THREE WEEKS AFTER Lola and Dev spring their engagement on us, Maple informs me that she has a charity event and that, as her faux boyfriend, I’m obliged to be her date. It’s one of those dinner-and-silent-auction nights, the kind that requires an entire ballroom full of crystal-and-flower-heavy tables seated with a guest list of San Francisco’s most influential and charitable. Maple’s table is hosted by a company that designs yoga leggings in fun prints for jet-setting around the world, and tonight is apparently Maple’s in-person audition to partner with their brand. If I think about it too hard, I sort of want to sabotage her success—because there’s no question that she wins them over—because at some point she won’t need a faux boyfriend anymore. People will forget about the video, they’ll remember all the amazing, awesome things she’s done, and then we’ll be over.
No doubt I’ll be glad to have my old, carefree life back, but right now I curse the yoga people.
The event has a faux red carpet so guests can feel special while hired paparazzi snap hundreds of pictures, most of which will go unused. As soon as I help Maple out of the car, the flashes start going off as the photographers call our names. Maple, Max—over here please. Max, this way. Max, do you have any comment on your relationship? Are you planning to propose? I ignore the questions because responding is like tossing chum into a boiling sea of sharks. They’ll run with whatever I say—and by tomorrow at the latest, Maple will have married me in a Fijian elopement because she’s pregnant with my triplets. I’ve seen it happen too many times to subject her to that kind of scrutiny. Plus, then her dancing video will definitely resurface. Someone will have made a screen capture, Madd will have another copy, or someone will hack Kinkster’s backups.
Instead, I concentrate on where my hand rests on the small of her back, in a polite, public touch. My body can’t forget the feel of hers, the lightning connection we have, the smell of her skin on mine, on my sheets, on everything. God, she’s amazing. If I don’t start thinking about unpleasant things like tax returns and trying to get through to my airline’s online call center, my hard-on will be immortalized by the paparazzi forever.
So naturally, I just have to lean in and whisper, “Are you wearing panties?” You never know with Maple. The answer is sometimes yes—and sometimes no. I’ve been looking forward to finding out ever since she waltzed down her stairs to join me in the car.
Going all in because, hello, job interview, I’d also arranged for a stylist for tonight. The woman had called in five dresses from high-end local designers. Maple claimed it was just like every Pretty Woman fantasy she’d ever had, except that she’d be putting out for me and not Richard Gere. The dress she’d eventually settled on is actually a skirt, a blue, floaty number with layers and layers of tulle net that filled up the car and conveniently hide my boner from the photographers. The top is a close-fitting bandeau that leaves teasing glimpses of her belly on display. Her blond hair is pulled up into a long, sleek ponytail that brushes her shoulders and calls attention to the fortune in loaner diamonds the stylist arranged to borrow. When I told Maple she didn’t have to give them back, she announced I was crazy, which really meant hell, no. But Maple and diamonds need to happen more than just this once. My new favorite mental image is of her naked in my bed, wearing a diamond tiara. Or one of those dog collar things.
She did let me give her a new charm for her bracelet, which I put in the win column. I’d picked out a diamond that belonged once upon a time to a Russian empress. When I think of Russia, I think of ballet—and ballet always makes me think of Maple.
The charity dinner itself is stuffy and loaded with pretentious people. While Maple networks, I do my best to smile and look like I’m not bored while I mentally draw wireframes for a new app. It has to be able to handle hundreds of thousands of simultaneous users because delayed gratification is only fun when we’re talking orgasms. Occasionally, I glance around the table. The pair from the yoga company hang on Maple’s every word, which I take as a good sign.
Getting into the limo to go home is a relief. I tug her into my side and slip an arm around her shoulders—nice—since she ruled out sitting on my lap in a moving vehicle weeks ago—safety hazard. I can still kiss her like this, but I’ve barely pressed my mouth against the soft skin of her throat when she starts talking. From her point of view, it’s been a great night already. The yoga legging people loved her and have hinted they’ll be sending a contract for her to review. She’s not sure whether it’s the international travel gig she covets the most, or if it’s a smaller campaign, and she doesn’t want to count unhatched chickens and yet... Excited words spill out of her mouth one after the other, so block after block slips by while she talks—and yawns.
“Sorry,” she mumbles eventually. “Too many late nights.”
I know she’s been working hard to rebuild her influencer gig after the video catastrophe. She signed with a new agent last week and already booked two smaller campaigns for something called a “bag spill” that sounds suspiciously like tipping out the contents of her purse and snapping pictures of the artistically arranged mess. Whatever. It doesn’t matter that I’d personally rather stand naked on a BART train during rush hour than prance around a studio letting a photographer take shots of me. Lots of people find programming mind-numbingly boring, so if your passion also pays your bills and you aren’t literally prostituting yourself, it’s all good.
“Do you want me to take you home?” I’d been planning to take her back to my new penthouse condo and break in the dining room table, but I’m up for a change in plans.
“Do you mind?” She snuggles down into my chest.
“Your wish is my command.” I can hear her breathing growing slower and deeper as she relaxes into me. I run a hand down her ponytail, fisting the soft length. “Are we playing Sleeping Beauty tonight?”
She hums something that might be a bit of the music from dinner but we’re already turning on to her street. I’d hoped we could spend the rest of the night having sex together. Actually, I’d looked forward to round two of truth or dare but I clearly have to rethink that plan. I get out of the car and hold the door for her as she gathers up her monster skirts, finds her feet and gets out.
I steer her to the door, kiss her one more time, and then force myself to let go. We still have time left before we fake break up with each other and go back to our regular lives. I want to spend all of those hours with her, however many or few there are. I don’t want to go back to being pre-Maple Max.
I think she’s about to head up the stairs like she always does, but then she hesitates and turns brown eyes up to me. “Do you want to come up? You’re welcome to crash and then I’ll make it up to you in the morning.” She leans up and brushes her mouth over mine. “No pressure if you want to get going. I can go up and go to sleep.”
I thread my fingers through hers. “Lead on, Macduff.”
She winks at me and opens the door. The house is a San Franciscan Victorian, so there are a lot of stairs. Plus, Maple’s designer dress isn’t made for a narrow stairwell. She finally settles for hiking it almost up to her waist, which is downright cruel. I follow her, eyes glued to her ass. She’s wearing panties—almost. I’m not sure the green thong with white polka-dots qualifies as underwear.
When we reach the top of the house, she hesitates. “The housekeeper comes never. Because I don’t actually have one.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m not interested in sleeping with the housekeeper.
She doesn’t move. “So I’m a bit of a slob.”
“Okay?” How bad can she be?
“If you promise not to judge me, I promise to wake you up with a blow job tomorrow.” Maple gives a jaw-cracking yawn and shoves her key in the lock.
As if I care about her housekeeping skills. I close my hand over hers and turn the key. The door opens and I get my first idea what she’s on about. Maple has a lot of...stuff. Not that she’s a hoarder (yet), but she has piles and piles of things stacked up around the room. Because it’s a studio, what you see is almost entirely what you get.
The bones are good. The room has a high, vaulted ceiling and a tiny French balcony with big glass doors. It’s just that you don’t notice those things because...stuff. Clothing racks line one wall and black lacquer bookcases with crystal doorknobs front the other. There’s also a miniscule galley kitchen and a door that must lead to the bathroom.
She jumps onto the bed with a groan of relief. Or at least I assume it’s the bed—whatever it is, it’s buried in faux fur blankets (because I’ve yet to meet a lavender mink) and pillows. Her heels go first and then she starts wiggling her way out of her dress. She’s asleep halfway through, so I finish undressing her, tuck her in and crawl in beside her.
I wake up to find Maple curled up in bed beside me, eyes glue to her phone.
“They offered,” she says, turning the phone around so I can skim the email.
Remember when I said I only wanted the best for her? Yeah. Me, too. There’s only one thing to say, so I say it. “Congratulations.”
“I’m going to travel the world.” Maple flops back on the bed. At some point during the night, she’s gotten up, because now she’s wearing my dress shirt. It looks far better on her than it ever did on me, or maybe it’s the deep V that frames her breasts. She scissors her legs into the air, kicking gleefully.
“They’re going to pay me,” she continues. “I’m going to design a capsule collection for them.”
Ask a question. Show interest, you idiot. “When do you leave?”
“Next week.”
She rolls over onto her stomach, her fingers touching the screen of her phone as if she needs that contact to believe it’s true. Her voice is happy. Excited. She’s looking at her perfect future and there doesn’t appear to be a place for me in it. It’s not that I was expecting forever or promises or a ring. I’m not that man, even though she’s definitely that woman, and I know this is the end for us. I should say something, but I don’t know where to start.
So instead I show her how I feel.
I straddle her butt and legs, running my hands down the length of her spine to work out the knots.
Say something.
Don’t let her go.
Selfishly, I want one more memory, one more time. So I lean down and kiss her neck and shoulder. The straight, proud line of her spine and the dimples just above her ass. And then I go lower, giving her the very best, very dirtiest sex I can think of.
Giving her memories.
And when she’s moaning face-first into the sheets, my face buried between her legs, I show her everything I’m feeling, everything I have no words for.
Give it to me.
Let go.
Let me—
“I love this.” She gasps the words out and that’s my greenlight to give her more until she’s hollering my name, fingers digging into the sheets, and I slide into her from behind.
We don’t have to say goodbye.
Not yet.