16

Cadence

I buy the pants for Max, and the shirt as well as a pair of brown leather slipper shoes that seem impractical, but Max loves them. And then I let him lead me through the mall to look for dresses.
It’s late morning and the stores are quiet, with a steady stream of older adults and young mothers with children strapped into strollers passing us.
Max waves at every child he sees.
I don’t frequent malls, so this is new for me. When I was of the age where packs of teens flooded the stores, I had a full dance schedule and weekend jobs to keep me busy, not to mention no money for frivolous shopping. When I had enough money to buy what I wanted, I still had no time.
At least I told myself that. I also convinced myself that there was nothing suitable in a generic mall that a stripper/escort could wear.
Being here, and having a “fun” day with Max is bringing so much baggage back that I think I’ll be ready for another therapy session.
“Are you hungry?” he asks as we pass close enough for the scent of the food court to drift over.
I don’t know what makes me answer honestly. I should want to finish this—find a dress and not prolong this, but— “A little,” I confess.
“Not surprised. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day and you didn’t eat with me.” He puts a hand on my lower back and steers me toward the variety of fast-food restaurants. “What’s your pleasure? Burger, Greek, salad,” he adds scornfully.
“What’s wrong with a salad?”
“Nothing, but it’s eleven-fifteen, and no one should be thinking of healthy at this time. This is elevenses time. Second breakfast.”
“Are you a hobbit?”
He looks more delighted than he should that I caught his Lord of the Rings reference. “You have to admit, those hobbits have a pretty good lifestyle.”
“They have hairy feet. I’ll have a smoothie,” I tell him, heading toward Booster Juicer.
“Healthy and practical. Boring.” Max pouts. Again, I should find his irreverence irritating, but I… don’t. “Look, there’s a Cinnabon?”
The scent of sugar and cinnamon had already reached my nose.
I pay for the smoothies while Max darts over to get a cinnamon bun, which he insists we share. This also involves finding a table, dodging three strollers and a spill of Cheerios on the floor as a group of mothers hold court with their babies.
“What would you be doing if you weren’t here?” Max carefully divides the sticky bun with a fork before setting the box on the table between us.
I take a sip of my smoothie before accepting the plastic fork. “Working.”
“Yes, but what would you be working on?”
I close my eyes as my first bite of the pastry hits all my taste buds. It’s warm and sweet and… and so good. But the realization that Max has no idea of my interest in Tingel Island sours it slightly. “There’s a property I’m looking to buy,” I say carefully.
“Business or pleasure?”
“I’m not sure yet.” The isolation and beauty of the spot call to me, but I also know it would be an ideal place to build a resort, which is why Moon wants it.
“And you’re not going to tell me about it because there’s a good chance we want it too.” Max grins ruefully. “Is this when we find out we’re from rival families?”

“I don’t have a family.”
That should not have come out.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t either,” he admits. “My father—” He gives a head a shake. “But we already said no talk of fathers, so no talk of fathers. I need something stronger than this.” He lifts the cup. “What did you get me?”
“Banana mango.”

“I might go into sugar shock with all the sweetness, but it’s a good way to go.” He takes a big bite of the bun, flakes of sugar falling onto the table. “What’s your favourite way to spend the day?”
“Why all the questions?” I counter.
He lifts a shoulder. “I like getting to know people. And you seem interesting.”
“I’m not.”
He narrows his eyes at me with a half-smile. “I beg to differ. Besides, we’re going away for a dirty weekend. I need to know what to expect.”
My heart stutters, then falls flat. For a moment—for longer than a moment—I had been enjoying myself with Max. Not letting myself wonder, because I thought there were no expectations. But now if he expects…
Max watches my thoughts pass across my face. My mask isn’t in place, so I know he can tell what I’m thinking. “Not like that,” he says in a quiet voice.
“Not like what?”
“Look, Cadence,” Max begins, seemingly searching for words. “You are an outstandingly stunning woman. Seriously. You’re breathtaking. You take my breath away—drunk or sober. And if you’re honestly interested, then I’m all for giving you a weekend to remember instead of just a simple alibi.”
An alibi. How could I forget why I’m here to begin with? I need to prove to Preston Tate that I was nowhere near Novi’s room when he died. How can that not be part of every one of my thoughts?
How can I be sitting in a food court eating a cinnamon bun with a total stranger instead of planning for every contingency of Preston accusing me of killing his father?
Because he doesn’t think I had anything to do with it, I tell myself. Because I didn’t. Because if I’m with Max, then no one will think I spent most of the night with Novi.
I wasn’t there when he died.
This time, there’s no relief that I can’t be to blame, but only regret.
“Are you okay?” Max asks.
I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth as these thoughts swirl, and pop the bite of pastry into my mouth, chewing slowly. “Fine.”
“You lost your friend. You shouldn’t be fine.”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Maybe not,” he concedes. “But at least if you’re here with me, you’re feeling things. Not pushing them down and out of the way so you can get back to work.”
“Is that what this is about?” I wave my fork around the food court. “Do you think you’re helping me or something?” My voice is so steeped in bitterness that he thinks I’m someone who needs help.
I’m not. I’m fine on my own.
“Is that so bad?”
I meet Max’s gaze and can’t look away because there’s so much in how he looks at me. There’s interest, desire. That’s the most obvious, but the way he holds my gaze suggests respect and not the grudging kind when I impress a man who didn’t think much of me at the beginning.
Maximilian Stonee looks at me as if he likes me. Likes me, Cadence Quiler, as a person and not what I can bring to the table.
Or what I can give him under the table.
“I don’t know,” I admit.

“You don’t have to think the worst of me,” he says with a grin. “I’m a good guy. And if you’re not interested, then all this weekend will be is a fun time between friends.”
Friends.
I get the sense I can trust Maximilian Stonee, so it’s not like I’m worried that he will go to the police, or Preston Tate, and tell them the truth.
I don’t worry… much.

But there’s this thing I feel in my stomach when he smiles at me. Because of our moment last night, as adorably drunk as he was. Because of that…
“It’s not that there’s no interest,” I admit, giving myself a swift kick for opening my mouth. Do I want to encourage him? Do I want to—?
“I don’t do pity. Or obligation,” Max says with a frown. “Or favours. Still, boo-tiful—” This brings a smile to my face. “There she is. Finally, a real smile.”
“I smile.”
“Not at me. Just so you know, when something happens between us—”
My head jerks up. “When?”
He gestures toward me. “You are still sitting here after I’ve made an ass of myself several times, so yeah. When.”
He nails the winning smile this time and there’s that thing happening in my stomach. The twist or the tug that I haven’t felt in a very long time. “Well, then,” I say, because for once, I don’t have a comeback for that. I’ve had enough men imply and insinuate they’ll end up in bed with me, that I have a notebook full of retorts. But with Max…
I scrape up a pile of sugar from the box before I stab the last piece of bun. “All done.”
I don’t want to outright refuse him. Or encourage.
But maybe…
“Let’s go find you a dress.”