“Brynn!” someone from somewhere shouts, causing me to bump into the brick wall I’m damn near hugging.
I turn around, ignoring the stinging radiating up my arm from the brick-inflicted scratches, to see who called me.
It doesn’t take me long. Even though the sidewalks are crowded, it’s almost as if Maxwell wanders the streets with an angel hovering above him, shining perfect lighting onto his perfect face. I haven’t talked to him since he dropped me off at HERS on Tuesday, and it’s like he somehow managed to get better looking in these last few days.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, only realizing how rude that sounded after the words floated into the air. “I mean, hey, how are you? And also, what are you doing here?”
TK and Poppy are the only people who live around here, and they take Ace out for Friday fun every week. So there’s really no reason for Maxwell to be out and about this way.
“I went into HERS and Paisley told me I just missed you, but that you’d probably be close by.” He fails to explain why he’s here. “You’re usually there so late.”
“Oh yeah.” My forehead scrunches in unattractive confusion. “I’m going to my dad’s for dinner tonight. He lured me over with the promise of carbs on carbs on carbs.”
Under the lighting of heaven, I watch as his smile falls half a centimeter.
“That sounds fun.” The excitement in his voice sounds forced. “I was just seeing if you wanted to watch some more Parks and Rec when you got off. Sorry, I should’ve called first.”
It takes a few seconds for my brain to recognize what’s happening here, but when it does, a weird warmth filters through my veins and causes the butterflies in my stomach to flutter. Maxwell drove clear across town, during rush hour—which has gotten indescribably unbearable over the past few years with the influx of Denver transplants—to see if I, Brynn Sterling, wanted to watch an old sitcom with him.
“You want to come to dinner?” I ignore the warning sirens blaring in my head.
“I couldn’t impose on your night with your dad, we can do it another night that works for you.” He aims a weak smile—that, even weak, causes my knees to tremble—at me and pulls his keys from his back pocket.
“No!” I snatch his keys from his hand. Heat floods my face, but I manage to hold eye contact even through my cringing. “Seriously, come. My dad loves company and he makes enough spaghetti to feed an army. Trust me, TK randomly shows up to talk about construction or whatever other crazy scheme he’s coming up with, and my dad can feed him and still have leftovers waiting for me.”
“Are you sure?” His almond eyes crinkle at the corners, but because he’s a flawless demigod, of course there are no lines.
“Positive.” I nod, tucking his keys into my purse so he has no choice but to listen. “Then before the food coma sets in, we can catch up with Leslie.”
“Then you lead the way.”
* * *
—
“WOW.” MAXWELL PLACES his cloth napkin on the table next to his empty plate. “That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Pride pools my stomach like I did anything other than bring the perfect wine to accompany the meal.
“Thank you,” my dad says. “It’s Brynn’s favorite, and I perfected this by the time she was twelve.”
My dad’s seafood spaghetti isn’t anything you’ll find in a restaurant. He doesn’t just stop with mussels and shrimp, and even though I’ve tried to re-create the sauce damn near a hundred times since I moved out, I still cannot figure it out. And he refuses to tell me. He told me he typed it up and put it in his will, but that is the only time I can have it, otherwise he won’t be able to use it to get me over to his house.
It’s nice of him.
I’m over here so much, I’m surprised he didn’t give me the recipe two years ago and tell me to leave him alone.
“Were you a chef?” Maxwell asks.
My dad is a HERS regular. He helps out when needed and will drop in occasionally to test the new beers I have on tap or just to chat it up with whoever is around. Because of this, my friends oftentimes tell me things about my dad that not even I know, and I just assumed Maxwell was among them.
“No, I was an architect. My wife couldn’t cook and I enjoyed it, so it became a hobby of mine.” My dad takes a deep swig of wine, his shoulders visibly tensing as he mentions my mom.
Thankfully, Maxwell is as observant as he is smart and talented, so he notices the sudden change in my dad’s disposition as well.
“I’m not a great cook,” he admits. “Nancy, the chef at the Mustangs facility, always puts together a to-go box for me at the end of the day so I can have dinner that’s not from a drive-thru window or the freezer section of the grocery store.”
“So there is something you can’t do.” I smirk. “I was beginning to think you were a bot or something.”
“Good to know you thought I was perfect.” He brings his glass to his lips, winking at me before he takes a sip.
My eyes bug out of my head and my cheeks flame . . . again. Never in my life have I blushed more than I have when Maxwell is nearby.
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Maxwell says. “Reading between the lines is one of my other talents.”
My dad clears his throat, dropping his fork onto his plate with a loud clatter. “Well then”—he pushes his chair out from the table—“I think I’m going to call it a night. Poppy’s coming over in the morning to go over the new addition again, and I don’t want to be too tired. The older I get, the more important eight solid hours of sleep has become.”
When my dad is put in an awkward situation of any kind, he rambles the most unnecessary details.
Maxwell stands and rounds the table, extending a hand to my dad. “It was very nice to meet you, sir.”
Dammit.
He’s all chivalrous and shit.
“It was nice to meet you too.” Color tints my dad’s white-stubble-covered cheeks. “Hopefully I’ll see you around soon.”
Even my dad looks like he’s at risk of developing a crush.
Like daughter, like father I guess.
“Most definitely.” Maxwell glances over my dad’s shoulder and makes quick eye contact with me.
Or does he?
Between the wine, food, and his eyes, I might be hallucinating.
“You staying the night, Brynn?” my dad turns and asks.