To Have It All(52)

“Nothing,” I muttered. “You just . . .” I motioned my hand for her to back up, “just let me do this.” I swiped the wipes from her hand. “For God’s sake don’t bend over again,” I begged with frustration. This situation got more and more fucked up every day. I didn’t know how to be Max without getting attached to people or things in his life and that’s exactly what was happening. I was getting attached to Waverly. I was getting jealous over Waverly. This wasn’t good.

“Did you only force me out here so you could ignore me for most of it and act like a butt-wad for the rest of it?”

I cut a glance at her, fighting my smirk. “Butt-wad?”

She rolled her eyes, something she always did when she was annoyed, but I could tell she was trying not to laugh by the way she pressed her lips together. “Yeah,” she confirmed after a beat. “A wad of the butt. A butt-wad.”

I couldn’t help it, I burst into laughter. Where in the hell did she come up with this shit? “Look at that, Pim,” Waverly exclaimed animatedly. “He laughs.”

This time I rolled my eyes. “I’ll reign in my butt-wadage,” I began as I wiped Pim’s face while she grumbled at me, “if you wear more clothes.”

“Excuse me?” Waverly asked.

Standing, I faced her. “You’re wearing tiny shorts and a tank-top. In the park,” I added as I motioned a hand around us for emphasis.

“It’s ninety-five degrees out,” she argued as she smoothed her hair back that was tied up in a high ponytail.

“Yeah, and you’re wearing three inches of fabric over your body.” I was exaggerating—her clothes were scarce, but not that scarce—but if exaggerating got my point across I would do it.

“I’m a grown woman, Max,” she pointed out. Then she got snarky. I noticed she did this from time to time. “Last I checked, you’re not my father or my man. Therefore, it’s not your business.”

I glowered at her. She had a point. A good one. I did, too. Kind of. “Okay,” I agreed. “You’re right, but I’ll just add this—”

“Of course you will,” she interrupted with a grumble.

“Would you want teenage Pimberly to leave the house wearing that?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped. Looking down at herself, she raised her head and narrowed her gaze at me. “No. I guess I wouldn’t.”

My eyes almost bulged out of my head. “What?”

“What?” she echoed, unsure of what my ‘what’ was asking.

“Did you just,” I paused and moved my head around like a robot computing, “agree with me?”

Her mouth curved slightly, a whisper of a smile. “Shut up, Max,” she warned.

“Was that a yes?” I pushed. I couldn’t deny I loved doing this to her. The woman did not want to laugh at me . . . or Max rather . . . and I didn’t doubt she would consider biting off her tongue before letting herself do it. Even though I knew it pissed her off that she found anything Max said remotely funny, I loved knowing it was me that made her want to laugh, not Max.

“Are you saying I look slutty, Max?” she inquired, one sassy brow quirked as if she were daring me to answer yes.

Wow.

She flipped that on me fast.

“Not at all,” I insisted.

“Then what?” she pushed. “What are you saying?”

At moments like this, a man wants to say something, anything, to change the subject, and we usually fail miserably. It’s a statistical fact that 99.9 percent of men would say something bad here and end up putting their foot in their mouth. I knew I was doomed. Still . . . I had to try.

“You look good, Waverly,” I acknowledged. “Not slutty.”

“Then why the sudden interest in my wardrobe choice? Do you want to tell me my hair looks like crap, too?”

Letting out an exaggerated sigh, I ran a wide palm down my face. And here we go . . . this outing was heading straight for the shitter. “No one said anything about your hair,” I defended. “Stop twisting my words.”

“What words?” she laughed haughtily. “All you said was wear more clothes. I asked why did you say that? Do I look fat? Do I look slutty? What?”

“I didn’t say any of that,” I grumbled, my blood pressure rising.

“Then why’d you say I need to wear more clothes?”

“Because you look sexy as fuck,” I growled taking a step toward her, doing my best to keep my voice down. Damn, this woman could be frustrating. “I said it because I hate that every guy that passes by is staring at your ass.”

She stared at me, a pinkish glow spreading across her cheeks. I’d made her blush, and it looked damn beautiful on her. Her gaze flicked to my mouth where it lingered a moment before moving up to meet my stare again. I waited for the backlash, I knew it was coming, but I didn’t back away. I figured she’d rail me. She’d tell me I had no right, that I’m an asshole, but the verbal whip never came. Instead, she cleared her throat and looked down at Pim.

“We should probably get her home now.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, after a beat. “That’s a good idea.”

As I pulled the wagon and Waverly maneuvered on her crutches down the busy New York City sidewalk, I scolded myself. I’d said too much. I had no right to say those things . . . convey those thoughts and feelings because all she saw and heard was Max saying them. Not me. I was losing control of the situation, not that I ever really had control of it to begin with.