Page 74 of One Little Mistake

I stand at the threshold of the living room with Tim in my arms, feeling my heart pounding wildly as my face flushes with heat. Vivienne winks at me—she definitely invited him on purpose. Max and Logan can barely stand each other.

It’s only been a week since I last saw him, but it feels like a lifetime. He’s a stranger and yet, somehow, achingly familiar. He’s dressed differently today. A crisp white shirt and black jeans. He’s standing by the window, facing sideways, hands in his pockets, staring up at the starry sky.

“And now that everyone’s finally here—let’s sit down!” Vivienne calls out, and Max turns, his gaze landing on me.

There are only a few feet between us, but even from this distance, I can see his pupils dilate and darken. He holds his breath—just like I do. A chill runs down my spine, my throat dries up, and my hands begin to tremble. Instinctively, I lick my lips, and his gaze drops to them instantly. I know what he’s thinking. I don’t even need to guess. And it makes me blush like I’m eighteen again, as if it’s the first time a guy ever kissed me.

“Good to see you,” he says hoarsely, taking a few steps toward me.

“Hi,” I breathe, drinking him in with my eyes, unsure what to do with myself.

“He’s asleep?” he asks softly, nodding toward my son.

“Yeah,” I smile, unable to hold his gaze, which feels like it’s slicing right through to my soul. “I’ll go lay him down next to Nadine,” I say quickly, grateful for an excuse to slip away andgive myself a moment to breathe, to calm my nerves before facing him again.

Though who am I kidding? I hoped all day I’d see him here. I wore a loose black dress to hide my post-pregnancy figure, did my makeup, even curled my hair and draped it over one shoulder just right.

The door to the nursery muffles the guests’ voices and shields me from their eyes. I press my back to the cold wall and close my eyes. It’s not so bad. Max doesn’t seem to remember what happened that night. Or at least he’s not treating it like a big deal. Maybe it meant nothing to him. Not like it did to me.

I exhale slowly. Catch my reflection in the mirror. I look good—actually good. No worse than Natalie or Cynthia. That gives me a boost of confidence. I pull a soft smile onto my face and head back out.

Everyone’s already seated at the table. Logan sits next to Vivienne. His twin brother is with a date, one of Vivienne’s friends and her husband—people I’ve seen a few times—are chatting nearby, a stranger… and Max.

There’s only one seat left—and, of course, it’s right next to Max.

I slow my steps. All eyes are on me. Max sits with his back to me and doesn’t turn around. I quietly take the empty seat beside him, pretending to listen to the conversations around the table. But in truth, I’m focused on just one person in the room.

He unsettles me. His presence chips away at my confidence. And our bodies are so close that I can’t resist a “casual” brush of my leg against his under the table—just to confirm that yes, his touch still sends a confusing jolt through me.

“I’m Greg,” the guy to my right says with a charming smile. “Mind if I keep you company tonight? Since we’re both solo?”

I glance up at him and smile politely in return.

“Just juice for me. I’m not drinking tonight,” I reply, and I could swear I hear a faint growl from Max’s direction as Greg pours me a glass of apple juice.

Greg turns out to be a great conversationalist—funny, warm, easy to talk to. He asks about my work, shares a few stories. He’s a friend of Logan’s. I find myself genuinely laughing at one of his jokes when, out of nowhere, a hand lands on my knee—and my heart practically somersaults.

Max’s hand. Hot against my skin, even through the thin layer of my stockings.

I go rigid. The conversations around us fade into background noise. Every nerve in my body is tuned to that single point of contact.

I’m tense, strung tight. I don’t dare look at him or glance down.

What is he doing?

Why?

His thumb slowly strokes over my knee. I finally turn my head to look at him.

He looks completely relaxed. Casually listening to Logan, not a single trace of mischief on his face. But his hand… it begins to move upward. Slowly.

I don’t know what I want more: for him to stop, or to keep going.

But common sense wins out. I gently nudge him with my foot under the table, a silent message: Not now. Not like this.

His hand freezes. Then he shifts slightly in his seat, leaning closer to me.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low and close, his breath brushing my ear, making my skin tingle. “You look pale. Maybe you should lie down for a bit. Are you still on medication?”

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