She rarely thought about that year anymore. She told her story occasionally, but it was more of a recitation at this point, an uplifting little story about survival and triumph. She never touched on the actual hard parts; how she’d disappointed her family, how she’d disappointed herself, how she’d worried about her future, so much so that it made her sick to her stomach for months on end.

“Anyway, in the grand scheme of things it was just a blip, and I was fine, and it’s not something I think or talk about much. The few times I’ve told people about it, they often get weird—fascinated in a creepy way, or all condescendingly proud of me. Sometimes I’ve talked about it when I’ve volunteered with kids and teenagers, and once a few years ago I alluded to it at a city council meeting to help my sister out, but I don’t tell a lot of people about it anymore. But I thought . . . I guess I just thought I wanted to tell you.”

He took her hand.

“You didn’t have to tell me, but I’m really glad you did.”

She kissed him this time. She kept her kiss soft and slow, but as she drew him closer to her, his kiss, his touch, got more passionate. His hands roamed around her body, and my God did they feel good. She didn’t let herself touch him below the shoulders until his hands were on her thighs; then she sighed happily and moved her hands down his chest. She slid her hands up underneath his shirt.

“Can I?” she whispered in his ear.

He nibbled at her neck as his hands moved up and down her body again.

“Mmmhmm.”

She pushed his shirt up and over his head, and gave herself up to stroking his chest as they kissed. His chest hair was springy under her fingers; it delighted her. She couldn’t stop touching him, kissing him. By the way he kissed her harder, he felt the same way. She trailed her hands down to his waist, and lower. His hands slid up under her dress.

This felt too good. She pulled away from him.

He reached for her again.

“We don’t have to stop,” he said.

She wanted to listen to him so much, but she knew she couldn’t.

“It’s been an emotional day for you, and as much as I want to take you at your word right now, it feels like it’s a better idea to chill out a little, eat some of that pie, and watch the rest of this movie.”

He sighed.

“You’re probably right about that.” He reached for the pie again, but this time he turned around with a grin on his face. A very sexy grin.

“I have a better idea than pie.”

She scrunched her nose at him.

“Better than pie? How is that— ”

Before she could finish her sentence, he pushed up her dress and knelt at her feet.

She looked at him in disbelief. Was he really going to do what she thought he was going to do?

“Max, you’ve had a long day, you don’t have to . . .”

Why the hell was she arguing with him about this? What was wrong with her? She shut her mouth and let him guide her legs open.

He knelt at her feet and pushed her legs further apart.

“I know I don’t have to, but I really, really want to.”

Well, if he put it like that.

He tiptoed his fingers up the inside of her thighs, and she giggled.

“Any more objections?”

She folded her arms behind her head and smiled down at him.

“Not a one.”

He slid first one finger inside her, then a second. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. God, the way he touched her, she couldn’t get enough of it.

He spent a while exploring her with his fingers, touching her in slow circles that felt so good she could hardly bear it. And then, thank God, she felt his tongue against that spot where she most wanted him. Finally, she screamed, and dropped her hands by her sides.

He sat up, disheveled and grinning.

She sat up, too, and smiled at him.

“Now do I get some pie, so I can decide if that was actually better?”

Max let out a bark of laughter and stood up.

“Oh, Olivia. I like you so much.”

The smile fell from her face as he cut their pie. She liked him so much, too. Oh no.

Chapter Eight

Olivia fell in line with Jamila on the way out to her car on Wednesday night. In the past few weeks, it had become a routine that Jamila would drive her home after her volunteer shift. It had been another productive evening: this time they’d made forty servings of lasagna, with roasted carrots as a side. Olivia couldn’t believe how proud she felt at the end of the night when she saw the sealed packages, all lined up in the fridge and ready to be delivered the next day. It felt amazing, like this was a real accomplishment—no matter what else she’d done today, she’d done one tangible thing to help people.

Not only that, but she felt a real sense of community here. Some of the other regular volunteers had been working at the food pantry since it had started, and after she showed up the second time, they’d taken her under their wing. They’d laughed at her—but in a kind way—when she asked questions, they’d taught her to chop and dice, and they always oohed and aahed over her outfit when she walked in on Wednesday nights. She felt like she was part of something; that there were people who embraced her, and whom she embraced right back. Many of them were from the neighborhood and so they knew some of the recipients of the meals well, which almost made it feel like they were cooking for family. Olivia wondered what they would think of Max.