An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(67)

“Come and dance!” she shouted above the music when she reached him, just as Marvin Gaye sang about remembering the day. Before Max could answer, Grace grabbed his hand and started swinging it from side to side, miming the words and bopping like a damn rabbit from foot to foot.

Unable to resist her happy face and happier dancing, Max lifted his arm so she could twirl beneath it. She beamed. “My love is alive way down in my heart!” she sang loudly while wiggling her ass.

It took a moment for Max to realize that he was dancing, too, just a little, rocking from one foot to the other. Once again Grace’s infectious spirit had yanked him away from any worries that his uncle may have had, any temptations and melancholy memories. Throwing caution to the wind and losing himself in the chorus of his mother’s favorite song, he wrapped an arm around Grace’s waist, gripped her free hand in the other, and began dancing—silly dancing—with her. He tipped her backward, swayed her from side to side, and twirled her some more. Her loud laugh filled the room over the music as he did and, whether he realized it or not, slowly crept into the deep, cold recesses of Max’s heart.

At a little after one in the morning, with pizzas, burgers, and fries bought and devoured in the car on the way back to the house, Max held on to a very tipsy Grace as she stumbled up the stairs to their bedroom. She giggled and hummed to herself as she leaned on his arm, while repeating how much of an amazing, fantastic, truly amazing night she’d had. Max couldn’t help but laugh at her. Truth was she was stinking cute when she was drunk.

“And the fireworks?” she slurred. “Oh my gosh, they’re so pretty. So pretty. Did you see them?”

“I saw them.”

“They were pretty, right? And all boom and pffffttttttt!” She flailed her arms to show Max just how pretty the fireworks were and tilted sideways.

Max held her tightly while he pushed open the door, glad that she barely weighed anything when she slumped her entire body against him. “Pretty like you,” she mumbled into his bicep as they moved into the room.

Max snorted. “You’re not gonna puke, are you?” he asked as she staggered toward the bed and dropped onto it face-first like a starfish, hair surrounding her like a black halo. She held wobbly thumbs up in answer.

Max checked out the way her dress gathered high on the backs of her thighs and rubbed a hand down his face. “I’m gonna wash up, okay?”

The comforter muffled her answer. “Mkay.”

In the bathroom, standing with his hands on the sink, Max thought back to what his uncle had said in the club. He shouldn’t have been surprised by his uncle’s concerns. Max himself had gone through the whole should he, shouldn’t he circle in his head about whether doing whatever the hell it was that he was doing with Grace was a sound idea.

And he was still convinced it was.

They were two—granted, f*cked-up—consenting adults who found each other attractive. They were f*ck buddies and nothing more. Yet both Tate and his uncle had pointed out that Grace may have wanted more, liked Max more than she should.

Max stared at himself in the mirror. “Shit.”

If he was truly honest with himself, Max liked Grace. He liked her a lot, but the scarred, battered, and bruised muscle that beat in his chest just wasn’t up to the task of loving anyone ever again.

The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. She deserved more than that. It wasn’t that Max thought Grace loved him. No. Despite Tate’s and his uncle’s words, Max knew better. She may have looked at him with affection, but that was merely because she showed her feelings without any filter. She was like an open book and, ironically enough, that was one thing Max really liked about her. There was no bullshit. She said it how it was.

And then there was the fact that he wanted her. Shit, of course he wanted her. He couldn’t wait to be inside her and see if she’d go off like the firecracker he hoped for.

He’d been clear on his terms when they agreed to help each other, clear on what he was open and closed to, and Grace had accepted that. And not just accepted it, she’d been of the same damn opinion. He just had to trust that she could keep behind the lines they’d marked in the ground between themselves when they shook hands. Max really wasn’t sure what he’d do if she didn’t. Maybe they needed to talk about it.

Resolute, he pushed from the sink and opened the door back into the bedroom, losing all ability to think or f*cking speak when he saw Grace lying on the bed, faceup, head on the pillows, in nothing but that damned red underwear. And f*ck him sideways if it wasn’t the hottest thing. He noticed her dress in a puddle by his feet along with her shoes.

She smiled, buzzed, her right hand meandering across her stomach. “Hey.”

Max cleared his throat, his gaze devouring her from the tips of her toes to her tits. “Hey.”

“You about done thinking so hard in there all by yourself?”

He pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. Oh, yeah. She was even feistier when she drank. He crossed his arms over his chest, because f*ck, what else was there to do but look? “Maybe.”

“Good.” She nodded toward his crotch, where he knew he was sporting a righteous hard-on. “You gonna come over here with that?”

“Behave. I’m not f*ckin’ you while you’re drunk.”

“I know. Besides, I wasn’t thinking about that,” she murmured, her eyes closing while her fingertips whispered across her chest.