Follow Me(67)

“What? Why not?”

“You’d have to hear the recording to understand, but . . . two people I trust thought it might just be me. So, I mean, if both of these people think it’s me, what are the police going to think?”

“But you don’t think it’s you,” he said slowly. “I can tell by the look on your face.”

I forced a shrug. “It’s hard to tell.”

“Listen,” he said, taking my hand across the table. “If you think someone was in your apartment, I believe you. And I know I’m just a guy you barely know, but if you don’t want to stay with Cat, you’re more than welcome to stay with me.”

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach when Max’s hand closed over mine, and I involuntarily licked my lips. I met his eyes, looking at me seriously from underneath bovine lashes, and lost interest in discussing what had happened in my bedroom all those weeks ago. I was suddenly much more interested in what might be happening in Max’s bedroom that night.

I cracked a grin and teased, “Max Metcalf, are you trying to get me into bed?”

His cheeks flushed scarlet. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, you can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. I just—”

“Shut up,” I said gently. “Why don’t we get the check?”

? ? ?

“THIS IS INCREDIBLE,” I said, heading directly for Max’s wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. My nose bumped the glass as I admired the vantage point from his seventh-floor unit. I stepped backward as a slight wave of vertigo swept over me, and turned to Max. “That mansion you took me to had an incredible view, but this one is an extremely close second. I mean, you can see the Washington Monument!”

“A sliver of it,” he amended. “But it is a nice view.”

“That’s the understatement of the year. I would kill for these windows.” I paused to flash him a devilish grin. “I might kill you for them.”

“Is that my cue to hide the knives?”

“Depends on whether you’re feeling lucky.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said. “Can I get you anything? Wine? Water? Another Negroni?”

“Oh, man, a Negroni sounds amazing, thanks.”

“I can’t promise it’ll be as good as the one at dinner,” he said, pulling a silver cocktail shaker down from his open kitchen shelving. “In fact, I can guarantee it won’t be.”

“As long as it has alcohol.”

“I can handle that.” he said with a grin. “Hey, do you want to put on some music? I’ve got Apple Music hooked up through the TV, or, if you’re feeling old-school, you can put on a record.”

He pointed to the wall behind me, and I turned, squealing in delight as I discovered a bookcase stuffed with records. “Look at your vinyl!”

He blushed. “I know you’re so digital that you probably think records are archaic, but I’ve got a real soft spot for them. They force you to listen to the songs in the order the artist intended. No skipping around, no playing just the singles. You get to hear the entire album in context.”

“No, I totally agree! I love listening to songs on demand and making playlists just as much as the next person—probably more, actually—but I’ve always said you don’t really understand an album until you’ve listened to it in full.” I turned back to his record collection and began running my fingers along the spines, noting the presence of old albums from the likes of the Beatles, the Who, Talking Heads, as well as more contemporary bands like the Arctic Monkeys, the White Stripes, and the Strokes. I stopped suddenly as my finger lit upon Ted and the Honey’s first album, No Lessons Learned, which was three albums before they finally hit mainstream success.

“Get out! You’re a Ted and the Honey fan?”

“That band are great,” he said defensively. “If you’ve never—”

“No, no!” I interrupted him. “I love Ted and the Honey. I hate to sound like one of those assholes, but I saw them play in New York way before they were cool.”

“Well, I hate to tell you, but that does make you sound like one of those assholes,” he teased.

“What can I say? My true colors had to emerge sometime.”

“I like your true colors,” Max said quietly as he crossed the room and handed me the brilliant orange drink.

Our fingers brushed as I took the glass from him, sending a small thrill up my spine, and I smiled. “You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that.”

? ? ?

FOR THE FIRST time in weeks, I awoke feeling content. Sunlight was streaming through Max’s huge windows and warming my face, and I smiled and stretched like a cat. This, I thought happily. This is what I needed. A good night’s sleep and some sunshine. I glanced over at Max, still asleep beside me, his lanky body curled like a shrimp and his mouth hanging slightly open. I reached over to brush one of his dark blond curls off his forehead, and he didn’t stir as my fingertips grazed his forehead..

I shivered. Has I been this dead to the world when the intruder was in my apartment? Did he intruder touch me like I’d just touched Max?

I looked down at Max again, suddenly realizing how vulnerable he was at that moment. How could he sleep so soundly after what I’d told him last night? If Max had been the one sitting across from me blathering about some weird recording and a possible stalker, I sure as hell wouldn’t have let him into my home, no matter how cute he was. The story sounded too outrageous to be true, and I would have wondered about the mental stability of the person telling it.