An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(82)

“How’s the painting going?” Tate asked, his wry voice pulling Max back to his seat in the coffee shop.

Max cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “Good. I’m painting nearly every day. When I get the time.”

His paintings, just recently, had become a cacophony of vibrant colors and indiscernible patterns. He’d started to favor warmer colors, hotter colors, the usual blacks and grays of his initial artwork slowly fading into the background to make way for the golds, reds, and greens that tore across his canvases. The damn things seemed to create themselves with little help from the man holding the paintbrush. It seemed getting laid was all the creative motivation Max had needed. He smiled to himself. Hell. The curve of Grace’s neck as she called out to God when they f*cked, the smooth skin of her inner thighs, and the taste of her between them were completely inspiring. He checked his watch, wondering again what time tomorrow she’d be coming back from her trip to DC and whether she’d be up for round three.

“That’s good, Max,” Tate commented, his eyes on Max’s watch when Max looked up. “You late for something?” He smirked when Max flipped him the bird.

“Okay,” Riley said and thumped back down into his seat. “What awesome sexy-time details did I miss?” He shoved a huge forkful of waffle into his mouth.

“None,” Max said, leaning forward. “Anyway, forget that, I need to talk to you about Carter’s bachelor party.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Any ideas?”

The smile that spread across Riley’s face was huge. “Dude,” he mumbled around his food. “Do you even need to ask? I have links on my phone.” He began riffling in his jeans pocket.

Max snickered into his coffee cup, not feeling guilty at all for using Riley’s short attention span to his advantage. He knew he’d successfully dodged a barrage of questions he had neither the forbearance nor inclination to answer, while avoiding Tate’s knowing stare needling him across the table.

“Grace?”

Grace opened her eyes slowly, scared to death that the room would tilt horrifically should she do it too quickly. She immediately grimaced. The pounding in her head, along with the nausea that gripped her entire body, made her pull the duvet closer, cocooning herself in her sweats, hoodie, and socks. That was the second time she’d woken thinking that she’d heard Max’s voice. Hallucinations no doubt brought on by the hundred-degree temperatures that had spiked in the early hours. She couldn’t understand it; she was so cold her teeth chattered.

“Grace?”

The voice sounded louder now, closer. She hummed into her pillow, shivering and mumbling, wishing that Max really was there so she could snuggle into him, get warm next to him, maybe grope him a little.

“Grace, are you in here, we’re supposed to be on our run— Jesus Christ! What the hell?”

Yeah, that sounded like him, all curse words and exclamations. Wait. A run? Some part of her understood what she was hearing, knew what the words meant, but her brain was so very tired. She couldn’t find it in herself to respond. Instead, she smiled to herself, the image of Max running flashing behind her eyes.

There was a sound of a window being opened and gust of fresh air hit her face, making Grace squirm and bury her head farther under the covers. “It’s like a f*cking sauna in here! And shit—is that puke I smell?”

Yeah, it probably was. Grace could vaguely remember vomiting a few times on herself, before she’d managed to muster the energy to change out her bedsheets, but not enough to crawl into the shower. Her legs had been far too weak. She couldn’t recall, however, how long ago that had been. It could have been days. She almost cared that Max, hallucination or not, was near her when she was full of sick bits, but she couldn’t gather enough energy to tell him to go away.

“Are you awake?” The duvet was pulled gently from her grasp, causing another violent shiver to gallop across her. She gasped when something large and freezing cold touched her forehead. “Shit, Grace, you’re burning up.”

Maybe he was real. “Max?” The cover disappeared altogether. Grace tried to protest, tried to reach for it, but her body just wouldn’t move. “Don’t,” she mumbled, opening her eyes into small slits, seeing a blur of dark hair and darker eyes. “Cold.”

“You’re not cold,” the dark eyes told her. “You have a fever. Come on.”

She cried out when hands grabbed at her and hauled her into strong arms. “I know. I’m sorry,” he said soothingly. She hurt everywhere he touched. God, she wanted her momma.

“Shhh,” he whispered against her cheek. “I’ve got you.” His hand was icy on her face. “Don’t cry.”

“It hurts,” she croaked against the nausea, slumping against him.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’m going to try and cool you down, okay?”

“Max?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I was sick.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I think you were.”

“Don’t smell me.”

“Too late.”

“Oh God.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re going to take a shower, all right?”

A shower sounded cold. She shook her head. “Please, don’t.”