If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(8)

“But I made a cake, and earned another black mark in my mom’s scorebook for bailing on her and Amanda today so we could celebrate with him.”

Max shrugged. “Sorry, babe.”

That endearment used to make my heart sing and my panties wet. Now the only thing my heart wanted to sing when it came to Max was the blues. As for the panties? Dry as Nevada.

“At least tell me why you argued. What was so bad that we can’t go wish him a happy birthday?”

He closed his eyes like he needed the patience required to deal with one of my sister’s students who’d peed his pants. “Can’t we chill and watch the movie, Erin? For chrissakes, it’s my dad, not yours. If I don’t want to go, why do you?”

I blinked, wise to the deflection. Whatever Charlie had said had probably echoed my sentiments. “I’m not leaving this room until you fess up.”

“You’re being a pill. And don’t act like you weren’t happy for an excuse to skip out on Amanda’s shopping spree.” He glowered.

I couldn’t deny that last part. I didn’t enjoy shopping much even when I had money, and most time spent with the dynamic duo otherwise known as Mom and Sis usually makes me feel a little worse about myself—which fact perplexes me because I fundamentally disagree with most of their philosophies. Still, all that well-intentioned advice can make me feel less-than.

“Turn down that movie. You could recite it by heart, so you won’t miss anything.” I marched across the room and sat on the coffee table.

“He got on my case about getting a ‘real’ job, okay?” Max blushed.

A touchy subject. Max had dabbled in poetry and short stories but never made much money. To supplement that dream, he’d taken odd jobs at the local hardware store or coffee shops, but eventually he’d argue with his boss and get fired. Resilience wasn’t exactly his strong suit, but he’d had such cool goals—or had pretended to until he had a roof over his head at little to no cost to him. Two years ago his good looks, affection, and romantic dreams had drawn me in. I was still grateful for all his tenderness in the wake of my dad’s death. But, Jesus, his laziness had been on my nerves for at least two months.

“Well, you know I’m not the corporate type, but there is something to be said for going out every day and doing something to get paid.”

“Teaching yoga classes isn’t exactly backbreaking work, Erin.”

Said the man who’d never taken one of my classes. “I also have my Etsy business.”

He rolled his eyes before his gaze landed on the milk crates filled with glass jars, various bottles of coconut and grapeseed oils, scented essential oils, bags of sugar, and soap molds. “Selling soaps and scrubs isn’t making you millions, either.”

“It makes more than you bring in.” I could take a lot of shit from him, but not a slam to Shakti Suds. I loved working with essential oils, packaging the little jars and ribbons, writing notes to customers, which I wouldn’t have discovered if I hadn’t been sinking into an abyss of grief.

It’d been Max, actually, who’d suggested aromatherapy to help me climb out of that hole. I’d then googled essential oil mixtures that could help with the various stages of grief. Instead of using the diffuser Max had borrowed from a friend, I had taught myself to make soaps and other products to help soothe me while I cried alone in the bathtub.

Whenever I’d given extra product to friends, they’d raved. I figured that since my dad was good at sales and I’m so much like him, maybe I could start a business selling my stuff. In less than a year, I’d built a small but loyal repeat clientele. Pretty good considering I’d been in mourning nearly that whole time.

Mo ran to the door right before someone knocked, barking his head off as if Jason from Friday the 13th were on the other side.

“Mo!” I yelled, looking over my shoulder at Max. “Who’s this?”

“Uber Eats.”

“What the hell?” I hissed. Now it was my turn to heave a big sigh. With a fake smile on my face, I picked Mo up to keep him from jumping all over the delivery person, and answered the door. A young guy handed me a brown bag from Markham’s Deli. “Thank you.”

I closed the door, set Mo back on the floor, and then peered into the bag. If I had to bet, it contained two bacon, egg, and cheese bagels. With delivery and tip, it probably cost twenty bucks or more. “Who’s paying for this, Max?”

“You’re the only one with an account.” He winked and made grabby hands for the bag.

“Because I’m the only one with a credit card.” I flung the bag right at his chest.

“Hey!” He scowled, then ripped open the bag on the coffee table to turn it into a makeshift plate.

“You know what?” I put my hands on my hips. “It’s a good thing I’m leaving tomorrow for the retreat.”

With a full mouth, he asked, “What’s that mean?”

In the beginning I’d actually thought that beard was cute, but now it bothered me as much as everything else about him, especially when food got caught in it.

“You’re on thin ice, that’s what it means. When I asked you to move in last year, I didn’t sign up to be your mom.”

He got that twinkle in his eye that usually weakened me. In a sultry voice, he said, “Come on, babe. I hardly treat you like my mom.”