A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(207)

As Max expected, she soon sauntered across the shop toward them with latte and muffin in hand. “Hey,” she greeted him, her green eyes dancing.

“Hey yourself. Good run?”

“Yeah. Weirdly boring without you.” Her gaze moved to Tate. “Hello, you must be Tate, Max’s sponsor. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Tate held out his hand. “All good things, I hope.” He smiled widely.

Max rolled his eyes.

Grace laughed. “Oh, yeah, all good things.”

Tate’s head turned toward Max, who sighed. “This is Grace,” Max introduced. “She’s my running partner.”

“Running partner, huh?” The expression on Tate’s face said he thought Max was full of shit. Well, he could think whatever the hell he liked.

“Yes,” Grace said. “You interrupted an important run today.” Her playful smile was lovely, and Max watched Tate fall headfirst to its captivating power.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Tate played along. “Maybe I can buy you a coffee to make it up to you.”

Max cleared his throat and crossed his arms, not knowing where to look while his sponsor hit on his … friend.

“Thank you, but I have some already,” Grace answered, lifting her cup.

Max wasn’t about to step in, unless she looked uncomfortable. Besides, Tate was harmless. An *, but harmless all the same.

“Hey, Max,” she said, “could you meet me at the cottage by the stream later? I’m working, but I can be there at three thirty.” She seemed nervous.

“Should I be worried?”

“Oh, no. I just need your help with something.”

“I’ll be there.”

She smiled again. “Great. It was nice meeting you, Tate.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Grace.” Tate’s eyes never left her until she disappeared down the street.

Max waited with bated breath.

“Okay,” Tate ordered, his index finger pressed into the table. “Fucking spill. Who is she, and why the hell haven’t you talked about her before? And don’t give me that running-partner bullshit. She’s hot for you, and if you aren’t hitting that, I’m revoking your man card right now.”

Max laughed despite himself. “She’s not hot for me. It’s not like that.”

Tate gaped; mouth and palms open, looking a lot like his brother Riley. “She’s so hot for you. How can you— Whatever. Why are you not all over her like a damned rash?”

Max ran a hand through his hair. “We’re friends.”

“With benefits?”

Max stared at his coffee mug. “Sort of.”

Tate sat back. “We need more coffee and one of those f*cking great muffins—and then you’re gonna tell me everything.”

It was going to be a long-ass morning.