He rolls his eyes.

“Except for the part where I felt like everyone was whispering about me. I was valedictorian and Queen Everything and I could paint and still do a handstand and basically everything I touched turned to gold, so obviously I should go off and be this big important person who did big important things and was super successful and rich and perfect forever instead of staying in Shipwreck and working for a family business, because really, what kind of mark was that to leave on the world when I had all these brains and talents?”

“You are exceptionally annoying.”

“Hush. If you’re going to be my big brother, you need to know my big secret.”

“Which is?”

“I ended up going to see a therapist in Sarcasm—do not tell my family I went to Sarcasm—because the weight of everyone’s expectations was utterly crushing me, and I felt guilty for liking working for my dad. Like I was a failure for not trying to find what else would make me happy when there was nothing holding me back from opportunity. Like I was hiding from the world in a safe place instead of getting out and experiencing what else there is. But it turns out, Crusty Nut and Shipwreck and my family do make me happy. I don’t have to have a big title or a big job or make a ton of money to leave my mark on the world. I don’t have to marry the guy who’s conveniently there but not all that attractive to me down deep in the pit of my soul. I can travel—and I do—but I love coming home, and this is where I choose to stay, happily. Some day that might change, and if it does, I’ll know I can trust myself to take a leap.”

Max isn’t growly-bearing me anymore, but he’s not smiling either. “If you’re trying to tell me you know pressure—”

“I know my kind of pressure, Max. I don’t know yours. I know what makes me happy. And I don’t have to apologize for it or live up to anyone else’s expectations. And I won’t apologize for it. Neither should anyone. I mean, provided it’s not illegal or immoral, you know? But I still slide backwards sometimes and have to consciously remind myself that I define my happiness, not anyone else, which is why I got so irritated with you at the bar the other night when you asked about the valedictorian thing. That was my problem. Not yours. I’m not perfect. I’m irrationally freaked out by garden gnomes. I feel completely inconsequential and worthless every time I hear Cooper made a huge donation to his favorite charity, since I can’t afford to do the same, even though I know it’s an irrational reaction. I got offered a painting commission once by a bigwig in Copper Valley, and I turned it down because I was afraid that I couldn’t live up to expectations. And I started the paint night at The Grog when Dita recommended a book club and I couldn’t bear the thought of reading the classics and pretending I really got them, so I distracted everyone with something that put me in charge instead.”

I pause and look at him again.

He’s just lounging on his couch, in a T-shirt and jeans, watching me with those fascinating brown eyes, his facial tics telling me I’m hitting a nerve but he’s not going to call me on it.

“Anyway,” I say, “I just wanted you to know that I’m not perfect, and if you need anything, I’m next door.”

His gaze drops to the floor for a second before he lifts his eyes back to mine. “I didn’t leave last night because you got a hole in one.”

“Why not? Cooper has before.” I smile.

He doesn’t. “I don’t get drunk.”

Warning alarms go off in my head. Did I call him drunk? He was drunk.

Wasn’t he?

And he was funny and relatable and irritating with the way he kept insisting that I was his sister, but also exactly what I’ve wished he’d be around me for longer than I can admit even to myself.

I don’t mind self-reflection.

But it’s interesting to realize I’ve been missing my own signals for so long.

“That was my old man.” He looks past me, or maybe at the wall next to me. “He had demons. Fought ’em with booze. The only reason I’m here is because he was a warning of what not to be. I worked my ass off to get out of his house and never be like him.”

And here I am, with an awesome family and everything handed to me on a silver platter.

It’s not that I’ve never struggled or had to work hard. But I definitely had a head start. So much makes sense now. “Does baseball make you happy?”

I get the most honest what the fuck is wrong with you? face he’s ever sent my way. “I fucking love baseball.”

It’s hard not to smile, and not because he’s funny, but because I’m getting warm and glowy in my chest at seeing what I suspect is raw, unfiltered Max. “Just checking.”

He leans back and looks away again. “But I didn’t know if it loved me,” he mutters.

“How so?”

Max Cole has his own demons. I think I’ve always known it, but it’s never quite as clear as it is when watching him silently wrestle with himself.

And the man is definitely wrestling with himself. He opens his mouth. Snaps it shut with his growly bear face. Shakes his head a little like he’s lecturing himself on whatever it is he’s thinking of doing. Shoots me a side eye. Mutters to himself.

And finally pulls himself off the couch, stalks across the room like he’s a tiger and I’m a gazelle and he’s going to have a nice little snack of Tillie Jean that’ll leave him sated and ready to lay out in the forty-five-degree weather, getting a tan. The man never wears long sleeves more than three minutes.

At least, in my experience.

And right now, his biceps are bulging under a faded gray T-shirt that says Pet My Rock, which feels weird given that I am a Rock, but really, there are more important things at play here.

Like the fact that he’s now squatting two inches from my face so that we’re nearly nose-to-nose, and he smells like Luca Rossi, but better, like the patchouli and sage in the shampoo they both use blend in better with Max’s natural heady scent.

I swallow hard and try to not lean in to sniff him more.

He didn’t smell this good last night. Which means he took a shower. And now I’m picturing him naked behind that shower curtain with my face on it, and I wonder if seeing my face turned him on.

He leans even closer and lowers his voice. “I had a panic attack that put me in the hospital after my first no-hitter for the Fireballs. Cooper took me to the ER. Helped me find a doc. Someone to talk to with a prescription pad. Never judged. Always has my back. I’m not fucking that up. Ever. No matter how much I might want to. Okay?”

Oh, shit.

My heart squeezes. Was not expecting that.

So I slowly nod. “Okay. Got it.”

He nods back, then rises, puts a hand to my forehead, gives me a shove, and the next thing I know, I’m staring at the glass.

And I don’t like it.

I don’t want a damn barrier between me and Max. Not when I feel like he just hit a button to open a secret door and let me in.

He doesn’t want to ruin his friendship with Cooper.

I get it.

And there’s the whole don’t fuck with the team element too.

Also get that.

But who doesn’t need one more friend? I can be a friend. I can be the best damn friend he’s ever had.