It’s like the reporters are saying there’s a deeper story here, folks, and we’re gonna find it.

“Are you worried you’ll be like him?” Smooth, Tillie Jean. Smooth. Hit the guy in the gut when he brings you bread and aspirin.

And I don’t think I’d be holding back if he’d brought me coffee either.

But Max doesn’t flinch. He just shakes his head. “Got my own problems. Being him isn’t one.”

“What are your problems?”

Those deep brown eyes shift up at me again. “Are you still drunk?”

“If I say yes, will you spill all your secrets?”

“If you say yes, I’m getting all of your secrets.”

“Who are you, and what did you do with Max Cole?” I gasp and sit straight up in bed, even though it makes my head feel like someone took a meat cleaver to it. “Oh my god. You’re Max’s secret evil twin. Except possibly his secret angelic twin? What’s your real name, and what did you do with my growly bear next door?”

He stares at me for a second, then ducks his head with a rough laugh. “You’re like this all the time, aren’t you?”

“Fabulous?” I croak as I realize my head needs me to hold it together before it splits open. I press my hands to my head just above my ears and try to push it back together, but this isn’t helping.

He cracks a snicker again. “Yes. Completely uninhibited.”

“Fearlessly me.” I snag another piece of bread and slowly lower my head back to my pillow. “You should try it.”

“Being fearlessly you? No thank you.”

“Who would you be if you weren’t afraid of who you think you are?”

His eyes snap to mine like it’s the most profound question he’s ever been asked.

I get it.

It’s the same question my therapist asked me seven years ago, and yeah, it rocked my world too.

His Adam’s apple bobs, and after a moment of holding my gaze, he rubs his chin. “I’d be a guy who’d risk asking a woman out for something more than a one-time-only thing.”

Good morning, nipples. Lovely to see you made it through yesterday’s drunken escapades. You too, Ms. Clit. “Why’s that a risk?”

“You know why.”

“You’re not Chance Schwartz, Max. You’re Max Fucking Cole, and you wouldn’t be here if Cooper didn’t think you were a decent guy.”

“He invited the whole team.”

“And you don’t think he would’ve figured out how to subtly suggest somewhere else for you to go, with or without the help of other people, if he didn’t want you here?”

“Your brother. Cooper Rock. The guy who went out of his way to ask Darren and Luca to sign a ball for a dude he hated more than life itself in high school, and not because the guy was dying or because his life imploded or for any reason other than that it made it through the grapevine that the asshole wanted a signed ball?”

He has a point.

Cooper wouldn’t have tried to keep Max from coming out here any more than he would’ve tried to keep any other guy on the team from coming out for team workouts. He has this belief that all people are inherently good, even if they’re annoying from time to time, and as someone who’s been fortunate in every aspect of his life, he owes a karmic debt of kindness to the world.

He was the guy who came home in late October slobber-crying in Mom’s kitchen. It wasn’t that he was broken over the Fireballs getting eliminated from the play-offs.

Nope.

Those tears were because he was so overjoyed that he’d been a part of making his lovable losers get as far as they did.

“Fine. But you’re still Max Fucking Cole.”

Ah, there’s the growly bear stare.

It’s so familiar and perfect, I can’t resist smiling. “Take me to breakfast.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then let me take you to breakfast.”

“No.”

“In Sarcasm. It’ll make everyone talk. So much gossip. But you haven’t lived until you’ve had a bubble waffle with ice cream for breakfast to get over a hangover, and Annika’s family’s bakery makes the best bubble waffle sundaes ever.”

“I’m not hungover.”

“That’s okay. I’m hungover enough for both of us.”

He goes quiet again, and I mentally cringe, which makes my head ache a little more.

Is he sensitive about other people drinking? No one’s making him go out to The Grog, and I know he goes out to bars while the guys are on the road during the season. I’ve seen the pictures and heard the stories. So I don’t think he’s hung up over watching other people enjoy alcohol responsibly, but what do I really know about him?

I’m lost in my head wondering what’s going on in his when he speaks again. “Coffee?”

I wink. It’s habit, I swear. “Are you asking me out for coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“In public?”

“Yes.”

“Are you pretending you’re my sister again?”

“Backwards, TJ. I’m no one’s sister. But no. I’m not pretending I’m your brother. I’m asking you out to coffee because I know it’ll make you feel better, Ms. Coffeeholic.”

Okay.

Did not see that coming.

“Can I go dressed like this?”

“Wrapped in a sheet with hair that looks like you fought a rabid Shar-pei and lost last night?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t care. But do you want your cousin to give you another citation for disturbing the peace by looking like that?”

Be still my heart.

Max Cole is fitting in. Here. In Shipwreck. With me. Joking about Shipwreck things. Understanding how we work.

And—liking it?

I’m listening, Universe. I swear I’m listening.

I push myself up to sitting again, fling back the covers, and don’t bother trying to hide that I’m only wearing a threadbare T-shirt and lace panties.

His eyes go dark and he visibly swallows again, but he doesn’t move from his spot against my closet door.

Nor does he move when I slide off the edge of my bed and stand on unsteady legs, putting my crotch more or less at eye level and only a foot or so from him.

But he’s looking.

He is definitely looking.

And not running. Or trying to hide that he’s looking.

Max Cole is checking me out and asking me out for coffee.

I don’t know what game it is he’s playing now, but I am in. “Give me five minutes to shapeshift back into a human. And then you’re gonna get the coffee date of your life.”

25

Max

One…two…three…

No.

No.

This is just coffee. In a bright, seashell-themed coffeehouse on Blackbeard Avenue owned by Tillie Jean and Cooper’s mother, who’s not here, but her barista is giving me a knowing look.

I tell myself it’s because Tillie Jean’s wearing oversize sunglasses and her hair still looks like she might have an echidna nest hiding in it, and while she put on clothes, her sweatpants are close to falling off and I’m nearly positive she doesn’t have a bra on under her hoodie.