Page 29 of Dr. Bad Boy

And now I just need to figure out how to see her again.

9

Violet

Aweek goesby before I see Max again. I pour myself into work, trying like hell not to think about the low rub of his voice in my ear, his hands on my shoulders.

Since the moment I first laid eyes on Max, I’ve known he’s dangerous. Hell, that’s what I wanted from him that first night.

But now? Now that he’s shown himself to be kind and thoughtful and completely without mercy in how he’ll use those traits to get what he wants…

I’m starting to think my capitulation is inevitable—which means when Hannah tells me he’s on the phone, I ask her to tell him I’m in court.

“Did he give you a message?” I ask when she brings in a file a half-hour later.

“Who?” She searches her memory. “Oh, Max Donovan? No.”

And so it goes, three more times that week. By Thursday, Hannah’s starting to wonder why I don’t want to talk to a client. I tell her something innocuous about needing more time on his incorporation and not wanting to needlessly jack up his billable hours.

I don’t think she believes me. Max is already blurring the lines between professional and private and we haven’t done anything.

Again.

We haven’t done anythingagain. Because we did a hell of a lot in July when he wasn’t my client.

And he might have used his kinky genius to help me get through stitches when he was very much a client.

Those stitches are a constant reminder of him. The cut is healing nicely now, pink and tight, kind of itchy. The ER doc told me I could see my family physician next week to check on the healing and have the stitches taken out.

I can’t wait. Driving is a bit of a pain. Not that I’m letting that stop me from heading to the market on Saturday.

Not the market where Max is playing hockey, though. And even if that summer market was still running, I’d stay far clear of it.

Probably.

Sigh. Probably not. But I’d want to.

So I’m grateful that I don’t have that temptation, that the outdoor market is closed for the season and my only option for the yummiest muffins in the city is the indoor market downtown.

In hindsight, I should have considered the possibility that saying as much to Max last weekend was a stupid thing to do.

But it honestly didn’t occur to me that he would be waiting for me at the bakery stand.

And yet there he is, sitting on a bench in the middle of the intersection of two aisles, reading his phone.

Well, he’s holding his phone.

His gaze is securely locked on me as I approach him.

A million thoughts rocket through my mind, but all that comes out of my mouth is the exceptionally pedestrian, “What are you doing here?”

He stands without smiling. “I wanted to see you.”

I’m on edge. Who am I kidding—I’ve been on edge for weeks now. This just shoves me closer to tipping off the emotional cliff. “The normal thing to do in that situation is call.”

“You wouldn’t take my calls.”

I can’t admit that I’ve been dodging him, that would be unprofessional. “I’m your lawyer. Of course I would.”

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