The Millionaire Tempted Fate (A Novella) (Sweet and Savory Romances) (10 page)

His second thought? How could he be such an idiot to screw up his relationship with her?

Already, he wanted her again. Even after making love to her twice last night—okay, the first time was sex, the second time, slower, longer, definitely making love—his body wanted more. He reached out toward her, then drew his hand back.

This was Angie. His best friend. What had his father always told him?
Never muddy the sheets where you sleep.
When he was sober, Max’s father was given to long lectures about things like keeping business and pleasure separate, about being smart in every decision, an irony that seemed to escape the elder Blackwell when he mixed himself a martini.

Maybe Max’s father had sought out the drinks because his life was more of a slow death. His parents had been friends who married, and after the first blush of the wedding faded, they’d found themselves locked in a relationship devoid of passion. They’d been roommates, people who exchanged pleasant conversation over the newspaper each morning. There’d been no fights, no raised voices. Nothing but this quiet, dull existence that laid a suffocating pall over the house. His mother had spent every spare minute cleaning while his father poured himself into work. And when his father drank, Max’s mother sat to the side, her lips pursed in disapproval. Max often wondered if that’s where all that unspent, unanswered passion went—to the sterile worlds of work and home they could control.

Max slid out of her bed, and padded out to the living room to retrieve his clothes. Chewie danced at Max’s feet, eager to eat, go out and play all at the same time. Max threw on some clothes, took the dog for a quick walk, then headed inside to feed him. Angie was still sleeping, and Max debated waking her or just slipping out the door. Yeah, it was the coward’s way out, but he didn’t know how to tell her the truth.

That if he so much as looked at her right now, he’d be back in that bed with her, and whatever friendship they had left would be a casualty to his inability to control his desires. Far smarter to marry Becky, and not get swept up in a bonfire that would destroy everything that mattered to him.

"Were you planning to say goodbye?"

He started to reach for his coat, but Angie’s voice drew him up short. He jerked away from his jacket and spun around. She stood in the doorway, a short pink robe tied around her body, her hair rumpled and sexy. "I thought it was best."

"God, when did you turn into such a jerk?" Hurt echoed in her voice, like a knife to Max’s heart.

Better for her to think he was a jerk than for him to tell her how much he wanted to stay, how hard it was for him to grab his coat, how impossible it was to look in her eyes and say what he needed to say. "I’m marrying Becky, Angie. We can still be friends but—"

"You are such a coward." She advanced on him, her hands on her hips, her green eyes flaring. "You and I both know that something fundamental changed here last night, and instead of dealing with it, you’re running away."

"I’m saving you from heartbreak."

"Bullshit."

He pivoted back to her, the fire of want roaring in his gut—coupled with frustration that Angie just didn’t get what he was trying to say—rushed to the surface, colored his words. "You think I don’t want you? You think I don’t want to go back to that bedroom right now, with you, and stay there for a week? Hell, a month? I want you, Angie, I want you in ways I’ve never wanted anyone or anything."

The truth poured out of him, an unstoppable river that he’d held back for too long. He’d denied it, pretended he wasn’t attracted to her, that he didn’t think about her in anything other than friend terms, but he’d been lying to her and himself.

"Then why are you marrying Becky?" Angie asked.

He sighed and lowered himself onto the arm of the loveseat. "Because you mean too much to me."

She snorted. "That’s rich. I mean too much to you so you’re going to walk out of here and marry someone else?"

"Your friendship is the most important thing in my life, Angie. It always has been, and it always will be. You don’t understand. I—" He cut off the sentence.

She closed the distance between them and put a hand on his arm. "What, Max? Tell me. That’s what I’m here for, to listen."

It was the tenderness, the care in her voice that hit him the hardest. Here he was, breaking Angie’s heart and her first concern was him. He let out a curse and shook his head. Angie’s apartment was small, and with the two of them and the dog, there was no room to leave, to gain space, to avoid the subject. "We’re two similar creatures, Angie, aren’t we? Both of us so afraid of repeating what we grew up with, that we run in the opposite direction. Me with my lists and logic, and you by avoiding commitment."

"I’m trying to change, Max, I really am. I don’t want to be afraid anymore and maybe lose the best thing that ever happened to me."

He reached up and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. "I feel exactly the same way. I don’t want to lose you."

"Max—"

"And if keeping us as just friends is the only way I can do that, then I will." He sighed. "I’m sorry."

Her face fell, and the light dimmed in her eyes. "Me too. Because I think you’re making a big mistake."

"I probably am." He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the dog she had bought them, sitting on the braided rug, watching the conversation with wide brown eyes. "Do you remember that day I came to your house, after my father kicked me out the first time?"

She nodded. "My mom let you sleep on the sofa."

"That night, I made a vow that no matter what, I would never let you down. Never hurt you. You were there for me when I needed you most, and all I ever wanted to do from that day forward was to do the same for you."

"Max, you haven’t—"

"I have. Last night. Today. I made love to you and I broke your heart, and if we did this again, if we took this to the next level, I would let you down. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but down the road, we would become my parents. And in the process, we’d lose our friendship and everything that makes us special." He cupped her jaw, and realized he was breaking two hearts today. Was he making a mistake? Or would he look back on this moment and be glad he had saved them both a lot of heartache? "You deserve so much more, Angie."

"How can you say that? You’re marrying Becky—"

"And maybe I shouldn’t even be doing that either." He let out a breath. "I thought by making a list, I’d avoid all this…" he waved a hand.

"Emotion? Complications?"

He chuckled. "Yeah. Exactly. Picking a wife by a checklist takes the emotion out of it, and makes it a sensible choice."

"No, Max. It makes it a
losing
choice. For you and for her. And I can’t understand why you, a man who has made a career out of taking risks, can’t see that." She raised on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. There was no passion in the kiss. Instead, it felt a lot like a goodbye kiss. "You’re the bravest man I know, Max Blackwell, and also the dumbest."

1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk

Kosher salt

3 sticks butter (3/4 pound), unsalted, room temperature

1 cup sugar, plus extra

1 teaspoon vanilla

3 1/2 cups flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

Sugar, sugar, sugar. That’s the key to forgetting the man who broke your heart, and to admitting your plan went horribly awry.

First, make the caramel. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Pour the milk into a pie plate, stir in 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt, and cover it tightly with foil. Put the pie plate in a big roasting pan, and fill the pan with hot water, until it reaches halfway up the sides of the pie plate. Bake for 1 to 1 1/4 hours, adding more water if necessary. Let cool, then whisk until smooth. The caramel is AMAZING, no lie, so eat some quick, and save the rest for the shortbread.

Meanwhile, make the cookies. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Cream the butter and sugar in a mixer. Add the vanilla. Mix the salt with the flour, then add the dry ingredients a little at a time and mix until the dough comes together. Form into square logs, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate 30 minutes.

Slice or cut the dough into 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick cookies. Sprinkle with reserved sugar. Bake for 20-24 minutes, switching the cookie sheets halfway through to get even cooking. Keep an eye on them because they go from perfect to burned fast, just like your heart this past week.

Put wax paper under your cooling rack. Remove cookies from the oven, place on the cooling racks. Heat the caramel for 30 seconds in the microwave, then put it in a Ziploc bag and snip one end (to make a homemade pastry bag). Drizzle cookies with caramel, then sprinkle with kosher salt. Eat until you forget. Maybe even make another batch, and vow to never, ever let your heart get broken again.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

Becky was all brightness and sunshine on Sunday morning, beaming from ear to ear when Max picked her up at the airport. She flung her arms around his neck, called him honey bear, and covered him with kisses. Almost two weeks ago, he’d dropped her off at the airport, secure in the knowledge that when she returned, he’d propose to her and take the next step on his life plan.

The ring box burned a hole in his coat pocket. The velvet container was light, but it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, and every move he made brought a tiny tap from the box’s edge. A reminder of what he intended to do tonight.

"Oh, I’m so glad we’re together for Valentine’s Day," Becky said, sighing and pressing her head against his chest. They were standing outside her building, while people hurried past on the sidewalk, enjoying the mild high thirties temperatures. "I’ve missed you so much, honey bear."

"Same here, Becky."

"We’re going to have the most romantic night ever. I think we should take a carriage ride, then hit the Top of the Hub for drinks and dinner…"

Becky kept on talking, and though Max tried to listen, he had tuned her out already. His hand went to his coat pocket, fingering the box first, then he felt a piece of paper. He tugged it out.

A ticket stub.

"What’s that?" Becky asked.

"It’s from
The Princess Bride
." God, how many years had it been since they’d seen that movie? He hadn’t put the stub in here, so how had it ended up in his pocket? Then he thought of Angie saying goodbye, of her hand on his waist, and realized she’d been trying to send him one last message before he left. Ah, Angie. Who knew him better than anyone in the world. "I saw the movie at one of those tiny little theaters in Cambridge that show old and classic films."

"How quaint." Becky laid a hand on his arm. "Now, Maximillian, where do you want to go first? I thought we should start with the carriage ride, then—"

He turned to her. "Why do you love me?"

Becky let out a little laugh that was almost a cough. "Why do I…love you?"

The hesitation gave him his answer, before she said anything more, but still he pressed forward. "You don’t, do you?"

"Oh, Max, I care about you a lot, and you are my honey bear," she smiled and patted his arm, "but love? Goodness, that’s such a big word."

"One we’ve said to each other before." Becky had been saying she loved him almost from the first date. She’d signed her emails with love, never hung up the phone without saying it.

"Well, yes, but I meant it, well, not like love-love." She let out a little laugh. "You silly man. We’ve hardly known each other, and well, you know, being in love is a pretty big thing."

"And you’re not in love." It wasn’t even a question, it was a realization. Two weeks ago, he’d told himself he would be perfectly happy with that. Removing the emotions made it less complicated, he thought.

Maybe it did. But it also made a relationship less fiery, less memorable. He thought of how fast he’d run to Angie’s apartment, and realized that a part of him liked that complicated, scary, heady rush.