An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(44)

“Is this good?” he called out, holding the canvas against the wall, his large arms open wide, the red T-shirt he was wearing pulling deliciously across his broad shoulders.

Grace crossed her arms over her chest, admiring the view. “Um, a little to the left.” He did as she asked. “A little to the right.” Again, he complied. “Up.” He sighed. “Down.”

“Grace.”

“Now left. Right.” She was giggling into her fist as he turned to glare at her.

“Are you f*cking kidding me?”

“Oh, come on, lighten up,” she said with a wave of her hand.

“I’ll lighten up when you make a damned decision,” he grumbled, but Grace wasn’t blind to the small smile he tried to hide.

“Where you had it was perfect.”

He mumbled to himself and set about hammering in the hooks to hold it. They’d blown off their usual run—both of them too tired after the prior evening’s frivolities—and, with neither of them working, had set about putting up the pictures, mirrors, and art pieces Grace had bought. Max hadn’t questioned her when she’d asked for help and had worked diligently all afternoon, even driving into town to get them lunch.

His laid-back attitude and his unquestionable acceptance of her life story endeared him even more to her. It had been a long time since she’d opened up to someone new, someone who wasn’t family or getting paid to listen, but it hadn’t been as difficult as she’d supposed. Max listened intently, as he always did. She saw no pity in his large, dark eyes, only anger and alarm and, predictably, guilt.

But that was simply ridiculous. He could argue all he liked—and she didn’t doubt he would—but Grace knew and her gut knew: Max was good to his bones. She didn’t know why he’d gotten embroiled in drugs, although his mentioning of his fiancée may have been a clue. But she saw he was nothing like Rick.

Nothing.

She hummed while she hung another picture. A fraying piece of fabric stamped with the Martin Luther King quote, “We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.” It had been her mother’s favorite and it took pride of place in the hallway. It would be the first thing her guests would see when they walked into the house.

She stood back, liking its placement, suddenly aware that there was no noise coming from Max’s part of the room. She turned to find him watching her, an intense expression on his face, his arms folded.

“What?” she asked.

“Is that why you asked me? Because of what he did to you?”

Grace frowned. “Asked you?”

“The other day, on our run, about whether I found you attractive, about whether I’d have sex with you. Is it because of what he did?”

Ah. That.

Grace’s cheeks warmed. “Kind of.” She exhaled. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Max remained silent, expectant.

“I’ve tried being with a man twice since Rick and both times were disasters.”

And that was putting it mildly. Her first attempt ended with a trip to the ER, Grace unable to breathe for the flashbacks that began hammering her when he’d climbed on top of her. Her second was equally heinous.

She approached Max slowly. “I couldn’t handle them . . . being on—holding me down; holding me too tightly. Truthfully, I struggled with everything intimate. It didn’t take my therapist to explain why.”

“So why would me touching you be any different?” Max asked his brow creasing.

Grace smiled. “Because you’re the first guy since my husband that I’ve wanted to get close to. Not like that,” she explained when he fidgeted uncomfortably. “I wanted to get to know you, be your friend. I felt safe being near you, and the urge to run away and lock myself in a room goes away when we hang out.” Grace cleared her throat, awkwardness teasing her neck. “I just thought that . . . because I can handle being with you, I might be able to handle being with you.”

Max’s eyes widened when understanding struck. “I see.”

Grace toed the floor with her bare foot. “You saw what happened when Buck touched me. You think I want that to happen the rest of my life every time someone wants to fool around?” Anger bubbled through her. “I hate that he has power over me, even when we’ve been apart all this time. I hate that he still gets to dictate who I can be with, who I can be friends with. He doesn’t deserve that power. He did nothing to earn it.”

“I agree. You shouldn’t let him control your life.”

“I want to reclaim it.” Her voice raised in volume. “I want to be sexy again. I want to be passionate, and not afraid to be sexual.”

Their eyes met for a brief moment, until Max looked away with a deep inhalation. He rubbed his face. The sound of his whiskers scratching his palm did funny things to Grace’s belly.

“Can I be honest with you?” he asked, his expression sincere but torn.

“Of course you can.”

He paused, opening his mouth a number of times without speaking. He stretched his neck and shifted his weight. “You’re hot, all right,” he said finally. “And you’re sexy as all hell; you really shouldn’t worry about that. And six months ago, I would have f*cked you any way you wanted me to.” He stared. “Shit, I’d still f*ck you any way you wanted me to.”