The Last in Line

Chapter 3

Three

Max pulled his car over to the front of a double-story brick townhouse on a small lane just off the heavy trafficked main road of Brunswick Street. He nodded out to a giant mural of a man, fist raised high and dressed in head-to-toe white, except for a gold jacket. “You have Freddie Mercury painted on your house?”

For the first time since this encounter, the woman beside him broke into a brilliant grin, the ruby of her lips no match for her hickory eyes, shining with their own unique brilliance. “I painted it myself. And he’s joy personified, so why not?”

Max laughed at her statement but also her reaction—and the way his heart jolted at the pure exhilaration in her smile.

He shut off the engine and slumped back in his seat. He’d gotten this woman to safety. All he had to do was walk her to her front door, and his night would be over. He could go back to his multi-million-dollar apartment and the moonlit ocean just outside.

But first, he’d keep her talking and double-check she was truly all right. “You know, I doubt many people get through ‘We Will Rock You’ without at least tapping a foot along.”

She gave a shrug, the light bronze in her eyes still glittering. “It’s a classic, but I’m more into the flamboyance of ‘I Want to Break Free’ or the layered harmonies in ‘Somebody to Love’. Freddie knew how to be completely himself. I admire that. He was bad in the best kind of way, you know?”

“I have a feeling you wouldn’t be far from that yourself.”

She lifted a brow but didn’t respond. To be fair, he wasn’t all that sure where that response had come from or if it had been all that appropriate.

Still, he struggled to pull his focus off what seemed to be a constant light behind this woman’s expression. Constant, now there wasn’t some crazed predator hunting her down, anyway. That smile hid a childishness, an unrestrained radiance, like a sunbeam personified… or something.

He chuckled to himself, at the way in which he’d suddenly waxed poetic about a woman he’d only technically just met.

“What?” She narrowed a glare at him, though that smile still held, her thick platinum curls overwhelming her yellow polka-dot headband and hugging her doll-like cheeks. “What is it? Why are you laughing?”

He chuckled again. First because he’d likened this woman to a child, then the sun, and now a doll, which, with her killer curves, sensuous red lips, and Marilyn Monroe-inspired attire—complete with off-the-shoulder, polka dot, vintage pinup dress—she most certainly was not!

But second, because he now had to deflect his true reason for laughing.

“Nothing.” He brought his closed fist to his lips and cleared his throat, unable to pry his thoughts off how he’d now decided those curves were less “killer” and more “divine” like a goddess. A goddess? Jesus-b****y-hell, he needed to get his mind together. “Umm… I just found it interesting how you’ve clearly not overthought your feelings on Freddie Mercury, that’s all.”

She beamed again and twisted toward him, his heart panging hard. “You saying I’m weird? I’m not weird.”

“You totally are weird.” He jabbed a finger at her house. “I bet you’re hiding a Freddie Mercury shrine in there, complete with a life-sized cardboard cut-out and preserved finger you probably scavenged right out of his grave.”

She threw back her head and gave a full-on witch’s cackle, hands clapping as though she attempted to stem the laughter. “Hiding? You’re more than welcome to come inside and have a look for yourself. I have no shame about my altar.”

“You’re joking, right? You don’t actually have an—”

His shoulders locked under a suddenly rigid posture. Surely, she wasn’t really inviting him in? But damn it, he wanted to throw himself at the offer either way.

Get a grip. The woman just had the fright of her life. She’s being friendly. She doesn’t want me. Now open her door and let the poor darling out.

He shifted in his seat and pressed a button on his door console, the one that released the locks on his car. “Well… good to know. I bet you’re tired. I should let you go.”

But she didn’t move, and neither did he.

He just stared out to the cobblestones edging the lane and the black asphalt center bathed in pale-white street light.

“Max?”

He turned at his name, her dark lashes rising and falling, her gaze moving around his face in a way that made his heart want to throw itself against the front of his ribcage.

Like she, too, wanted to stay for a moment longer.

Piss off, you dope. She probably just wants to say thank you, then be on her way. Go on then, just say goodbye already.

And still he said nothing.

As much as he wanted to congratulate himself on his heroics tonight, he deserved a hard kick in the groin for also having noticed the way her yellow dress supported her ample breasts, or how the nipped-in waist didn’t hide the slight bump of her tummy, a bump he found inordinately feminine and f*****g sexy.

Hot l**t burned through his body. Well, maybe he deserved to burn. Or maybe he was just human, and she all raw and unabashed woman made for physical worship in any other circumstances.

Dude, these are the bleeding circumstances. Say. Good. Bye!

“Seriously”—her light jovial smile returned, albeit a little slower this time and tinged with an unreadable focus—“do you want to come inside?”

His jaw slipped loose, and he tried to coax out words that just wouldn’t come, his mind working double-time to decide what her invitation might mean.

Eventually, he decided to cut his lumbering brain a break and just ask. “You mean, as in…”

“As in, I’m not ready to be alone, and I figure I at least owe you a drink.”

Righto, then. His posture dropped, and he couldn’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved, but he shook his head and pushed on with the farewell either way. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He wanted to jump at the offer, to at least grasp at some kind of connection with this woman whose name he’d stupidly forgotten to ask. But what he’d done for her tonight, not leaving her to fend for herself in the face of trouble, didn’t deserve a reward.

Or a drink.

Definitely not a chance to heat up his dating life.

She extended her hand to her door and pulled the handle, only to fall short of actually leaving. “If it’ll make you feel better, consider it another favor to me, but you’re coming in for that drink.”

He frowned, prepared to argue with her, but by the time he opened his mouth to do just that, she’d already slipped out, her keys jangling in her hand.

His hand worked on autopilot, unlatching his seatbelt, while his moronic legs chased after her. He waited. She punched in the code to a barred gate leading to a small courtyard and her front door.

He followed her into her house where she flicked on the lights. Beyond the entrance, a cozy, white kitchen with a gray marble counter greeted him.

“So…” He made a show of peering around the bright dining area just up ahead, this woman’s home all “urban arty”, with its white walls and various indoor plants, and in a trendy part of Melbourne. Whereas he’d invested almost everything he owned into upgrading his multi-level apartment into the eco-efficient apex of city-coastal living. “I might have been mistaken when I decided you were one of the bar staff at The Ruby Room.”

“What gave me away?” She dropped her purse on a tiny table by the front door and sauntered into the kitchen. A giant painting of a half-n***d lady—little more than a thick, black outline and a few solid splashes of color—graced the side wall.

He forced his attention from the semi-nude and back to the actual woman standing before him, a small knowing smile twisting her lips. “Even if you rented, this place isn’t exactly within a bar worker’s budget.”

She gave a light shrug and pulled a tray of ice from the freezer. “Maybe I have five other house mates hiding upstairs, and we share the costs. Or maybe my money is inherited. Or maybe I have a more lucrative side-hustle, and bar work is merely a passion project.”

“Or maybe it’s all the money you save not driving a car?”

She laughed at that one. “I don’t need a car. Not in this pocket of Melbourne. I have trams and buses, trains and cabs. Plus, this house is just blocks away from the bar.”

She turned her full attention to him, but he stood silent, not sure what to make of her evasive reply.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes and went about ripping a handful of mint from a plant sitting on the white marble counter. “I own The Ruby Room. Now, I’m having a mint gin and tonic since I’ve damn well earned one tonight. What’ll you have?”

He paused, still trying to get his head around the fact she owned The Ruby, one of Melbourne’s more eccentric but cool venues, much less that she threw the fact out there with zero celebration; unlike his friends, who loved to harp on about everything they owned or achieved.

And maybe that’s what he liked about this woman because, despite what his friends thought and his own tendency to blow money on travel and parties and renovating, his bank account wasn’t a bottomless pit. He had money, yes, but unlike most of them, his was new and not inherited. He had no “bank of mum and dad” to fall back on. Since ceasing his work at Tiluma, the tech company he co-owned with his brother, his financial flexibility wasn’t as crash hot as it used to be.

“No gin for me. I have to drive home soon.”

“Right.”

She turned to a cabinet behind her and pulled out two short glasses.

Both landed on the counter with a loud clink, followed by the bottle of gin. She gave him an upturned grin. “You sure it’s a no for that drink?”

He moved closer to the mint plant, its cool and peppery scent helping to ground him. And goodness knew, he needed all the grounding he could get to escape the familiar sense that, as always, he was just a few steps behind everyone in the room. Or in this case, the one other person in the room.

“Okay. Yes, to the drink.” Anything to distract from the sinking knowledge that, as little as he knew about this woman, she seemed to have so much more going for her than he did. “Business must be doing well.”

She dropped a slice of lime into each glass and slid one over to him, her direct stare seeming to see right through his mindless prattle. “How do you figure that?”

“It’s a Wednesday night, and the place was busy. In fact, The Ruby is always busy lately. And then there were the new posters for the Live Wire Festival and the “Help Wanted” sign in the front window. Things can’t be too bad if you’re hiring, right?”

She tilted her head to one side, her luminous curls shifting to expose the long tendon down the side of her neck, as well as that delicate sun tattoo. “Oh really, you noticed I’m hiring?” Her gaze made a show of looking him up and down, hinting she’d caught him admiring her neck. “I wouldn’t have picked a flashy guy like you to be interested in a bar job.”

A broken chuckle slipped from his lips, and his heart jolted. Damn. He couldn’t tell if she was giving him attitude or flirting, or maybe even both. He’d always been terrible at picking up these things. Case in point? This woman embodied all that he found attractive, and he had no clue how to move things along with her… or even if he should.

And because he wasn’t exactly the smoothest guy ever, he often waited for women to approach him. And the women who usually did approach him, the ones who assumed he’d be interested, were similar to him, in that they were all tall and athletic and with decent access to “the bank of mum and dad”.

When it came to hooking up, he didn’t often get what he wanted. But given the way his nerve endings tingled, he sure wanted this woman.

He sipped at his drink, suddenly thankful for the liquid courage in his hand. “Me, work in a bar? That wouldn’t go well.”

“Why not?” She leaned a hip against the counter, seeming far more comfortable in his presence than he was in hers. “People seem to like you. That’s more than a decent start.”

He tipped his glass her way, heartened she’d noticed his presence in the past. Then again, she had no idea about his people skills, or lack thereof, and how his odd-ball behavior had gotten him booted from the company he’d helped start. “Some people like me. My former co-workers would say otherwise.”

Since he’d left Tiluma, all he really had was travel, parties, and working on his apartment.

She raised her drink to him in a playful cheers. “Well, Max, consider me some people. Suddenly, I seem to like you, too.”

Her attention flicked down his body again and back to his face, her cheeks maintaining their subtle blush, but nothing more than that. Like she had no qualms about checking him out or the potential repercussions of her words.

His mind snapped to the painting of the topless woman again, then the loud mural outside, along with her adoration of Freddie Mercury’s ability to be completely himself. Except perhaps, her adoration had more to do with recognition. A recognition of who she was. A woman completely herself.

And this woman was not the damsel in distress he’d assumed, though true enough, she had needed him at least for a few minutes there. She was someone with an innate ability to survive, not the type to fumble on tough decisions. Someone who ran headlong into conflict and, unlike him, didn’t bungle the hard stuff with her weird sense of humor.

In other words, she was his complete opposite. His perfect kind of woman. And probably why this encounter wouldn’t lead anywhere.

He drew a steadying breath. “You know my name. What’s yours?”

The least he could do was to stop referring to her as this woman in his head, perhaps even say hello the next time he saw her at The Ruby.

She smiled and placed her drink down on the counter next to his, the action drawing her closer to him. “Freya. Look, I’m not going to lie. I’m still shaken up about what happened earlier, so I’m not likely to get any sleep tonight.” She rounded the counter and paused just in front of him. “So if you’re in any way interested in staying here tonight, I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

Heat crept through his body, starting at his chest and filling up space from his head down to his toes; all while his skin prickled, the hairs along his arms and at the nape of his neck standing on end.

There she went again, running headlong while he scrambled to keep up.

He wanted so much to believe she meant that she wanted him, but he’d read so many people wrong in so many other scenarios, not just the s****l kind, and he wasn’t taking any chances. She’d already met one creep tonight.

“I’m happy to crash on your couch if that’ll help you feel safer.”

Though maybe he should just stick to his original plan and go home, get a decent night’s sleep, jet off to his holiday, and forget any of this ever happened.

Freya’s eyes glittered, and she drew closer, bringing her scent of tangy, sweet perfume wafting over him, her body’s full curves just dangerous centimeters away.

“I don’t want to feel safe.” She pulled the sheer yellow scarf she used as a headband from her hair, shaking out her curls. “I want to feel you.”

Her hair, her scintillating words, that low and husky whisper, eviscerated his already unstable ability to keep his thoughts in check, drawing from him a desire to reach out and bunch his fingers through her wild locks.

But even with his compulsion to touch her, she was the one to reach out first, to touch him, her palms landing on his chest, only to slide up his pectoral muscles, finding a home at the side of his neck. “And I sure as hell don’t want you sleeping on my couch, Max. I want you in my bed.”