Falling for Max (4 page)

Something about the way she said
banging her right there on the floor
made it hot in the room all of a sudden, and Max moved to stand on the opposite side of the kitchen island, just in case that wasn’t the only physical reaction her words would invoke. It had obviously been too long since his last relationship, which had ended shortly before he left Connecticut.

“I don’t think banging a woman on the floor was allowed on the big screen in the sixties,” he said.

“But fetching his slippers? She’s not a Labrador retriever.”

“From the sound of it, I should cross a willingness to bring me my slippers off of my list of desirable qualities in a wife, then?” She simply stared at him for so long, he finally gave in and smiled. “That was a joke.”

“I thought it might be. But now I’m wondering if you actually do have a list.”

“Of course I do.” He paused. “But not in writing because that would be weird.”

When she laughed, some of the tension that had gripped him before her arrival eased and he felt like himself again as he led her into the living room, pointing out the bathroom door down the hall in case she should need it later.

“Ah, the infamous couches,” she said when she saw the two oversize leather sofas, one a sectional, and the matching recliner. “And that big TV screen.”

“They’re comfortable. I like a living room that feels lived in, you know?”

“It suits you.” Tori flopped in the corner of the sectional couch, which was Katie’s favorite seat when she was over for a game. Maybe women liked corners. Something to keep in mind, anyway.

“Thank you.”

“So tell me about this list of desirable wifely qualities you have in your head. What kind of woman do you want to date?”

“I’d like to date a woman who’s intelligent, friendly and wants to get married and have children. It would be nice if she likes trains, but that’s probably asking too much.”

She gave him a funny look. “You mentioned trains at the diner, too. Are you one of those guys who chases after trains to take pictures of them?”

“Sometimes. I like trains.”

“Okay. What else?”

“That’s it.”

“Smart, friendly and wants a family? Come on, Max. Brunette? Blonde? Redhead?”

“My previous relationships were with blonde women.”

Tori rolled her eyes. “There’s a shocker.”

“I don’t have a preference as far as hair and eye color. Or height or weight.” He paused, and gave a little shrug. “I’m just looking for a woman who’ll love me enough to marry me and risk having little
odd duck
kids. That’s pretty much my list.”

Chapter Four

The way Max said those words hit Tori, almost like a physical blow. Somebody had sure done a job on this guy in the past and, once again, she wished she could find that person and slap her—or maybe him—upside the head.

She’d heard the phrase used about him, of course. He was a little different from most of the other guys, and it was a shorthanded way of saying so. But the idea of Max believing a woman wouldn’t want kids like him made her realize that phrase had burrowed under his skin in a bad way.

“What woman wouldn’t want kids with your looks and sense of humor?”

He smiled, and it chased the sadness in his eyes away. “I just need to find her. So where should we start?”

“Well...” It was worth a shot. “It would help if I knew what your job is.”

“It would, huh?”

“What people choose to do for a living says a lot about them.” Maybe if she kept a straight face, he’d believe she had a logical reason for needing the information.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“What’s your job title?”

“It’s complicated.”

She crossed her arms and gave him a stern look, which probably lost some of its effect because she was nestled into the corner of the couch. “Not really. I’m a book cover designer-slash-waitress.”

“I guess it would be easier if I just show you.”

There was no holding back the victory grin as she, somewhat reluctantly, got off the couch. That corner seat was too comfortable for her own good. “I agree.”

She followed him down the hallway to the basement door. When he just looked at her expectantly, she rolled her eyes and then turned her back so she couldn’t see the number he punched into the security panel. “Way to show trust, Max.”

“There’s not much sense in having a security code if everybody knows it.”

“I’m not really everybody.” When she heard the door open, she turned back to him. “Should I call somebody and let them know you’re taking me into your basement?”

“If I say no, will you think it’s because you don’t need to or because, as a serial killer, I wouldn’t want you to do that?”

She laughed. “Good point.”

“Also, you’ll need to sign a waiver to be on camera. Standard porn-studio rules.”

Her mouth dropped open and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. “You heard about that?”

“People have a tendency to forget I’m around. For example, if I’m wandering the aisles of the store and Fran gets talking to somebody.”

She was going to wring Hailey’s neck. Slowly. “That was a joke. You know it was a joke, right? I was trying to illustrate how ridiculous the serial-killer thing is by throwing out another equally stupid story.”

“I’ve heard a lot of theories, but porn studio’s a new one.”

“I know the gossip’s probably a pain, but I promise I can keep a secret. I won’t tell anybody—even Hailey— what you do.”

“Even if it
is
a porn studio?”

The idea of Max Crawford having a sex room in his basement should have made her laugh, but she felt a flush of heat over her neck. He was a good-looking guy, even if he was totally wrong for her, and it wasn’t hard to imagine him naked.

“It would kill me,” she said, trying not to sound like a woman who was picturing him naked, “but even if you’re making porn, I won’t tell Hailey.”

He flipped a light switch and she followed him down the stairs. When she got to the bottom, she looked around, shaking her head. Trains. The man seriously had a thing for trains.

“I paint model trains, mostly HO scale brass,” he said, as if that would mean something to her.

He went to a shelving unit and pulled out a long, thin green box. After pulling off the lid and peeling back the packaging, he showed her an old steam train engine. It was all brass and, as she leaned closer, she could see it was so detailed, it looked real.

“They usually come to me like this,” he said. “This is a 2-8-0, which means the wheel configuration is...never mind. Anyway, it’s a Consolidation and I’m going to paint it in the B&M livery. In, uh...the colors the Boston and Maine Railroad used. Sorry. That probably makes no sense to you.”

“So you paint toy trains?”

He frowned, carefully replacing the packaging and closing the box. “They’re not toys. Model railroading is actually an expensive hobby, especially if you model brass, which most of my clients do. It’s my job to take this shiny engine and make it look real, and I’m not cheap, either.”

“Do you have one done I can see?”

He looked pleased that she asked and, after replacing the green box, walked over to a corner and turned on a section of overhead lighting. She saw a platform, done up to look like...land. There was a meadow with train tracks running across it, with woods in the background made of tiny trees. The wall was painted to look like a sky and it was all so well done it looked real. On the tracks sat a lone engine and, unlike the shiny brass one, this one was grubby and looked old.

“This is another 2-8-0, but in Union Pacific livery. See how it looks real?” He went to what was obviously his primary workbench and picked up an engine, which he set on the rails behind the Union Pacific train. “Now look at this one.”

She didn’t have to be an expert to see the difference. The one from his workbench had been painted, but it looked brand-new. Like a Hot Wheels car. “It doesn’t look real. It looks like a toy.”

“Exactly. See those pictures?” He pointed to a frame hanging on the wall that held side-by-side eight-by-ten photos.

She moved closer and saw that the pictures were almost identical. A steam train pulling cars along the track, through the woods, with steam blowing out of the smokestack.

“One is a photo of a real engine and one is a photo of the brass model that the client sent me after I painted it. I work from historical photographs of the actual engines and rolling stock the clients are modeling whenever possible.”

“That’s amazing, Max. It really is. So you didn’t paint that one, then.” She pointed at the new-looking engine he’d set on the tracks.

“No, I didn’t. A gentleman sent that little 4-4-2 to a friend of a friend for painting to save money. I’d hoped to be able to weather it for him with minimal work—and cost—but the paint is bad, especially on the detail work. I’m going to have to strip it down and essentially start over.”

“You’re such a wonderful artist.”

“I have a reputation for quality work in the model railroading community.”

“That’s very modestly put.” She wandered to his workbench, looking at the various tools of his trade. “Why do you hide what you do from people?”

“I have the security system because I’ll often have thousands of dollars worth of rolling stock in here, and some of them are hard to replace, to say nothing of my equipment. Then the rumors started and I have to confess, I’ve enjoyed hearing the theories.”

She laughed. “You’re a little twisted, Max. I like you.”

* * *

Max followed Tori back upstairs, feeling pretty good about the evening so far. Even though she didn’t know anything about trains, she’d recognized the artistry and skill of what he did, and a lot of people hadn’t in the past.

Her eyes had never glazed over with boredom and she’d even asked questions about his process and how he’d gotten into it. His dad’s brother had done model cars when Max was a kid and had let him help. His love for trains, love of models and natural aptitude for the painting had all come together and that was that. Because of his meticulous attention to detail and willingness to put in hours of research for historical accuracy, it hadn’t taken long for his reputation to spread.

Once he’d closed the door and reset the security panel, he led her back to the kitchen, where she took a seat on one of the bar stools at the island. “It should only take about fifteen minutes to make supper.”

“What are we having?”

“Marinated steak and mushroom kebobs, with rice pilaf.”

“Uh-oh. What if I’m a vegetarian?”

His brain froze for a second and then kicked into overdrive. He should have asked her if she had any dietary likes or dislikes. Or allergies. He hadn’t given any thought at all to her tastes and had simply rummaged through the chest freezer until he found something he thought he cooked particularly well.

“Max?”

“You can probably pick out the steak. Or I will, before I put them on the grill. It’ll be a mushroom kebob.”

She laughed, and he blew out a sigh of relief. At least she wasn’t annoyed with him. “I’m not a vegetarian. I just wanted to see how you’d react.”

A pop quiz, he thought. And he felt as if he’d failed somehow. “I should have asked you if you have likes or dislikes in advance.”

“Relax. Chances are you’re going to have at least the first date, if not two, with a woman in a restaurant where you’ll be able to see what she orders. If she’s a vegetarian or has any allergies, you’ll probably find out at that point. Having a friend come to your house is different than taking a woman out to dinner.”

That was true. And if, after a couple of dates, he wasn’t comfortable enough with a woman to ask her if she had any food allergies or preferences, it wouldn’t bode well for their relationship, anyway. He needed to feel as at ease with his date as he did with Tori in order to have a future with her.

Though he’d had a moment of panic over her fake taste in food, he’d been almost totally free of awkwardness this evening. He’d learned at the diner that talking to Tori was easier than talking to other women. It was going to be very hard to replicate how relaxed he was with Tori, no matter where the date took place.

He fired up the indoor grill that was his favorite way to cook and went to the fridge to get the marinated kebobs he’d assembled shortly before she’d been due to arrive.

“Those smell delicious,” she said when they’d been sizzling on the grill for a few minutes.

“Thank you. I enjoy cooking, which is why I rarely eat in restaurants.”

“But it’s nice to get out once in a while. At least twice a month, maybe. Just to see people and socialize.”

“I’m discovering that, and I think I’ll keep visiting the diner on a regular basis.” He turned the kebobs. “I’ll go set the dining room table.”

“Do you usually eat in the dining room?”

“No. I usually eat here in the kitchen, unless there’s something on TV I want to watch. Then I eat in the living room.”

“I don’t mind eating here. There’s no sense dragging everything to the dining room and back.”

He put out two place settings on the island and, when the kebobs were done, laid them out on a serving platter. After spooning the rice pilaf from the slow cooker to a serving dish, he set them out and then realized he may have screwed up the place settings.

He’d set the plates and silverware side by side because that’s how the bar stools were—all on one side of the island. But it seemed weird to sit next to her. He felt like he should sit across from her so they could make eye contact while talking.

“That food looks too good to let it get cold, so make up your mind,” Tori said. “Either move the stool around to the other side, like you want to do, or sit next to me and pretend we’re at the counter at the diner.”

“Was it that obvious?”

She shrugged. “You pick an object to look at, as if you’re pondering something, and I think you do it so you don’t make deer-in-the-headlights eye contact when you’re anxious about something.”

“You’re very perceptive.” And, because of that, he chose to sit next to her instead of across the island from her. It was weird how she seemed to see him more clearly than other people, who were usually content to see what he showed them.

“I’m an artist. Rendering emotion through body language and facial expressions is kind of what I do, and I’ve always been a people watcher.”

She helped herself to a kebob and some rice pilaf, and then he did the same. The appreciative sound she made after her first bite of the steak and mushrooms made him feel a small glow of pride. The marinade was one of his own making and it was nice to see somebody else appreciate it.

“We’re supposed to be chatting so I can get to know you better,” she said between bites, “but this is so good, I don’t want to stop eating long enough to talk.”

“Enjoy your dinner. We can talk after.”

They did make small talk while they ate. Mostly about cooking, which wasn’t her forte, and their work. It felt nice to have company during a meal and a renewed commitment to finding a wife hit Max while he carried their dishes to the sink. Tori stepped up next to him at the counter with the serving dishes.

“What are the chances of finding a woman in Whitford who’s as easy to talk to as you?” he asked without thinking.

“Sorry, Max. I’m one of a kind.” She laughed. “But we’ll find you somebody awesome, I promise. I think we should go on a mock date so you’re not on your home turf. Next weekend, maybe.”

“A mock date?”

“Yes. But we’ll pretend it’s real. You can pick me up and drive me into the city for a nice dinner.” She grinned. “I’ll even let you pay.”

“I’ll feel bad if I take up too much of your social time. You probably have better things to do than hold my hand through the dating process, like finding your own dates.”

“I’m not interested in dating, by your definition.”

He couldn’t wrap his head around that. “But you’re very pretty and friendly. And you’re funny. Any guy would be lucky to have you. And I bet you’d be a wonderful mother, too.”

He wasn’t the most socially adept knife in the block, but even Max couldn’t miss the way her mouth tightened and the warm humor left her eyes. With his gaze fixed on the faucet, he wondered where he’d gone wrong.

Maybe she’d been in a bad relationship. Or perhaps she couldn’t have children, which meant what he’d just said would be highly insensitive. If he’d hurt her feelings, no matter how inadvertently, he would feel horrible.

He wracked his brain, trying to come up with something to say. Should he ask her what was wrong or try to change the subject? Somehow he didn’t think
Hey, how ’bout those Red Sox
was the appropriate thing to say at the moment.

“That’s not going to happen,” she said in a tight voice.