Max had gone to bed in lots of different places. Suites in the world’s most exclusive hotels. Yachts—though not the infamous one. Even, once, a hammock under the stars on Ibiza. But never had he felt the bone-deep contentment this place inspired. The windows were open, and the steady chanting of crickets outside was melding with the reassuring tick-tocking of a grandfather clock in the otherwise silent house. His body was pleasantly spent from the swimming and the ridiculous Dirty Dancing lifts, and the sheets were crisp and cool in the warm night. Dani was tucked into a guest bedroom down the hall that she’d tried and failed to make him take. Knowing she was near was strangely comforting.
He didn’t want to sleep now, as tired as he was. He wanted to lie here all night, letting himself be eased, allowing the pure pleasure of being here diffuse through his veins.
Chapter Ten
Max was adorable when he was asleep. He looked younger when his expressive face was at rest, when he was taking a break from dipping into his endless arsenal of wit. He looked innocent, almost, which Dani knew, objectively, was the last word anyone could use to describe Maximillian von Hansburg, the (Not So) Depraved Duke.
She hated to wake him . . . but not really. “Max,” she whispered, turning on her phone flashlight but taking care not to shine it in his face. She got her face right close to his. “Max.”
His eyes opened, and he let loose a slow, lethal smile. She’d been prepared for him to be confused about where he was waking up, or to be annoyed that it was so early, or to be startled such that he made a ruckus and ruined their escape. But he just looked at her like it was normal to wake up with her face a few inches from his. Like he was happy about it.
She placed a finger to her lips and used her other hand to beckon him. He sat up and pulled on his T-shirt—he had been sleeping shirtless. Max was not a big, beefy guy, but he was well proportioned, his long, lean muscles complementing his smooth persona. He looked like he spent a lot of time swimming in his stupid freezing Alpine lake. She felt something stirring in her. Why couldn’t she feel like this with one of her Tinder dudes? Why couldn’t she summon a simple, uncomplicated lust that was strong enough to overcome her fears with someone like HarlemHipster?
She grabbed her mom’s keys and, once they were safely out in the dark driveway, whispered, “Good morning.”
“Are we sneaking out like teenagers so we don’t wake your parents?”
“We’re sneaking out like teenagers so we don’t wake my dog.” She got in the car and turned to him as he settled himself into the passenger seat. The dim overhead light bathed his already golden features in a warm glow. His hair was disheveled and somehow all the more appealing for it. He looked ridiculous in his shoes, which she would call “fancy European man-sandals” paired with her father’s sweatpants. “Are you up for a minor adventure?”
“Always,” he said, vehemently and immediately. His voice was low and sleep-scratchy.
“Don’t get too excited. ‘Adventure’ might actually be overstating it. First stop is McDonald’s.”
“You know, I’ve never had McDonald’s.”
“Really? Well, I was going to feel bad about feeding you McDonald’s, but we’re in a hurry and it’s the only place around here that’s open this early. But now I feel it’s my duty to take you down a few pegs and feed you the fast food of the masses.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were eating McMuffins on a beach on the eastern edge of a spit of land that extended out into Long Island Sound, which her dad had said would give them a prime view of the sunrise. It was that time just before dawn when the sun was not yet up, but the sky had lightened enough to look more blue than black, like a harbinger of good things to come.
“Oh my god,” Max said after his first bite of McMuffin. “Where has this been all my life?”
“Yeah, I know New Yorkers are supposed to be all about bodega egg-and-cheese sandwiches, but I’ve always found McMuffins to be a guilty pleasure.”
“Whoever came up with the notion that one should feel guilty about things that bring one pleasure should be shot.”
She smiled. That was a very Max-like way of looking at the world.
“Your family is great,” he said.
“They really are.”
“You look so happy when you talk about them.”
“I’m . . . at home with them.”
“What does that mean? Isn’t everyone at home with their family?” He made a face. “Everyone who isn’t me?”
She wondered how much to say but decided to just go for it. They’d had such a great couple of days. It was starting to feel like Max really knew her. Or, in the few ways he didn’t, like he wanted to.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be mixed-race. Which isn’t a criticism. You can’t know.”
He nodded. “You talked about feeling like you’re the diversity hire at work.”
Yes. Max listened. He just didn’t get the totality of it. “Right. At work, I’m either the ‘diversity hire’ or else I’m ‘too white.’ Like, people look at my CV and then at my skin and they think, hmm, is she actually Mexican? That’s true in the wider world, too. We spend the holidays with my dad’s parents in Mexico every few years, and I feel like I’m too white there. It’s hard to explain. I feel like I’m always navigating these two worlds but always falling short in each of them. But at home, with my family, it’s not a thing. I’m just who I am.”
He looked at her for a long time, like he was really seeing her, and just when she was about to outright ask him to change the subject, he said, “When are you back in your apartment?”
“Tomorrow. The mime has an eleven o’clock check-out deadline.”
“So you’re going in to the party, coming back here tonight, then back to your place tomorrow?”
“Yep.”
“Stay with me at the hotel after the party. That will save you the back-and-forth. We can get a rollaway.”
“Yeah, but Max Minimus. I’d still have to come back here for him.”
“He can come. We’ll drop him off before the party.”
“You can’t bring a dog into the Four Seasons!”
“You can if you’re the Baron of Laudon.”
“Of course you can.” Max was too much sometimes.
And yet, was that true? She called him that, in her mind, but was it possible that he wasn’t too much?
“Come on,” he pressed. “We’ll vanquish Vince, and then we’ll go back to the hotel and drink champagne in the sauna.” He looked down at his empty McMuffin wrapper. “And maybe get some more of these awful beautiful things. Then we can watch ghastly American TV—no offense—in our pajamas.”
Dani wanted to do that, more than anything. “When was the last time you took a woman back to your hotel for a chaste sleepover?”
He pretended to think about it. “There’s a first time for everything?”
She laughed. “Okay. Sounds like fun.” She sighed happily and ate her greasy breakfast as they watched the sunrise. It was all immensely pleasurable, and she didn’t feel guilty about it at all.