any underwear?
Damn.
“I borrowed a T-shirt. Hope that was okay?”
He shifted his attention back to the sheet and concentrated on making the crispest hospital corners in the history of mankind.
“Sure.”
“I’ve always wanted a loft,” she said, wandering to the rail to look down over the rest of the apartment.
If he looked up, he knew he’d have a great view of her ass and the backs of her slim thighs. He kept his gaze fixed where it was.
Eight years had passed. How could he still want her so badly?
He glanced toward the stairs. It was one thing to want to comfort her, but it was another thing entirely to desire her. He’d been down that road before and he knew it went nowhere.
He unfolded the top sheet and flicked it hard to send it ballooning out over the bed.
You don’t love her anymore. You stopped loving her years ago.
The thought sounded clear as a bell in his mind. Some of the tension left his shoulders. He was getting wound up about nothing. It was true—he’d gotten over Maddy long ago. Stopped thinking about her, fantasizing, wondering. It had literally been years since he’d been a slave to his feelings for her.
Which was reassuring, but didn’t quite explain the hard-on crowding his jeans.
She’s a woman. A gorgeous, almost-naked woman. And you spent the better part of three years fantasizing about her. That kind of sexual attraction doesn’t just die. But it doesn’t mean anything except that you’re horny, and she’s hot.
He looked at Maddy.
She was a beautiful, sexy woman. That was undeniable. Probably any guy would feel something down south at the sight of her in his big T-shirt and precious little else.
Okay. Good. He’d rationalized his hard-on to death. Now he had to deal with the minor problem of their sleeping arrangements. The last thing he wanted was for Maddy to realize he was hot for her. She’d come to him seeking solace, not sex.
“You know, I think you’d be much more comfortable if I slept on the couch,” he suggested casually. “I tend to toss and turn a lot. And you need to get over your jet lag.”
She turned from studying his apartment, a frown on her face.
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed, Max. If you’re worried about it, I’ll sleep on the couch,” she said.
“I’m not worried. I was just thinking of you.”
A little too much, as it turns out.
“Well, if I get to choose, I’d rather sleep with you. I don’t really want to be alone right now, you know?”
The lost look in her eyes sealed it for him.
“Fine. I’ll just go brush my teeth,” he said.
And try to find something to sleep in. Preferably something armor-plated.
By the time he’d brushed his teeth, discovered he had a choice of workout pants or boxer-briefs and opted—reluctantly—for the boxer-briefs since he could only imagine Maddy’s reaction if he rolled into bed wearing full sweats, ten minutes had passed. When he climbed to the sleeping platform, Maddy was curled up on one side of the bed, her eyes closed and her head pillowed on one hand.
She stirred as the mattress dipped under his weight.
“I thought you were never coming to bed.”
“Had to put the dog out and check on the kids,” he said.
She smiled faintly, her big eyes drowsy. Up close, he could see how fine and clear her skin was, as well as note the few endearing freckles that peppered her nose. She’d always hated them, calling them her bane and covering them every chance she got.
He smiled.
“What?” she asked.
“I’d forgotten about your bane.”
She pulled a face.
“Trust you to notice them.”
“They’re cute.”
“On a ten-year-old. Not on a prima ballerina. I bet Anna Pavlova didn’t have freckles.”
He saw the exact moment that she remembered, again, that she was no longer a prima ballerina. The light in her eyes dimmed and her full lips pressed together as though she was trying to contain something.
“Come here.”
He held out an arm and she shifted across the mattress until she was lying against his side, his arm around her shoulders, her head on his chest.
If he kept concentrating on the lost, bewildered look in her eyes, he figured he had a fair to middling chance of pulling this off without embarrassing either of them. She needed him. That was enough to push all other thoughts into the background.
“It’s going to be all right, Maddy,” he said. “You’ll see.”
“I should have been ready for this. All ballet dancers have to retire, I know that.” Her words were a whisper. “Is it so wrong and greedy to want a little more? Another year? Two?”
Max tightened his embrace. He could feel how tense she was, could feel the grief and confusion in her.
“It’ll be all right,” he repeated, smoothing a circle on her back with the palm of his hand.
He felt the tension leave her body after a few minutes as the wine and jet lag and emotion caught up with her. He lay staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathing.
Knowing Maddy, she would probably be off home again tomorrow, her mad, impulsive trip having served the purpose of helping her express her grief and confusion. She had friends in Australia, a home. A life. She’d want to go back to the familiar as she tried to work out what happened next in the Maddy Green story.
She shifted in her sleep. As her perfume washed over him, a memory hit him. When they’d lived together, she’d left a scarf in his car after they’d gone to the movies one night. Rather than give it back to her, he’d hung on to it because it smelled of her perfume. A secret memento of Maddy.
Talk about besotted. He’d been so far gone it was a wonder the words hadn’t appeared over his head and followed him around: I am in love with Maddy Green.
Another memory: the night he’d decided to tell Maddy how he felt. It had taken months to screw up his courage enough to risk their friendship. He’d arranged candles and red roses and bought a bottle of French champagne. The kitchen of their crappy rental had looked like a bordello by the time he’d finished decking it out—a kid’s
