An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(89)

Max grimaced. “Dude, that’s my cousin.”

“And my daughter,” Vince called from three places down above the noise.

Josh sat forward, ignoring his father-in-law. “So, you and Grace, huh?”

“What about me and Grace?”

Josh shrugged nonchalantly, avoiding Max’s pointed stare, smiling down at his pot of ranch dressing. “I just heard you guys had fun at Whiskey’s the other night.”

“Everyone heard,” Rob added from next to Max, nudging him playfully. The other guys nearest to them smirked. They’d obviously heard about Max and Grace’s cellar activities, too.

Max grinned despite himself. He knew the banter would come eventually and, truthfully, he didn’t mind. It wasn’t like he was embarrassed. Hell no.

Seeing the deputy’s eyes fire up when he emerged from the cellar with the smell of Grace all over him?

That shit was golden. He’d all but sauntered past the prick with a smirk front and center. Besides, he knew Grace hadn’t been too uncomfortable that they’d been heard. She’d known it was a possibility and, Christ, she’d practically begged him for it. He exhaled and picked up his fork, recollecting that shit-hot look she’d given him over her shoulder. It was filled with a dare, a want, and all the things that made Max want to do dastardly things to her wherever and whenever they could. Woman was dangerous without even trying.

He paused, and played with the food on his plate. He knew deep down he should have felt unsettled, but he couldn’t find it in himself—beneath the unfamiliar sensation of contentment that had snuck in since Grace arrived on the scene—to care. Grace was fun to f*ck. She was gorgeous, and witty, and he liked being around her. He liked her. He liked what they were doing and for the first time in a while, he liked what it felt like. Their arrangement worked and he was enjoying himself. Plus, he was eight months clean and sober. With no worries, no strings, and with the heavy weight of his addiction gradually becoming lighter and easier to bear as each day passed, life felt pretty damn awesome.

“You’re a lucky son of a bitch,” Rob muttered under his breath. “She’s smoking hot.”

“Aren’t you married?” another guy, whose name Max couldn’t recall, and who had cornrows and sparkling white teeth, asked from Rob’s other side.

“Please,” Rob countered with a shrug. “Just ’cause I’m eatin’, don’t mean I can’t look at the menu.”

Max picked up his cheeseburger and took a mammoth bite, not even the least bit guilty for enjoying the sliver of smugness that wrapped around his chest.

“So are you guys, like, exclusive?” Josh asked, sipping from his beer bottle.

Max shook his head. “We’re not a couple or anything, it’s casual, but we don’t sleep with anyone else.”

“Damn. There goes my shot,” Josh’s friend Aiden drawled, snapping his fingers. He looked at Max with attentive gray eyes, his blond eyebrows furrowing playfully. “Wait. How long you stayin’ in Preston County? When do you go back to New York?”

The table laughed again at Aiden’s suggestion, but for some reason, Max struggled to join in. He smiled faintly at Josh as he shook his head good-naturedly at his friend, and picked up his drink, rubbing the heel of his hand against a sudden heat burning deep in the center of his chest. He eyed his burger distrustfully.

Damn indigestion.

A few hours later, after leaving the majority of the guys propping up a whiskey bar in the city, Max headed back to the small but comfortable hotel they had been put up in. It wasn’t that watching other people get shitfaced while he stayed sober wasn’t super-duper fun, but there was only so much Max could resist before the scent of bourbon developed into a siren’s call.

He’d called Tate as he walked the four blocks, explaining where he was and what he’d been doing. It was a casual conversation—they shot the shit, he dodged questions about Grace, and they caught up—but Max could hear the underlying concern in Tate’s voice that appeared whenever Max called unexpectedly. Months ago the sound of it would have had his molars grinding, but now he found himself smiling. It was a good feeling having people on his side.

Throwing himself down on his hotel bed and switching on the TV, Max glanced at his watch. It was a little before midnight. He tapped his cell screen against his knuckle, wondering whether Grace would still be up. She’d said something about a girls’ night so it was entirely possible. With a shrug he started typing out a text.

Back at the hotel. How was your night?

He sent it, threw the phone down on the bed, and heaved himself up and to the bathroom to clean up before he went to bed. He heard his phone vibrate as he finished brushing his teeth. He wandered back into the room, pulling his Henley over his head and kicking his boots to the corner of the room. He picked up his phone and frowned at the text.

Kmoxk Knixk

“What the hell?” Max smirked.

Seems someone has been at the cocktails again.

Yupl

Be safe. Have fun.

I wush you ware here. O miss yo.

Max chuckled while trying to ignore the warm sensation whispering across his neck.

Put your drink down and go home. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Home goin now. Yo mish me toooooooooo!!!!

Max snickered at the numerous heart-eye emojis at the end of her message and shook his head. He put his cell on charge, resisting the urge to text her back.