Instead, I wish Tillie Jean was here with me, and that the four of us were hanging out to watch TV and shoot the shit and maybe play a card game or two.

I shift my head so I can see Luca between my arms, hands still fisted in my hair, then jerk my head toward the kitchen. “How the fuck do you trust yourself to do it?”

He pauses with one hand over the cat, shifts a glance at the kitchen too, then looks back at me, clearly getting exactly what I’m asking.

How do you grow up with shitty role models and decide to take a chance in a relationship anyway?

“Lots and lots of brutal honesty,” he finally says.

“With yourself, or with her?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

He glances at the kitchen again, then slides a look at me and drops his voice. “Does Cooper know?”

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

“Not gonna say a word. And it’s not like it’s a surprise.”

“Is to me,” I mutter.

“Relatable.” Fucker’s grinning.

“She says it’s over when I leave for spring training.”

He stops grinning. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Because that’s smart? Because she has a life there? Because I’m gone half the year? Because she’s not the settling down type? Because she knows I’m not either?”

He scrubs a hand over his face like there’s not enough alcohol, coffee, sugar, or ziti in the world for this, and I don’t even fully get the ziti thing. I just guess that’s what he’s thinking. “Ask her.”

“What? No.”

“That’s how it works, Max. Communication. Ask. Talk. Fight. Make up. Don’t just assume. Maybe she’s sitting there thinking she’s saying what you want to hear. Maybe she’s afraid of the same things you are.”

If I wanted someone to blow smoke up my ass, I would’ve gone to talk to one of the single guys.

But Luca—

He grew up with a shitty father and a mother who hated love, and now he’s planning a life with a woman who’s been engaged so many times she’d only agree to be with him if they could do a relationship without all the fuss of formalities.

If anyone understands fucked-up love, it’s him.

“Or maybe she knows I’m not worth it,” I mutter.

I’m not looking for someone to pat my back and tell me oh, honey, of course you are, which is why I’m glad there’s popcorn popping loudly in the kitchen while I pour my heart out to the only guy I know who’d get it.

Luca stares at me. “That’s not on her, dude. That’s on you.”

“Max Cole, do not ever say that about yourself.” Henri stalks into the living room, no popcorn in sight, fists planted on her hips, glaring in a way that makes me extremely uncomfortable.

Henri glaring is like the earth rotating backwards.

It doesn’t happen.

“Say what?” I ask.

“That you’re not worth it. Ah-ah-ah, don’t deny it, and don’t interrupt. Listen. It’s easy for people to love people when they’ve known good love all their lives. But when people who’ve craved love all their lives actively decide to love someone, do you know what happens? Magic love. And I don’t mean paranormal witches and warlocks love. I mean the kind of love that you feel all the way in your toenails because you know what you’ve missed out on all those years. You know how valuable it is. You know what it’s worth. Your love is a bigger gift than anything, and anyone who rejects that is a fool who doesn’t deserve you. Do you understand me?”

I open my mouth.

Shoot a glance at Luca, who shrugs. “Don’t look at me, man. She’s the expert here.”

I swallow hard and look back at Henri. “You know that’s a lot easier for you to say than it is for any of us to hear, right?”

Her normal big warm smile reappears. “Don’t worry. I can email it to you every day until you believe it.”

“I will throw this cat at you if you make my girlfriend email you about love every day,” Luca says. “I love you, man, but not that much.”

“Luca.”

He grins at her. “What? I still said I love him.”

“You can’t use my cat as a weapon.”

“Oh. That. Yeah, I was exaggerating. I’ll just get him with glitter bombs.”

They should be annoying, but they’re not.

What they have?

That’s what I want.

That’s what I want every day with Tillie Jean.

But no matter what Henri says, I still don’t know if I can have it.

30

Tillie Jean

I can’t sit still Saturday night, which in theory shouldn’t be a problem, considering it’s Paint Night at The Grog and there are sixteen ladies here tonight that I’m teaching to paint a tropical beach scene, but I keep getting distracted and checking my watch and looking at the door.

Sometimes mid-sentence.

“It’s the coffee,” I hear Aunt Bea whisper to Nana. “She ran out of juice.”

“I think she’s got a secret piece on the side,” Nana whispers back.

“She doesn’t have a main piece, so how would she have a piece on the side?” Dita hisses.

I clap my hands while Sloane, Annika, and Georgia trade glances in the back row. I might’ve had one too many caramel macchiatos yesterday and spilled all while we were supposed to be watching some romantic comedy on Netflix. “Ladies, how do your coconuts look? Anyone need help?”

“I wish Jason’s coconuts looked like these,” LaShonda says with a nod at her canvas.

“Mom,” Georgia groans.

“What? Gravity happens.”

“Your suns!” I shriek. “Let’s talk about your suns instead.”

I start to circle the room again, glance through the party room door and toward the front door of The Grog, remind myself for the eighty-four-millionth time that the guys aren’t coming back until tomorrow, and I sigh. “Beautiful, Mom. Dita! Oh my gosh, I love what you did with your tree. And LaShonda, the colors on your sun are chef’s kiss.”

“I like chef’s kisses,” Annika calls.

“Ew,” I tease.

“Totally gross,” Cooper agrees.

I whip my head to the door so fast I almost trip.

And there he is.

Max is back.

Early.

He’s standing behind Cooper, gazing at me with so much smolder that all of the canvases in this room are at risk of bursting into flame. Robinson’s angling into the room too, holding the custom beer stein Aunt Glory presented him with early last week, but I barely notice.

Focus, Tillie Jean. “Stinky Booty! Couldn’t resist crashing Paint Night, hm?”

“Thought you ladies might need models.” He lifts an arm and flexes.

I think.

He’s wearing a coat, so I can’t say for sure.

Mom, Nana, Annika, Georgia, and Sloane all crack up.

“I’ll paint you, Cooper, you studly thing,” Robinson says in a fake falsetto, and anyone not laughing before busts a gut now.

Except me.

And Max, who’s in a Pirate Festival T-shirt and jeans and looks like I need to jump his bones in the broom closet right now.