An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(30)

Max shrugged. “Not really. My uncle said he didn’t need me at the house—your house, so I’ve been . . . hanging out.” He stared at the table. It was hard for Grace not to see the sadness, which draped his shoulders like a heavy blanket.

“Hanging out is good,” she replied, smiling. “It must be so nice being here with family. They all seem great.”

“They are.”

“Do you visit them often?”

“No.” He glanced out the window; the sun streaming through it made his dark hair lighter, highlighting flecks of gold. “It’s been a while. Do you have family here?”

Surprised by the question, but encouraged by his engagement with the conversation, Grace beamed. “My momma was from West Virginia, that’s why I came back here, but we grew up in California, where my daddy came from. Since they died it’s just me and my brother, who lives in DC.”

Max’s face creased with apology.

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “I miss them both, but life moves on, right?”

His eyes widened, while the right side of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of that glorious smile Grace liked so much but rarely saw. He stole another piece of muffin. “That it does.” He lifted his drink, displaying a smudge of black paint on the elbow of his gray Henley.

Grace pointed to it. “You paint?”

His intense gaze snapped to hers, pinning her to her chair. She waved toward the stain and watched as he inspected it. He exhaled, appearing uncomfortable with her discovery and, with the edge of his thumb, began scratching at it in an effort to remove it. “Yeah, I dabble.”

“I’d love to see some of your work.” Before he could object, she continued. “I was never a painter. That was always Momma. Kai, my brother, he draws, but I was always the one with a camera.” Max remained silent, but his stare never wavered. He listened intently, as he always did when she chattered to him over the bar at Whiskey’s. “I went to college and studied photography, set up my own business, but then—well, I kinda quit, but I still take my camera everywhere I go.” She opened her bag and showed him the Nikon sitting in its depths.

“I saw you taking pictures at the house. Why did you quit?”

The million-dollar question. Grace’s shoulders pinched and her finger circled the lip of her cup as she tried to stop her mind from wandering down that particularly horrendous road of her past. As much as she wanted to get to know Max, she wasn’t ready to tell him that part of her story. “Life happened.”

The answer, as vague as it was, appeared to appease Max’s curiosity. “Yeah, it has a way of doing that.”

“Sure does,” she agreed. “Just jumps up out of nowhere and takes the feet from under you and you lie there wondering what the hell just happened.” Even though she tried to keep her voice upbeat, Grace watched as something wretched and broken flashed across Max’s face, before the barrier he carried around with him snapped shut behind his eyes, darkness clouding him once again.

Damn. Chitchat over.

He cleared his throat and picked up his book. “I’ve got to be someplace,” he muttered, standing from his seat. “It was nice to see you. Thanks for the muffin.”

Grace smiled at his politeness, even with the disappointment that bloomed in her chest. “Oh, yeah, sure.” He wasn’t always so flustered, fidgety. If anything, it was Max’s stillness that she found so entirely fascinating. Something was different.

She watched him retreat quickly out of the coffee shop, his strong shoulders tense, rounded, and his long legs striding purposefully across the street toward his truck. He pushed a hand through his messy hair, once, twice, before climbing into the vehicle and peeling away.

Seven hours later, Grace was more than surprised when Max wandered into Whiskey’s with two guys she recognized from the work site. He dipped his chin in her direction and parked himself on a stool by the bar while his friends strolled over to the pool table.

“Orange juice?” she asked, trying not to notice his shadowed expression. Whatever had been bothering him at the coffee shop had apparently not been rectified and now shrouded him with a dangerous quiet. He looked ready for a fight.

“No. A shot of Jack,” he said, slapping a twenty onto the bar.

Bourbon? This was new. And potentially catastrophic. Grace had no idea whether Max was a recovering alcoholic or what the hell he was, and a shot of Jack would be a colossal leap off the proverbial wagon. She didn’t want to be responsible for that. Grace quickly scanned the bar for Vince, but he wasn’t there. Neither was Holly, who she was filling in for, for another two hours. Apart from Max’s friends and two other groups of regulars, the place was quiet.

She tapped her fingers on the bar top. “You sure?”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Why?”

Grace nibbled her bottom lip. “I just . . . should you be drinking?” Jesus, how awkward could it get? “With you—I mean, you always drink juice.”

Understanding flittered over Max’s face and a bark of humorless laughter erupted from his chest. His stare was unfriendly and angry and nothing like what she’d faced in the coffee shop. “I’m not a drunk, Grace,” he spat. “I’m a f*cking drug addict.”

“Oh.” Grace swallowed that piece of information as though it were a razor blade.