The self-loathing in his words is familiar on a level that I have to pretend I don’t relate to. The rasp that’s usually not apparent in his smooth-as-chocolate voice pulls on my heartstrings. Lord knows I’ve made many a rash decision in my day.
I don’t say anything, but I do turn my attention to him.
He drops his gaze to the floor, like he’s undeserving of eye contact. “It’s not an excuse. I fucked up and my behavior was unacceptable.”
“What happened?” I ask before I can stop myself. Something really bad must’ve happened to cause a reaction like that in a person like Maxwell.
He just shakes his head and I shove the hurt that he won’t confide in me back down. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been the most understanding person in the world, I can’t necessarily blame him for not wanting to share his secrets with me.
“I don’t know if you knew this, but I’m just not a talkative person,” he says, and I have to fight back my sarcastic retort. “Something about you though, it just makes it easy for me to talk to you. You’re smart and funny and just a really good time to be around. That party was a nightmare for me, but I was excited to see you again. Even though it meant TK riding me again about you. And then that phone call . . . it was a surprise.” He lifts his chin and squares his shoulders, looking me in the eyes. “I just need you to know that will never happen again. I don’t want you afraid of me.”
All of my air leaves me in a whoosh.
Nobody has ever looked at me like that before. Nobody has ever spoken to me like that either. It’s like his entire being depends on my believing him. Like he needs my trust more than he needs his next breath.
I nod my head, my anger and grudge dissipating in record time. “I believe you.”
His eyes fall shut as he draws in a breath so deep, it’s a miracle there’s any air left for the rest of us. But when he opens his eyes, the floor falls from beneath me. Because, hand to god, I’ve never seen anything like it. His full lips tip up at the corners, his smile mischievous and fucking lush, his eyes dancing with a glimmer that I’ve never seen before. In five seconds, it’s like he became a new person.
“Your beer.” Mike interrupts the moment, forcing my eyes away from Maxwell and to his stupid glasses that I’d bet my life are not prescription. “A blond ale, barley wine, milk stout, blackberry saison, and our session porter.” His hand hovers over each beer as he tells us the names, and I see a decent bartender for the first time. “Let me know if you have any questions or need anything,” he says, meeting my eyes and not Maxwell’s.
“Thanks, Jake.” I use his real name this time. I guess Maxwell’s apology turned me into a big old softy.
Jake’s chin jerks and a blush rises from beneath his beard as a genuine smile appears. He turns on a skip and hurries away, probably afraid my nice mood is fleeting.
Maxwell’s deep chuckle pulls my attention, his white teeth on full display against his dark skin. “Do you instill fear into the hearts of all the local breweries you try out?”
“Only the ones who staff Misogynistic Mikes behind the bar.” I lift the barley wine to my lips because . . . well . . . it’s barley wine, and why wouldn’t I?
“Misogynistic Mike?” he repeats before his eyes crinkle at the corners, his smile widens, and he throws his head back laughing.
This time, I don’t ignore the warmth that floods my system as I take pleasure in knowing that I gave him that laughter.
And while I will never become a Lady Mustang, having a friend like Maxwell could never be a bad thing.
Six
“You seriously cannot still be mad at us,” Charli shouts over the rumble of the packed bar.
The Mustangs game is playing on all of the TVs. Women around the bar are either sports fanatics who are relieved to find a place to watch football without the mansplaining or just here to get a sneak peek of the players’ better halves. A few have no idea what’s going on and just came for a cocktail.
“Seems like you may have underestimated me.” I shove a glass of the barley wine into her hands.
I’m not actually mad. In what I’d consider one of the biggest surprises of the year, I was able to get over my grudge-holding abilities and had the best time with Maxwell. We’d never actually spent time alone together, but it was everything I always imagined . . . not that I imagined it often or anything . . .
At Barley Remix, he just reinforced that I was right with my initial assumptions about him. On top of being the most attractive guy I’ve ever seen in real life, he’s hysterical and so freaking smart I developed a complex. I learned more about him in two—fine, four, whatever—hours than I had in the time I’ve known him.
I learned that he went to Princeton and majored in mechanical and aerospace engineering. He also has his own foundation where he works with inner-city children and helps foster a love of STEM and sends a group of kids on a fully paid trip to space camp. He got all shy telling me, but eventually I was able to pry it out of him that when he retires, he wants to go back to school. He wants to work for NASA one day.
A professional football player and literal rocket scientist.
I called him a slacker.
He said he was trying to match my passion one day.
Now I know he’s a shit liar.
And I haven’t shared a morsel of it with my girls. I keep telling myself it’s because I’m holding my pretend grudge. But really, I feel special knowing this about him. I mean, yes, you could probably find all of this in a simple Google search, but still. Maxwell opened up and shared with me . . . and after being around Maxwell, I know that anything from him is a big deal.
So I’ve held it close and ignored what that might say about me.
“Bitch. Stop. Max came over to give Jagger a signed glove for show-and-tell yesterday before he went to the facility. I asked him how beers with you was, and you know his fine chocolate self was quiet and didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. As soon as I said your name, I swear his ass blushed and those perfect teeth went on full display before he shook his head and walked away.” Vonnie arches an eyebrow at me, sipping her signature French martini with a splash of champagne. “That smile coming from that man? It said it all.”
“I have nothing to do with these crazy-ass WAGS.” Sadie, Poppy’s best friend and club waitress extraordinaire, waves a rhinestone-covered nail at me and purses her glitter-covered lips my way. “I want to know everything. The few times Max came to the club, I swear he inspected his shoes the entire time. But that shy man shit does not trick me. I bet he’s freaky as fuck.”
The thought of what Maxwell is like in bed causes me to miss the shot glass I’m aiming the vodka in.