I don’t even know if The Grog has a broom closet, but I know I need to jump Max’s bones.

“Tillie Jean, maybe we should paint Cooper’s coconuts,” Annika says.

God bless Annika.

That pulls me out of my Max-induced trance like nothing else would.

“I have awesome coconuts,” Cooper agrees. “They’re mounted in my bedroom.”

The weird part?

He really does. Picked them up the last time he was in Hawaii.

“Alright, ladies, if you’re done painting, leave your canvases to dry and go fawn all over the guys. I know, I know…it’s that time of year.”

It takes fourteen centuries, but eventually everyone clears out of the painting room, leaving behind paint water and supplies for me to clean up.

I’m carrying my first cups of water toward the bathroom when someone shouts.

“Damn goats!”

“Who let the mangy animals in?”

“Dammit, Goatstradamus, that’s my cheeseburger!”

Max appears at my side, grabs the two cups I’m carrying in one hand, takes my elbow with his other hand, and shoves me down the short hallway to the ladies’ room.

And as soon as we’re in the single-seater room, he flips the lock, tosses the cups in the sink, and shoves me against the door. “Fuck, I missed you.”

He barely finishes you before I’m flinging my arms around his neck, going up on tiptoe, and pulling him down so I can attack his mouth with mine.

His hands are everywhere—under my shirt, teasing my nipples, yanking his own pants down, then tugging on my hair to tilt my head and give him better access to move his kisses to my neck.

“The goats,” I gasp.

“Distraction. On purpose.”

“Oh my god, my hero.”

“Five minutes before they notice.” He tugs at my jeans, and I help him shove them down too, but they get caught in my boots.

“Dammit.”

He spins me away from the wall and pushes me against the sink, facing the mirror, with him behind me so I can see my own flushed cheeks, heaving chest, and tight nipples straining the ivory lace of my bra. “Jesus, you’re gorgeous.”

He pulls my hair to one side, bends, and bites my neck while sliding his hands down my arms, and I stifle a moan of sheer pleasure.

A condom wrapper wrinkles, and he tugs on my hips, grinding his thick steel shaft against my ass.

My gaze flies to his in the mirror.

His lids are heavy, his eyes a shot of pure dark roast espresso, his lips parted, his cheeks scruffy. I press my ass back into him, and he reaches between us, stroking the wetness between my thighs.

And then his cock pushes into me, and it’s such a relief to have him inside me again that my entire body shudders with the pleasure of it. “More,” I whisper.

He pumps deeper while I arch back against him, taking him inside me, watching ecstasy and desire flit across my own face as I brace my hands on the sink and he thrusts faster and harder while I chant his name, yes, more, there.

I watch him pinch my nipples while he takes me from behind. Watch him bite my neck again, his teeth and the rough texture of his unshaven cheeks setting my already sensitive nerve endings on fire.

And all the while, he’s driving into me like he’s trying to find home.

Like he needs me, needs to be inside me, needs this reassurance that I’m here, that I want him, that he turns me on and flips me inside out, more than he needs to breathe. “Come, Tillie Jean. Come for me,” he pants in my ear.

He nips at my earlobe, drives deep inside me once more, and I clamp my lips shut and rear my head back while I do as he orders, and I come hard and fast and desperate around his cock.

“Fuck, yes,” he moans tightly, muffling himself against my shoulder. “Oh, fuck fuck fuck, Tillie Jean, fuuuuck.”

He strains into me.

I push back against him, feeling his spasms rocking inside me.

This.

God, I missed this.

Him. I missed him.

His arms circle my waist, and he buries his head in my neck as his legs shake enough for me to feel it when he pulls out.

But I can still see myself in the mirror.

And what I’m seeing should scare me.

A woman, mostly naked in a public bathroom, who swore this was a limited-time deal, panting for breath, fully satisfied, wrapping her own arms around her lover’s as he clings to her like he, too, would make time stand still if he could.

Someone rattles the bathroom door.

“Shit,” I whisper.

Max bends down, yanks my pants up, then his own while I lunge for my shirt.

He’s still wearing his.

The condom gets wrapped in toilet paper and shoved in the trash, and it’s not more than five seconds since the rattle, which happens again.

He grabs one of my water cups, adds water to it, and dumps it on the floor. “Go,” he hisses. “Tell them you made a mess and I’m helping clean it up.”

I press a hard kiss to his mouth. “My place. Midnight.”

“Trouble Jean, I will not last until midnight.” He grabs seventeen paper towels from the dispenser and squats to tackle the water he spilled, and I unlock the door and lean out. “I made a—”

“You have about thirty seconds to finish your booty call before Cooper’s done with the goats,” Sloane says.

Annika appears behind her, shoves her out of the way, and throws more dirty paint water onto the bathroom floor.

“Oh my god,” I yelp.

“You really need to be more careful with the paint water, Tillie Jean,” Annika says loudly. “Max! Max, come help clean this up.”

I gape at her.

Sloane gapes at her.

And inside the bathroom, a low rumbly laugh sets my clit to tingling all over again. “This town is fucking insane,” Max mutters.

“You’re welcome,” Annika replies.

“Go get the rest,” Sloane hisses to me. “Is he dressed?”

“Yes, he’s dressed.”

“Go home through the back. We’ve got you. I’ll tell Cooper you spilled water all over yourself. Again. And we’ll keep Max here for at least another thirty minutes.”

“But—”

“Tillie Jean, you walk out of this hallway any way but out, and you’ll be the talk of Shipwreck in under ten minutes. And that’s even with Long Beak Silver riding Goatstradamus out there.”

I touch my hair.

Remember how I looked in the mirror just a minute or two ago.

And I nod. “Thank you,” I whisper.

I don’t stop to say anything else to Max.

But I do text him when I’m nearly home. You really have a way with pipe. And I happen to have some plumbing in desperate need of attention. Again. It must really like the way you handle your tools.

I get a Growly Bear selfie in return.

His Pirate Festival t-shirt is splattered with paint water, and I can make out Cooper in the background, playing darts with someone, like normal.

And I want to be there.

I want to sit next to Max, laugh with him, tease him, kiss him on the cheek like Annika does to Grady every time they’re out in public, and for that to all be normal.

Except Max is leaving in two weeks.

Heading off to spring training.

And I don’t want him to.

I don’t want him to stay here either—not for me, and not when he loves playing baseball and is such a great asset to the team.