“There is a really good Mexican place not far from here,” I tell the room, and Myla’s eyes light up.
“Do they have margaritas?” Melanie asks.
“They have the best margaritas.” I smile at her.
“I could use a margarita,” Melanie says, and Maxim groans, probably remembering our last dinner where tequila was involved, and Kai just shakes his head.
_______________
AN HOUR AND a half later, with my belly full of delicious food and my body warm from the margarita I drank with dinner, I sink into Maxim’s side. It’s been a good night catching up with his parents and sister, and as the air cools, the dimming light of the sun casts a warm glow across the table and our waiter gets closer carrying a slice of cake with a candle sticking out of it, I know it’s about to get better.
“You didn’t,” I hear Maxim grumble when the waitstaff around the room begins to sing for him at the top of their lungs, with a cute waitress coming over to place an oversized sombrero on his head.
“This is epic.” Melanie laughs, and I catch her pulling out her phone, I’m sure to take some photos that will be used as blackmail later. I turn to face Maxim and smile at the look on his face, then take the piece of cake the waiter starts to set on the table. While I hold the plate, the candle is lit, then I hold it in front of Maxim and wait for him to blow it out.
Not surprising, it takes him a minute to give in, but when he does, he holds my gaze, letting me know with one look that I’m in so much trouble. I also couldn’t care less, because the happiness I see in his eyes is so totally worth whatever punishment he’ll come up with later.
Chapter 18
April
“HEY, BABE. MOM sent a text. She says you haven’t responded to her message, and she wants to know if you still like the leather couch or if you want to go with something else for in front of the fireplace in the living room,” Maxim calls from the bedroom.
I look at my reflection in the mirror and watch my nose scrunch before I duck my head to finish brushing my teeth without responding. Once I spit, rinse, and wipe my face on the towel hanging next to the sink, I walk to the doorway of my bathroom and look at my bed. My bed where Maxim is sitting up with his laptop in front of him, giving me the smallest glimpse of his defined chest. A sight I’ve gotten really used to seeing most evenings when the day comes to an end and we’re both ready to call it a night.
“I love your mom,” I start, and his eyes lift from his computer to meet mine. “Really love her, like a lot.” He raises a brow as I walk across the room to the bed. “But I think that if I want to keep loving her, I’m going to have to throw in the towel, and you’re going to have to take over the whole shopping for your house thing.”
“Babe.” His lips twitch, and I shake my head as I climb onto the bed.
“I’m being serious. It’s all too much. You closed on your house over two weeks ago, and you haven’t been able to move in, because she keeps changing her mind about the stuff she’s picked out, and the furniture store has had to cancel and reorder things about a dozen times. And since you’re not getting the stuff from one of the big box companies and almost everything is made to order, it’s pushing the delivery date back by weeks each and every time.”
I fall to my back and rub my face. “Not to mention that she decided the entire place needed to be repainted, which it really didn’t. So now you couldn’t even move furniture in even if you had it, unless you wanted it possibly ruined. And since your couch—in whatever color your mom ends up deciding on, because she obviously doesn’t like the one I picked—costs as much as my car, that would just be stupid,” I groan, then let him tug my hands away from my face.
“Are you done?” he asks, looming over me.
“Are you going to take over so I continue liking your mom?”
“Yes,” he says, and I blink at him.
“Really?”
“No, but I will talk to her.”
“Are you crazy?” I sit up quickly and spin around to face him, smacking my palms against his chest. “You can’t call your mom and say anything about this, unless you’re going to tell her that you’ve decided you want to be more hands on because it’s your house and you think you should be making the decisions, not me.”
“I’m not saying that.” He takes my wrist and pulls so that I’m lying flush against him. “I will tell her that you and I are going to be making the decisions going forward, because it’s going to be our house.”
“Oh my God, you want your mom to hate me,” I breathe, and he grins like he thinks I’m being funny, but I’m not. Over the last few weeks, I’ve learned that Myla really likes decorating and that when she has a certain vision in mind, there is no swaying her. And don’t get me wrong, she has great taste, but where she likes things more modern with sharp angles and bold design pieces, I like a more rustic contemporary feel that is warm and cozy.
And with the two of us having different tastes, and me not wanting to upset her for obvious reasons—the main one being she is his mother—I’ve pretty much let her take over the whole thing and pretended like I love it all. And yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have done that, but she’s sounded so excited every time she’s called after sending me a photo of something or a link to a website, so I didn’t want to say “You know, I don’t really like what you’ve picked out.”
“My mom could never hate you.”
“I don’t think you know your mom. She takes decorating very seriously,” I tell him, then gasp when he rolls me to my back and drags my hands up over my head. “What are you doing?”
“What are you wearing?” His eyes drop to my chest, and I look down, trying to remember what I put on for bed and see the forest-green silk nightie with black lace detail that I purchased a few days ago for half off at one of my favorite boutiques.
“Don’t try to distract me when we’re having a conversation,” I snap, then attempt to get him to let my wrist go, but it’s almost impossible, because he is so much stronger than me.
“We’re still having a conversation.” He ducks his head, and my hips come up off the bed when he covers the silk with his warm mouth right over my nipple.
“This isn’t fair.” I squirm against him, and he lifts his head just enough for me to catch his smile.
“Do you like the leather couch?” He moves his mouth to my other breast, and I squeeze my eyes closed while my nails dig into my palms. “Do you?”
“Wh-what?” I pant while he adjusts his hold so that he has one hand free, then that hand slides up the top of my thigh just under the edge of my nightie.
“The leather couch you chose that Mom asked about tonight, do you like it?”
“Yes,” I hiss, trying in vain to get my hands free while one of his fingers slides up, then down the center of my panties.
“I like your bed. Do you like your bed?”
“My bed?” I shake my head from side to side when his fingers skim over me once more, making it impossible to focus on anything but what he’s doing.
“We’ll move your bedroom furniture to the new house; that way we don’t have to wait for something to be ordered or delay moving in after they finish painting. We’ll keep the leather couch and anything else you like, and the rest we’ll sort out.”