see it, I can: Neither he nor his brother knows how to exist without the other as a benchmark. Despite their efforts to resist their bond, it’s there nonetheless—the good, the bad, and the annoying.
“No one gets anywhere with me by diminishing someone else. You want my secrets? Earn them.” I give him a sideways glance to emphasize my meaning. “All on your own.”