Copyright © 2015 Patricia A. Knight
ICover Design: Truenotdreams
Editor: Josephine Henke
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, with the exception of a reviewer who may quote passages in a review, without written prior permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, events, incidents and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Dedication
This story is dedicated to my husband and all those who serve or have served in the armed forces of the United States. A heartfelt thank you for your service.

I straighten my backpack on my shoulders, paste a smile on my face and march forward into the employees’ locker room. Fridays are usually great—the end of the workweek—the start of the weekend. This Friday has all the earmarks of major suckage. First, my van broke down, again, and now…
“Miss Jones. You are thirty minutes late for your shift.”
My boss at PublicMart stands by my locker, his scowl etching deeper lines in his tanned forehead. Beside him, Dave the daytime security guard shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.
The salmon pink of my cashier’s bib sticks out of the open door to my locker. Multiple cans of
Chef Boyardee ravioli and Starkist tuna make a two-foot pyramid on the narrow wooden bench in front of it. My heart sinks. He’s found my stash for the homeless. They live just the other side of the inter-coastal bridge from where I work in Palm Beach. It always amazes me how much crossing a narrow span of water can affect your standard of living: Palm Beach, the “haves”—
West Palm Beach, the “have-nots.”
“Mr. Padhuwala, I’m sorry I’m late. The Wombat broke—”
He interrupts me. “Yes, yes, your van broke down. Again
.” He shakes his head in irritation.
“Under the circumstances, it doesn’t matter. Miss Jones, I told you what would happen if I caught you caching expired food again.”
“Mr. Padhuwala, the homeless don’t care if the ravioli or tuna is a day past expiration. This is probably the best meal, the only meal, they’ll have all week.”
It just hurts me to throw perfectly good food in the dumpster when a few hundred yards away, people starve. Unlike the Jamaican maids that shop for their hoity-toity multi-millionaire employers, Bennie-Under-the-Bridge and Crazy Kate won’t care if the cans are a day or two past the “best by” date. Benny and Kate definitely won’t sue PublicMart over out-of-date pasta. I’m not sure they know what year it is much less the day or the month.
“We have been over this before, Holiday. Our parent company is emphatic about disposing of anything past the ‘sell by’ date. The potential for litigation due to personal injury is too great.
You leave me no choice, Ms. Jones. You’re fired. Dave will stay while you clean out your locker and escort you off the property. We’ll mail you your final check.”
He walks off shaking his head. I turn to Dave. My shoulders slump and my backpack slithers off and hits the ground. I make no move to stop it. My eyes hold his sorrowful ones. “I can’t believe he fired me.” All right, yes, I can. Mr. Padhuwala is as tough as a four-day-old bagel. My gaze falls on the pyramid. “Can I take these cans? Please?”
“Ms. Holiday.” He sighs. “What am I going to do with you, child? Put ‘em in a sack. I’ll leave them by the loading dock. Come by and pick them up on your way out. Just make sure the management doesn’t see you.”

I hug his neck. “Thank you, Dave. You’re such a nice man.” If you could see a black man blushing, Dave would probably be beet red…but he was a nice man.
“The world isn’t ready for you, Ms. Holiday.” He pauses and scratches his bald head. “Or maybe I got it bass-ackwards. You aren’t ready for the world. You better look out for your own interests first, child, or this world will gobble you up.”
I pull my key from the lock and open the door to the apartment I’ve shared for five years with my fiancé Carl. God bless air conditioning. The forty-five minute trek from PublicMart has left me soaked in perspiration.
I beam at Carl as I throw my backpack and two large sacks of canned goods on the sofa. “Hi, sweetie. What are you doing home this time of day? FedEx run out of boxes to deliver? I’d give you a hug but I’m all hot and sweaty. I really scored for Bennie and Crazy Kate, but man, my morning sucked. It’s so nice to come home and see my sweetie. Wait until I tell you…”
Allen, one of Carl’s good friends, walks out of the kitchen holding a cup of coffee. “Hey,
Holiday.”
“Hey, Allen.” I greet him with a casual wave. Both men stand awkwardly side-by-side and exchange guilty glances. Allen takes Carl’s hand. I glance at Carl in question. “What’s up?”
“Ah…Hol…I need to tell you something.”
***
For the last two weeks, I’ve tried to walk off the stress from the hundred-car pile-up that’s my life right now—no more fiancé, no more job. If walking in sand is good for toning calves and thighs, mine should be the best-toned female legs in the Palm Beaches. The money I’ve saved to begin junior college this fall has taken a bad hit paying “first, last and deposit” on my new place.
I try not to be depressed at the thought of delaying my secretarial career for another year—or two.
I live in one of the most beautiful places on the earth. Even if the sand’s not pristine, and I dodge piles of seaweed and Portuguese Man-O-War, there’s something about the Atlantic Ocean that quiets the clamor inside me. Lately, I’ve needed my clamor quieted.
Sea grape bushes come down to where the beach starts and form a dense green and maroon hedge defining the edge of the private property belonging to the mansions behind them. This stretch of beach in front of the expensive homes is always deserted. It’s a criminal waste, but now, I’m glad of the privacy. I do a 360 and with a quiet sigh of appreciation for the beauty and solitude, I plop my butt in the sand. The driftwood I’ve collected lands beside me like pick-upsticks. The gentle waves rolling onto the beach are mesmerizing. The sound of the soft, regular lap strokes the inside of me and my soul purrs like a kitten being petted.
I’m alone on this vast expanse of sand, sky and sea grapes. I snort. Just me, myself and I; and the sea gulls; and the no-see-ums; and the jellyfish; and the sandpipers. My jaunt north from
Palm Beach’s public beach has carried me firmly onto exclusive private property. At least, it would be private if anyone could own the shoreline. My free-spirited mom used to delight in reminding me that as long as I don’t get off the sand, light a bonfire or spend the night, the
“corrupt capitalist owners of those multi-million dollar tributes to excess that squat along Ocean
Drive and deprive the working man of the ocean”—her words not mine—can’t accuse me of trespassing or make me leave the beach. I get their pricey views for free.
I flop back on the hot sand and close my eyes. I’ll get grit in my curly blond locks, but I don’t care. I’ve abandoned trying to tame the bush and it’s exploded in a riot of shoulder-length blond

ringlets. Anyone can achieve this look. Simply stick your tongue in a light socket. Voila, Holiday hair. That’s the one good thing about being unemployed and single—no one to care about your hair. No one to care about anything else, either. How depressing.
Well, I have to cut my ex some slack. Carl never did anything but tell me I was pretty. My looks weren’t the issue in our breakup. It was my gender. But shoot…I mean really ? It took him until now to decide to bat for the other team? I’m twenty-four, the same age as Carl. We’ve been going steady since junior year in high school and engaged since we graduated.
My shoulders slump. It does explain a lot of his weirdness with the physical end of things. He was my best friend and confidant and I miss him. His new significant other, Allen, is a great guy and he adores Carl. Laughter bubbles up inside when I remember the last time the three of us went for drinks. Allen teased me about the good job I’d done teaching Carl to kiss. They’re so cute together. The bastards.
Wow…I’m really having a pity party. Well, shoot.
I reach blindly for a stick of driftwood and hurl it toward the water, listening for the plunk as it hits. I remind myself to be like the driftwood and float on top of life’s undertow. Don’t fight. Just float. Sooner or later, life’s currents will return me effortlessly to shore. Float, Holiday girl, float.
Sand sprays onto my bare torso and a wet piece of wood thumps onto my vulnerable stomach followed by a hearty “Woof!”
“Sweet baby Jesus!” I lurch up, and I’m face-to-face with a beautiful chocolate Lab. Good golly, I love dogs. He noses the wet driftwood on my stomach and woofs again, then bounces away on stiff legs, his golden eyes begging me to throw the stick. Gurgling with laughter, I oblige and he bounds into the water, paddles out to the floating wood, snags it in his mouth and paddles back, gallumping to me with an enormous grin on his doggy face. Of course, he waits until he’s dropped the stick in my lap to shake.
“Whoa! Now stop that!” I fend off the water droplets, helplessly laughing at his goofy smile.
Once more, I hurl the driftwood into the water. As he dives into the waves in total abandon, every ounce of his doggy self committed to capturing that stick, I admire him. He’s so in the moment. Such a joyous, beautiful dog. Someone loves him. Someone cares for him. He belongs somewhere. Is it stupid to envy a dog? Yeah. It is. If she were alive, Mom would definitely tell me, “Get over yourself, girlfriend.
Okay, Mom…pity party officially ended.
Life is good. I’m healthy. I have a plan for the future. After ransacking my contacts list, a call to a good friend got me hooked up with a catering company so some money will be coming in shortly—maybe enough to fix The Wombat. It would be nice to make a left-hand turn without the windshield wipers coming on. Meanwhile, the rent on my studio is paid until the end of the month and Rover the goldfish has a full can of fish flakes. I have a stockpile of Starkist Tuna and
Chef Boyardee Ravioli so Benny-under-the-bridge and Crazy Kate won’t starve. So, yeah, girl, you got it rocking. And on that optimistic note, I play with my seventy-pound friend until my cheeks hurt from laughing and I can’t make a fist, much less throw another stick. As I said, I love dogs.
The sea grapes cast long shadows on the sand when I decide to make my way home. Happily,
I don’t mind walking. I’d left The Wombat parked in front of my place to save on gas. Not that my beater Volkswagen van used much, but still…a penny saved and all that. I worry that the sweet Lab will follow me when I leave the beach, but he just stands and watches me, a piece of driftwood hanging from his mouth and a crestfallen look on his face. He’s well cared for and he has a collar and license. He belongs to someone in one of these houses; otherwise, I wouldn’t leave him alone on the beach.

As I walk backward, I try to console him. “It’s okay fellah. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll bring a
Frisbee and we can do this some more.”
My playmate cocks his head, drops his driftwood and bounds toward a break in the sea grape hedge. As I watch, I see why. At the end of a path of pavers that run from the nearest big house to the beach, a man stands—tall and golden in a pair of long white cargo shorts and a ripped tshirt that ends just above his midriff and has ‘Ranger Up’ emblazoned across the chest. A flash of light glints off one of those silent dog whistles on a cord around his neck. The sun backlights his silhouette and shadows his features. From the behavior of the Lab, this is the beloved owner.
He must be the caretaker. No one lives in these beach homes during the summer. They are boarded up with hurricane shutters over their windows and doors—like this one. I can see the massive shutters on the big house behind him from here. I raise my hand in a friendly wave and walk toward him. I want to tell him what a lovely dog he has and maybe make plans for another play-date.
“I love your dog,” I call. “What’s his name?”
As I get nearer, the man’s features become visible. Wow...seriously…wow. Six-three at least and spare, like a swimmer or a cyclist, with unkempt brown hair worn long and styled by the ocean breeze. A smile played at the corners of a full mouth on a tanned face striking in its masculine strength, but his eyes did me in. They never left mine and you knew, you just knew from the cautious pain dwelling inside those hazel depths—this gorgeous man had been terribly hurt. How? By what?
“Hi,” I chirp and give him a little wave. “My name’s Holiday Jones and I adore your dog.
This is your dog, right?”
He grins revealing a mouth of even, perfectly white teeth and nods. “Yeah.” He holds out his hand. “Max.”
I return his grin and shake his hand. Okay, wow. Warm, elegant hands with a gentle grip.
Soulful eyes. Handsome face. Below my navel, Miss Kitty does a happy dance. Carl, sweetie,
I’m moving on.
“Well, Max, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I was having an epic sinking spell, think Titanic , until this guy turned up.” I leaned down to scruff the Lab behind the ears and looked up at his owner.
“He lifted my spirits. It’s impossible to be in a bad mood around him.”
Max’s smile widened and he nodded.
“What’s his name?”
“Snafu.”
I tilt my head and cover the Lab’s ears with my hands. I try not to use bad language in front of impressionable youth and the pup’s too young to hear what I’m about to say. “Excuse me? As in the anagram, Situation Normal All Fucked Up
?” I whisper.
Max’s smile spread to his eyes. “Yeah.”
“That’s a terrible name.”
Max lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
I straighten with a laugh. “Would you mind if I come back tomorrow to see Snafu? My days are free for a while and, well, he cheers me up.” I watch his mouth carefully form words.
“Sure. What time?”
I thought for moment. “Is 7:00 too early?”
His eyebrows flew up, but he shook his head. “No. 7:00 it is.”
“Thanks so much. See you tomorrow...Max, Snafu. I’ll bring a Frisbee. Does Snafu play
Frisbee?” Max nods. “Great, good…and, ah…yeah, okay…tomorrow.” I wave and back away

grinning like a lunatic, unwilling to lose eye contact with this gorgeous man. Max watches right back until I have to turn toward the beach or risk looking totally ga-ga, smitten and seriously uncool. I walk a little way down the beach and glance back. I can’t help myself. I am totally gaga, uncool, smitten. I don’t care. Max and Snafu are walking toward the big house that overlooks this part of the beach. Max places each step with exaggerated care and my exuberant, boisterous playmate walks quietly at his side like a gray-muzzled pensioner. Hmm. Even the dog thinks
Max is fragile. There’s a story here and I want to know what it is.
It’s dark by the time I get back to the cinder block, one-room studio I rent in a former Motel
6. Two weeks ago, I moved out of the fully furnished two-bedroom apartment I had shared with
Carl. Number one, I can’t afford the rent with no job, and number two, I figure Carl needs it more anyway now that he and Allen are in a “committed relationship.” Whatever that meant. I thought that was what we had. Carl offered to help with my deposits, but he and Alan aren’t any better off moneywise.
My studio is, ah, basic, but I’m good at scrounging stuff up and there is always the Goodwill
Thrift Store and St. Catherine’s Bargain Basement. Right now I have a chrome and red pedestal table of dubious stability that probably came out of some 1950’s diner, a couple of matching chairs, a hula-girl lamp with a fringed shade, an old wooden cable spool that functions as a side table and a three-legged upholstered chair. I’ve stacked bricks to make the fourth leg and it is the premier seating in my glamorous abode. Not a bad haul for $12.00. Add my double mattress on a rusty iron frame, two floor fans that run 24/7, and it is home sweet home. I know what you’re thinking. But really, it’s not that bad and it’s not forever. Just until I get back on my feet.
Not even the scritch of roaches in the sink the size of cocker-spaniels can spoil my good mood. I slip between my sheets with a smile on my face that won’t go away. Tomorrow I will see Max and Snafu. A last thought drifts through my mind before sleep claims me.
I’d never felt like this about Carl.
***
“You’re a babe-magnet, bud.”
Snafu circles on his pad on the floor at the side of my bed until he settles with a thud. I set my alarm for oh-five hundred hours. I’ll need the time to get my PT in before I ask my left knee and ankle to make the walk from the house to the beach.
“We can’t oversleep, Snaf. Holiday is coming tomorrow for a play-date and we need to be at the gate by oh-seven hundred hours.”
Snafu raises his eyebrows, casts a “whatever, dude” at me and then rolls to his side with a groan. I chuckle. The pup’s worn out. Today was good for him. I’d been working my way through the weeds in the flowerbed by the pool when Snaf had woofed and taken off. I’d followed to see where he went and watched the adorable blond sprite play with Snaf for a couple of hours. I was so damn glad for my boy. I’m a pathetic playmate. The whole time I kept telling myself, “Go down to the beach. Introduce yourself to the pretty girl. Thank her for giving your dog the kind of attention you can’t.” But each time I walked toward the back gate and the path that led to the beach, the old fear returned.
What if I couldn’t speak? What if I tried and all that emerged was stuttered bits of garbled nonsense like every other time in the past eighteen months when I’d tried to form a coherent sentence of more than two words? I can talk to my dog just fine. Pretty women? Not so

much. My head doc says it’s a psychological defense mechanism to stress and I’ll get over it.
Fuck, I’m such a coward. I didn’t used to be. I’m just sick of the pity.
I waited until it looked like she was leaving before hobbling down to the sea grape hedge and whistling for Snaf. When she’d waved and backtracked across the beach to introduce herself, her artless, innocent admiration—first of my dog, and then of me—eased the knot of tension coiled in my gut. I’d never wanted to be free from the succession of Ground Hog Days my life had become for the past year and a half as much I wanted it then. She charmed me. I wanted to pursue her.
I went to sleep with a smile on my face for the first time since I’d been medevaced from
Kandahar. Tomorrow I will see Miss Holiday Jones.

A sense of joy and anticipation fills me when I awake. I get to play with Snafu again today.
My heart skips unevenly. I get to see Max. I leave the house at five to make certain I’ll be at
Snafu’s gate by seven and I practically trot the five miles to the beach. I’m at least a half hour early. I know it’s silly for a single, brief meeting to affect me so…but it did. I can’t wait to see
Snafu and perhaps unravel a few threads in the mystery surrounding his gorgeous owner.
I suspect from the name of the dog, Max has a military background as many men of his age have nowadays, what with Iraq and Afghanistan a constant hot spot, and of course the “Ranger
Up” on his ratty t-shirt was a dead giveaway.
I am still five minutes away from our meeting point when I see Max standing in the break of the sea grape hedge. My heart gives a leap. He’s early, too. He looks down at the Lab sitting obediently at his heels and says something, motioning my way. Snafu woofs and bounds toward me, his tail gaily wagging. I wave at Max and holler, “Hey, Max!”
He waves back. “Hello, Holiday!”
And then a seventy-pound bullet of happy dog takes my knees out from under me.
“Arggh!” I scream, collapsing in a heap on my back and then laughing while Snafu slobbers doggy kisses all over my face and bounces in circles, barking, around my prone body. I get to my knees and dig through my backpack for the Frisbee I’d brought. Finding it, I whip it sixty-feet down the beach and watch Snafu go flying after it.
“Hey, Holiday.”
I look up at Snafu’s owner and grin. “It can’t be more than 6:30. I figured I’d have a wait.
You’re early.”
Max chuckles and shrugs. “Thanks for yesterday. For…p-p-playing…with Snaf.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. I think Snafu did more for me than I did for him, though. I wasn’t kidding about my personal crisis.”
Max nodded. “Yeah. Snaf’s g-good…therapy dog.”
Snafu trots up, drops the Frisbee at my feet and looks at me expectantly. I zip it down the beach again and off he goes. “Snafu is a therapy dog?”
“Yeah. Mine.”
“Ah.” Part of me said not to pry into what could be a painful conversation for this handsome man, but the curious part of me wanted to know everything there was to know about Max. Coke or Pepsi? What toothpaste did he like? What was his favorite band? Boxers or briefs? How did he feel about global warming? How did he feel about penniless, unemployed, five-foot-nothing blonds with flyaway hair and tar on their feet who adored dogs? Curiosity won. “What do you need therapy for?”
“Oh man.” Max chuckles without humor. “G-got all day?”
“Pretty much, yeah. So lay it on me. I’m a good listener.”
His eyebrows rise as he holds my gaze. “Don’t f-forget. You asked.”

I smile as I dig into my backpack, drag out a couple of beach towels and spread them on the sand. “Promise. I won’t forget.” I sit and watch as Max moves to sit beside me with painstaking care. His white cargo shorts, the same ones he’d worn the day before, gape at the leg and expose scars I hadn’t seen yesterday. I notice them now and Max sees me notice.
“IED. Kandahar. Bad ankle. B-b-bad knee.” He points to his head. “PCS. Post. Concussive.
Syndrome. Can’t…can’t…can…” Max closes his eyes, growls in frustration and fumbles at a pocket in his shorts.
I ran a hand up his arm—his rock-hard arm. This man is ripped. Whatever was wrong with
Max, it had little to do with not being fit. “Hey. It’s okay. You have all day to tell me—or not.
I’m not going anywhere. Just spending the day hanging at the beach with a great dog and his incredibly hot owner.”
Max snorts. “Hot owner?”
I grin and nod. “Oh yeah. You’re a hottie.”
Max relaxes and pulls out a pad of paper and a pencil stub from his cargo shorts and holds them up. “Fall…b-back…plan.”
I laugh. “Okay. You have a wrecked knee and ankle and because of a severe concussion, you have trouble speaking. Did I get it right?”
“First try.” Max winces. “One…m-more thing. Seizures. Snaf knows.”
“Snafu is a therapy dog and he alerts when you are going to have a seizure?”
Max nods. “Yeah. So…not-so-hot owner.”
I get on my knees, sit back and face Max. “Oh…I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that at all.
You’re just the strong silent type. It adds to your sense of brooding mystery.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Once a hottie, always a hottie.”
Max grins. “Nut case.”
I shrug and eye him sideways with a crooked smile. “Takes one to know one.”
Pleasure glows inside me when Max cracks up laughing. When he sobers, he props himself up on his arms and looks at me. “Holiday Jones. Your turn. Personal crisis?”
“Oh wow. Do you have all day?” I flop to my back and rest on my elbows beside him.
Max nods solemnly. “Just h-h-hanging at the…beach…with Snaf and a hottie.”
I feel the blush creeping up my neck. Wow. He thinks I’m a hottie? Wow. I peek up at him.
He regards me steadily.
“Ah, I’m a recently fired and dumped hottie.”
“Why?”
“Oh boy. You’re going to hate that you asked. My life’s a train wreck.”
He simply shakes his head. “Spill it, Jones.”
I spend the rest of the morning throwing the Frisbee and telling Max about Carl coming out of the closet, and Mr. Padhuwala and expired ravioli and tuna, and Bennie-Under-the-Bridge and
Crazy Kate. It was easy…as if I’d known him my whole life, but all the time, in the background, my body hums with awareness of Max as a man.
***
I shift to my stomach to hide my full-on erection. My cargo shorts are loose but I don’t want to risk Holiday will notice. Hell, I just met her and I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed this much. I want her to stay, not think I’m some perv. She’s right. Her life’s a train wreck. The way she describes the shit parade that’s rained down on her lately cracks me up. I admire her optimism. I admire her attitude. I admire her sense of humor…and her killer body.

As I watch her, fascinated by her beautiful, expressive face, I thank God for making some men gay—a strange reaction for me. My Ranger unit was tight-knit. I lost it when ET and Gomer got killed. Shit, I cried fucking tears. But, as close as I was to the guys in my unit, I never wanted to do any of ‘em. I’m completely on board with don’t ask, don’t tell
. The fact that I want to shake Allen’s hand and buy him and Carl a round? It’s a first.
Damn docs didn’t tell me how much PCS affects moods—played hell with mine. And my sex drive. My dick has been DOA for the better part of two years. Physically, everything works.
Morning wood and the odd wet dream still plague my life, but every other aspect is AWOL.
Mentally, nothing works. Sex-perts tell you fucking is ninety-percent mental. I believe them— now. Damn, impotency sucks. No wonder no one talks about it. I sure as hell don’t want to.
I'm… was a fucking Army Ranger. I might as well have “hard-ass” tattooed across my forehead. I've done three fucking tours in that sand box we called “Asscrapistan”. When my unit rolled, fire-fights were guaranteed. I’d honed my self-control and decision-making skills to a razor sharp point, precise and deadly. I controlled my emotions. They didn’t control me.
Now? Not so much. It is a source of immense frustration to have my control taken away by a concussive brain injury, but I’m learning to live with the new me. He’s not so bad. A little more
“touchy-feely” than I used to be…but I guess that’s not the end of the world. Sometimes I wonder if this is what chicks deal with all the time. If they can have normal lives with a clusterfuck of emotions, then so can I.
The Palm Beach sun and sand promised isolation and a chance to heal. I hope time will do what the best therapists couldn’t. Between mowing the grass, weeding flowerbeds and cleaning the pool, I have plenty of time to work out and try not to think about what life had been like before. Sometimes when I remember that guy, the arrogant asshole I was “before,” I wince.
Fuck. I took so much for granted.
I never leave the property. God love Amazon. It delivers everything. With a limp dick, I’ve given up women. Social stress blitzes my speech, makes sure I can’t explain much—not even to arm-candy. So, I avoid women. I don’t even fantasize about them anymore . . . until Holiday. My seizures are just more shit piled on top of shit.
She sits next to me in her ragged cut offs and faded, pink, bikini top, smelling of Ivory soap.
Tendrils of her hair wave in the breeze all wild-ass and free, exuding a strawberry scent…and
I’m so hard it’s painful. Halle-fucking-luiah.
“You hungry?” I ask. It’s been a while since breakfast and I have a feeling that Holiday might consider food a luxury if she’s scraping pennies.
“I brought some crackers and fruit and a couple of bottles of water. The bottles say Evian, but the water is out of the tap. I’ll be happy to share.”
She smiles at me. It’s infectious. I have to smile back. This sprite of a woman…shit. She’s the real deal. My emotions run riot. Why do you make an instant connection with some people and others not? What decides that? I believe in a higher power. I think she was sent to me—put in this place, at this time for me. I will my hard-on away so I don’t scare her when I turn over.
“Let me feed you.” I stand and hold my hand out. “Come on.”
She takes my hand and hops to her feet, putting no drag on me at all. I whistle for Snafu and the three of us make our way to the cabana. My leg decides to cooperate for once. I’m not limping too badly, so I don’t let go of her hand.
***
My hand rests in Max’s gentle clasp. He never lets go. I feel like I’m plugged into low voltage. A tingle of 100% sexual attraction runs between the two of us. We are both aware of it. I

want him to act on it but I don’t want to seem forward. I’ll wait. I promised myself after Carl, who had to be coaxed into anything physical—and now I know why—I would hold out for a man who pursued me .
He seems to be walking better today. He doesn’t place his feet as carefully as he did last night. I can’t comment because then he’d know I’d turned around and watched him and I don’t want to make him feel weird—like I’m stalking him or something. Hand-in-hand, comfortable with the silence, we saunter past the pool to the “cabana/guest house,” where he’s living. We laugh at the silly antics of Snafu as he bounces around us, brandishing the Frisbee in his mouth, trying to entice me into throwing it for him. The Lab seems tireless.
Opening the louver door, Max ushers me inside the cool interior. Some designer has been at work because the place looks like one of those full-color spreads in The Palm Beacher
—the kind entitled, “Make Your Guesthouse into a Tropical Paradise.” Blond marble floors and turquoise and cream upholstered furniture with pastel yellow accent pillows dominate the decor. Snafu trots in behind us and immediately hops up on the sofa still holding the Frisbee. Max doesn’t say a word. Wow. Gotta love a man with his priorities in order.
“Sweet. Your employer houses his employees well.” I laugh. “Can I get a job here?”
Max flashes a grin at me. “I’ll call the owner.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, no. I was kidding. Don’t do that.”
I follow Max into a galley kitchen equipped with all the latest appliances…and a La
Marzocco Mistral Espresso Maker that costs a mere $24,000. Up until Mom’s chemo forced her to quit working, I helped her with her housekeeping job. I’m well aware of what high-end appliances cost. We got the “that’s expensive” lecture often enough. I was never sure if the property manager was cautioning us or bragging.
“Oh…” I run my fingers over the gleaming stainless machine. “Do you use this?”
“Yes. All the time.”
“Gosh. I’d be afraid I’d break it. Do you know what this costs?”
He shook his head. “No clue.”
“Well, I’m not gonna tell ya. You’d freak. Just be really, really careful with it, okay? It could put me through junior college.”
Max chuckles. “Okay.”
I’m scraping by to raise $75 to repair The Wombat and these people put a $24,000 espresso maker in their pool cabana. It’s hard not to be a little envious. But I can hear Patty’s voice ringing in my ear, Sweetie, money alone won’t make you happy. Many of the most miserable people in the world are fabulously wealthy. A slew of them live right here in Palm Beach.
Yes,
Mom.
Max sticks his head in the Marvel stainless fridge—a mere $15,000—and pulls out an array of lunch meats and a package of croissants, some kiwi fruit, strawberries, mangoes, honey dew melon and Kerrygold—I kid you not, imported from Ireland—butter.
“Will this work?”
His question recaptures my attention and I look at the spread laid out on the kitchen bar.
“This will be wonderful. Thank you.”
We settle on the bar stools and do some serious damage to the food. Well, mostly Max does the serious damage. I gork-out on kiwi fruit and strawberries and buttered croissants, all things not on my peanut butter and ramen noodles budget and chat with Max about the homeless people
I try to help.

“Usually, I take The Wombat and make the rounds of the fried chicken and pizza places on
Friday nights. I collect whatever food they are willing to give me and take it to the homeless.”
“The Wombat?” He cocks his head in question.
“Yeah. It’s my vintage, pink and white, hippie van complete with a hand-painted peace sign on the hood. It belonged to my mom. Patty traveled the United States in it. Told me I was conceived in the back.” I wiggle my eyebrows. Max chokes on his Smart Water, which triggers a paroxysm of coughing. I hop off my stool and pound him on the back until he regains his breath.
“Good. I’m good. S-stop now,” he sputters, laughing. Turning on his bar stool, he captures my hands playfully and holds them up with a grin. “This is assault…” His voice trails off. The humor in his expression dies away, replaced with another kind of awareness. Holy smokes.
I stand between his legs, inches from his groin. Heat radiates off him. I want him to close the distance and kiss me. His thighs close on my bare waist and his eyes stray to “the girls” overflowing my bikini top and then back to my face. “Holiday Jones,” he whispers.
“Yeah?” I whisper back.
“I’m going to k-kiss you.”
“Well, it’s about time.”
His long fingers wrap my bare waist and pull me into the vee of his legs. He has a serious erection working. His eyes hold mine. A hand leaves my waist and slides under my hair to cup the nape of my neck. He tilts me forward, angles his head and feathers his lips over mine, then presses more firmly. His tongue asks for entrance and I open to him. I respond to each quest of his lips and tongue. Sweet baby Jesus, this man can kiss. I know I have pointers and down below,
Miss Kitty’s doing the Merengue.
You know when I said holding his hand felt like being plugged into low voltage? Well, kissing him is straight 220. When he stops, I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself but he’s the one who’s shaking. I see only the top of his head.
“Max?”
He straightens and faces me. His eyes gleam wetly and he swipes at them with his forearm, but he’s smiling.
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” I wipe dampness off his cheekbones with my fingertips. “I’m outta practice kissing straight guys. Did I do something wrong?”
His chuckle has that watery sound you make when you laugh through tears.
“No. Something r-right.”
He doesn’t explain any further and I’m too disconcerted to press. I’m dying for him to kiss me again, but he doesn’t do that either.
Darn.
I know he enjoyed kissing me. It’s hard to ignore the good eight inches of hard maleness under the thin white cloth of his cargo shorts.
Max pushes me away gently and stands. “Had enough?”
“Food or kisses?”
Crows’ feet appear at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. I love them. Everything about
Max fascinates me. He’s so fricking sexy. Why is he alone? There should be a topless bathing beauty on the lounge chair by the mini-lagoon masquerading as an infinity pool. Max is ideal for some Palm Beach cougar looking for a boy toy. Just try it, Ms. Cougar. I’ll scratch your eyes out.
I got here first. Please, kiss me again, Max .
“Food,” Max answers.
Oh yeah, that. “Bummer. Yeah, I’ve had enough to eat…any more and I’ll pop. Let me help you put things away.”

Being a gentleman, which I suspect is second nature to Max, he and Snafu walk me to the beach. I smile up at him and pat Snafu. The dog and I have a tug of war over the Frisbee, but
Max quietly tells the Lab to “Drop it,” and I reclaim the plastic disc and stow it in my backpack.
“I have to get going. I have a catering job tonight and I need to buy my uniform. Finally, some money coming in for a change.” I break out a fist pump and then shrug into my backpack and face Max. “Thanks for lunch. Thanks for your company. I enjoyed my morning with you and
Snafu.” I look at my feet and cock my head, catching his gaze with a sideways glance. “May I come back tomorrow and take Snafu out again?”
“Can I…hire you?”
I straighten and regard him quizzically.
“To p-play with Snaf?”
“Sure, but I’ll do it for free. You don’t have to pay me.”
“I want…to pay. An official job.” Max appears very serious. “Fifty a day. Seven to twelve. Pplus lunch. Monday through F-friday.”
“Wow. Can you afford that?”
Max nodded. “Easy. Army pension. I n-need Snaf happy.”
Well, that sold it. “Mister? I never did get your last name.”
“Harper.”
I grin and hold out my hand. “Mr. Harper, you just hired a playmate for your dog.”
I wish I could take a picture of Max’s face at that moment. It’s beyond price to know you can give someone such happiness so effortlessly. I do the whole backing-away-not-wanting-to-loseeye-contact-with-Max thing again until finally I turn and jog off.
It’s all I can do not to leap in the air and wave my arms around like a complete fool. I’m going to make $250 dollars a week! To play with a dog! The few people dotting the beach look at me like I’ve lost my mind and I realize I just screamed that out loud. I’m too happy to care, and I keep on jogging.
When I return to Studio Six—cause it’s a studio apartment in an old Motel Six—I wrangle the door of The Wombat open and step on the door frame. I launch myself onto the woven vinyl seat, careful not to put my foot through the hole in the floorboard. With a tinny, ding-a-ding-ading-ding-ding, and a cloud of exhaust, the engine turns over and I put-put-put out of the parking lot on my way to Harvey’s Tux & Bridal Rental. I need to purchase a tuxedo shirt and tie for my job tonight.
Harvey’s sells their “retired” clothing for pennies on the dollar and I’m hoping I can pick up a couple of white tuxedo shirts and a couple of red bow ties for under $10.00. I have a knee-length black pleated skirt and I can wear the black “nurse” shoes I’ve owned forever. Seriously, do you know anyone who has worn out a pair of those three-inch waffle soles? I don’t. They are shoes for a lifetime.
I’m determined to have a job that doesn’t require me to be on my feet all day—one that comes with a 401K and health insurance. On that day, I’ll throw the black comfort soles in the waste bin, slip three-inch stilettos on my feet and do a happy dance. I’ll have achieved my singular ambition, a degree from Palm Beach Junior College and a desk job as a certified legal assistant.
***
Snafu and I watch Holiday jog down the beach until she is out of sight before returning to the cabana. A stupid grin distorts my face the whole time as I strip down and go free-balling. I walk

back to the pool and lower myself in. I intend to swim laps until my arms fall off. I need relief from the arousal she’s created and swimming doesn’t wreck my leg. Pounding out laps sure beats the shit out of crying for fuck’s sake. Holiday didn’t seem fazed at my tears. I have a feeling
Holiday can handle most of what life throws her way, including a dick-broke Army Ranger with a case of the boo-hoos.
Goddamn emotions. I have to get a handle on the pure-ass elation I feel about the resurrection of my dick. As Holiday is 100% fuckable, I’m sure it will come up again. Sorry, bad pun. I’m not such a bottom feeder that I’d use that adorable girl just to get off—no matter how good an idea the little head below the belt thinks it is—no matter how much Holiday, herself, might like it. I wouldn’t like myself very much if I used her like that. The sex will come when it comes.
Shit
…another bad pun.
Holiday is special. She’s the kind of person you don’t find often. Genuine and selfless. She cares more about other people than she does about herself. Selflessness is the thing that bonds tight-knit combat units. The guys next to you will give it up for you if it comes down to it. That kind of self-sacrifice is a rarity in the civilian world. Most people are out for me, myself and I.
Full stop. To find her sort of giving nature in a kind, gorgeous, feminine-as-hell package…shit.
I’m a goner and I know it.
I hit the wall and flip for another lap, pushing my muscles to power me faster through the water. I can’t wait for tomorrow.
Damn, it feels good to think that. I’ve acquired you in my scope sight, Ms. Jones. I have your location and range dialed in. This Ranger sharpshooter considers you a High-Value Target. You simply don’t know it yet.

I arrive early again. A grin splits my face when I get close enough to see the tall silhouette of
Max and the smaller dark mass of Snafu. I wave, perhaps too exuberantly to be considered “cool and sophisticated,” and I may have jumped up and down a little bit, but I don’t care if Max knows how glad I am to see him, ah, them .
I cup my mouth. “Hi, Max!”
He puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head and laughs. Then he cups his own mouth and hollers back, “Hey, Holiday!”
When I get closer, Max bends down, puts something in Snafu’s mouth and straightens. Snaf gallops to me and this time I prepare for his crash landing.
“What have you got there, fella?”
Snafu holds a fake mallard duck in his mouth—the kind dog trainers use to teach retrievers to fetch. I have Animal Planet to thank for that bit of knowledge. Oh, and they’re called “bumpers.”
“Command h-him to…‘drop it,’ Hol!” Max called as he walked down the beach toward us.
He held a curved blue plastic wand about three feet long with a cup at one end. A fuzzy yellow tennis ball nested inside.
I hold my hand under the Lab’s chin. “Drop it, Snafu,” I order in my most stern voice. He merely grins at me, wags his tail and mouths the duck. Max is within easy speaking distance now. “He knows I’m not the alpha in this pack, Max.” I grimace playfully.
Max smiles. “Snafu, drop it.”
The duck bumper lands in my hand and Snafu eyes me hopefully. “Traitor. Now your dad will think I’m not a responsible dog sitter.” I hand the bumper off to Max with a shake of my head.
“You’re a n-nut, Holiday Jones.” Max laughs. “Here.” He shows me the curved blue wand. “I brought you s-something to…save your arm. It’s a tennis b-ball chucker. Watch.”
As soon as Max raises his arm, Snafu barks in excitement and begins to streak down the beach. With a smooth, effortless motion, Max slings the wand and shoots the tennis ball almost the length of a football field.
“Wow! Look at you. Were you a quarterback in college or something?”
“No,” he says laughing. “You t-try it.”
When Snafu comes back, he drops the tennis ball at my feet and stares at it. I load the ball into the chucker and try to copy Max’s motion. The tennis ball soars. “Will you look at that!” I shriek with delight. “Tom Brady, watch out.”
Max and I stand there and take turns lobbing the tennis ball down the beach. There’s no doubt in my mind that Snafu lives to retrieve. His dedication and energy is unwavering—which makes it doubly strange when I whip the ball into the air and instead of his mad dash, he remains in front of Max, licking his owner’s hand and whining. A grim expression fixes itself on Max’s face. A moment before, he was laughing.
“What’s wrong, fellah?” I look at Max in question. His face has blanched under his tan.
“Please, god…not now.”

The anguish in his voice concerns me. “Max?”
Max starts to shake and then collapses to the sand. His eyes roll to the back of his head and his body jerks like a marionette. He’s having a seizure. Oh, shit…oh, shit…oh shit! What do I do? Snafu circles him, whining, while Max thrashes violently on the sand. I’m so afraid he’ll hurt himself with his wild flailing. I pull a beach towel out of my backpack. I straddle Max at the waist and capture his floundering arms. The only way I have the strength to restrain him is by lying flat on his chest and twining my legs around his. Between my thighs, he arches and writhes. Riding a bucking bronco must feel like this, but a cowboy only has to do eight seconds.
I think I ride Max for at least a minute. Finally, he subsides. He is still. I lie on his chest, panting and tense. My thighs grip his hips. My calves wrap the backs of his knees. I can’t see his face but something tells me he’s conscious. He’s too quiet. Snafu settles next to Max and lays his head on
Max’s outstretched arm with a soft whine.
“S-still think…I’m…a h-hottie?”
“Oh Max!” I give a cry of gladness and hug his neck. I push away a little. I look him right in the eyes, inches from his handsome face. “Oh…Max,” I whisper. His eyes swim with anguish and disillusionment. I ache for the emotional and physical pain this man must overcome on a daily basis, but the self-hatred and defeat in his voice hurts me far worse. I raise a finger, trace his mouth and whisper, “I told you. Once a hottie, always a hottie.”
His eyes close and little by little, his body relaxes. “Nut case,” he whispers back.
There is no point in trying to be cool. I kiss him…and kiss him…and kiss him. He puts up no resistance. Holiday, you skank. The man just had a seizure.
He’s probably too weak to defend himself.
With a pang of regret, I stop. I still wrap his chest like a baby orangutan, and while most of his body feels warm and relaxed, there is one part of him distinctly hot and hard.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I kinda threw myself on you. I was trying to keep you from hurting yourself.”
His eyebrows rise and the corners of his mouth twitch. The limp body underneath me shakes with silent laughter. It’s as if I can read his thoughts. Really, Holiday? You were kissing me to prevent injury?
I can’t help myself. He may never be this defenseless again. I kiss him one more time.
“Give me a minute here, Max.” I take my time disentangling myself from him and the beach towel. “God forbid I should knee you in the cojones after I have sexually molested you.”
He coughed. “Come back. Molest me…more.”
I laugh and wave my hand at him. That’s the last thing he needs right now. I knee-walk to my backpack and drag out a clean towel and a bottle of water. The towel I spread on the sand and the water I offer to Max. He sits up and drinks it in silence. He appears weak and demoralized and I feel bad for him. I know he wouldn't want me to notice so I smooch to Snafu. “Come’mere,
Snafu.” I pat my lap and the Lab wiggles to me, grateful for attention. My gaze returns to Max and I do a good imitation of ‘unconcerned,’ even if I do say so myself. “You okay? Need anything? More water? A mostly-good orange?”
The smile that lights his eyes settles my anxiety. “Is that a…Holiday-ism? What’s a mmostly…good orange?
Oh dear. He would pick up on that. “There’s an orange stand on Old Dixie Highway that gives away their fruit when it starts to go bad. I get stuff there for the homeless. They let me pick through for the oranges that might have a soft spot but are ‘mostly good’.” I draw a circle in the sand with my forefinger. “Sometimes I keep a few for me when money is a little tight.” I

brighten and look up. “But I got paid last night so no worries.” I inject a note of triumph into my voice. “This afternoon, I go grocery shopping.”
He props his arms on his knees. The plastic Evian water bottle that I re-filled from my tap at five this morning hangs from his hand, empty. His grey eyes regard me steadily. “You seem…alone in t-the world. Where’s…your family—m-mom, dad, sisters, brothers?”
I purse my lips and shrug. “Mom died of breast cancer a year-and-a-half ago. No brothers. No sisters. No aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews. My grandparents are dead.” I shrug again. “It’s just me and Rover.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “Rover?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re really going to think I’m a nutcase.” I squint at him.
Both of his eyebrows come together and his gaze finds mine. Wow. He looks fierce. “Give it up, Jones.”
I sigh heavily. “You know I adore dogs.” Max nods. “I can’t have a dog where I’m living, so I have a fish. A goldfish.”
“And you call h-him R-rover,” Max finished for me.
“Yeah…but maybe it’s a ‘her’ and I’ve insulted her gender as well as class, order and family.” I look at Max and my smile grows with his until both of us are laughing.
Max flops back onto the sand and scuffs Snafu’s ears when he attacks Max’s face with slobbery dog kisses. “No dad?”
“He’s still around, but he’s not a person I want in my life.” I study the turtles that decorate my beach towel. A silence falls between the two of us that lengthens as I struggle with how much to tell Max. I turn to find he has rolled to his side. He strokes Snafu and studies me. Shoot.
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
He nods solemnly. “I want…to know…everything about you.”
I sigh helplessly. “Okay. My mom, Patty, was a free spirit. She came from Palm Beach money and ran with a loose crowd. I really was conceived in the back of The Wombat. She said it was a night of pot and sex with the oldest son of one of her parents’ wealthy friends. When she discovered she was pregnant, her parents and my birth-father’s parents shipped Mom off to a
‘health spa’ on Hilton Head Island. Mom said it was more like an asylum for the mentally ill.
“When Mom came home with baby-me, both sets of parents pressured her to place me for adoption. Mom finally snapped. I guess the fight between her and the two sets of grandparents was epic. She stormed out in The Wombat with me in my baby carrier on the seat next to her and never went back.
“She got a live-in maid position in Palm Beach with the parents of a kid she knew from high school. It was just the two of us. I never knew we were poor. We had the basics and I never doubted for one moment that Mom’s world revolved around me. She was the best mom in the history of ever.” Tears threaten and I straighten and hug myself. A warm hand wraps my ankle.
“She d-did a great job. You’re the p-proof.”
“Aww. Thanks.”
“What about…your father?”
“This is where my story gets seriously messed up.” I brace myself to face the memories.
“When I was six, my birth father’s parents filed a neglect complaint with Palm Beach County’s
Child Protective Services.”
Max sat up straight. “What!” he barked.
I nod. “Yeah. As you know, Palm Beach is a small town isolated on a small island. The little girl tagging along while her mom cleaned houses for the Palm Beach Shiny Sheet matrons

embarrassed my father’s parents. They wanted their son’s scandal out of sight and forgotten, never to return. They found a ‘sympathetic’ judge—sympathetic to their bank account at any rate—to declare my mom an unfit parent. One terrifying morning, a ridiculously perky, grayhaired matron showed up at the Ocean Drive mansion where Mom worked that day and led me away. I stayed in a succession of foster homes.” I wrinkle my nose. “That nightmare lasted two years.”
“
Shit
, Holiday.”
I pointed at a lavish, two-story expanse of white stone that sprawled not too far down the beach from where we sat. “That’s his house—my biological father. The Parker mansion. My legal name is Holiday Parker-Jones. I don’t use the Parker. I don’t want any reminders of them.”
“I get it. Just… shit
, Holiday.”
“It’s old history, Max. Don’t feel sorry for me. My mom loved me enough for two people. I never lost faith that she would come and get me, and she did. She found a great pro-bono lawyer.
He proved malfeasance and Mom got me back. I think I grew up fairly well adjusted, though I’ll confess to a strong dislike of wealthy people on principal—the moneyed in Palm Beach, specifically. I’d never trust a relationship with one of the entitled on this island. They’re users.”
I sift sand through my fingers and try to explain my thoughts to Max. “It’s hard for people who have everything given to them to develop a moral compass. Most uber-rich people see employees like you and me as lesser human beings not worthy of courtesy and respect. Because we occupy a lower tax bracket, or no tax bracket at all, we don’t exist for them. We’re disposable, interchangeable—like light bulbs.”
“I w-w-would…never…” Max shakes his head in frustration. He flips a pad and pencil out of his pocket and scribbles a note.
You are not disposable or interchangeable.
You are pretty special.
“Aww, thank you, but you live in the ‘real’ world. You have to work for a living ... and for the record, I think you’re pretty special, too.”
As I say this, Max stops watching me. He rolls onto his stomach and gazes out to sea, a shuttered expression on his face. Maybe he has his own horror stories to tell about the rich and self-enamored. Whatever his thoughts are, he’s keeping them private. That’s okay. He’s entitled.
I hug my knees to my chest and watch the Gulf Stream roil the water on the horizon. Snafu snuggles between us and I love on him. He rolls over so I can rub his belly. Poor Snafu. Poor
Max. This morning didn’t go as planned.
“Max, you look as if someone buried you in the sand and then pulled you out feet-first,” I tease.
“I’ve been worse.” His smile appears forced.
“Yeah, I can imagine.” I chuckle but my worry persists. “How do you feel? Can I do something for you?”
His smile fades. “Don’t worry, Holiday. I’ll live.” He lifts himself from the sand gracefully and collects the tennis ball chucker and the mallard bumper. “Let’s go…clean up. Get lunch.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Max smiles at me for a long moment and then takes my hand with a gentle squeeze as we walk back to the house. Suddenly, my concern evaporates. His smile packs a wallop. I feel as if happiness will float me straight into the clouds.

***
The hand that clasps Holiday’s is the only happy part of my body. The rest of me feels like the morning after a three-day bender on cheap booze. I always feel like this, post-seizure. Of the two, I’ll take the three-day bender. I’d hoped the seizures would hold off for a few months and give Holiday a chance to get to know me before she had to deal with a six-foot-three, 195-pound
Ranger flopping around on the sand like a gaffed fish. I know I frightened her, but Holiday coped like a pro. My seizures are not my main worry.
Shit . I am so fucked. I’m working around the property because I’d go bat-shit with boredom if
I didn’t. This estate is one of several that belong to my family. I’m living in the cabana/guest house because the big house is closed and shuttered until ‘the season’ starts. Besides, the cabana is smaller and easier to clean. How do I tell Holiday I am that old Palm Beach money that she mistrusts? Mistrusts for good reason, I might add.
Were her grandparents alive, I would have a thing or two to say to them right now. I can still say something to the irresponsible dick-wad that’s her father. “Mostly-good orange,” my lilywhite ass. I need to remind Holiday that lunch comes with the job. I wonder if I can get her to take more for playing with Snafu?
Knowing how she feels, I must tell her. The sooner the better. It’s dishonest not to. Sure as shit, though, the moment I do, she’s terminating my ass with prejudice. No way am I risking that.
I’m drunk on Holiday Jones. I’m falling ass over ankles in love with this girl, and I need some time to make her fall in love me. I will tell her. I just need some time.
***
As he did yesterday, Max emptied some of the contents of the refrigerator onto the kitchen breakfast bar and we munched happily on prosciutto, hard Italian salami, cantaloupe, green olives stuffed with jalapeno peppers and cloves of garlic, and more fresh bakery croissants with
Irish butter.
“Mmm…” I wiggle with delight at the buttery goodness as I bite into a croissant. “You know how to eat, Max. No bologna slapped between stale white bread for you.”
Max chuckled. “I like that, too. Still better…than MREs.”
I look at him doubtfully and pop an olive into my mouth. “That was impressive, what Snafu did for you…alerting you like that. Did you train him?”
Max swallowed and ran his hands through his hair. Sand rained onto the floor and both of us started laughing.
“I warned you about the sand,” I said. “I’m curious about Snafu. Tell me about him.”
“Okay. Long story…b-be patient.” Max glanced at me, eyebrows raised in question and I nodded. “When I was …discharged. I went home. Did therapy. Docs said g-get puppy for stress.
Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m with you. You went home after being discharged and entered therapy. Your doctors said to get a dog to help you with stress.”
Max sighed. “So, I…get Snafu. Over time … I notice. When I have s-seizures, Snaf whines…licks my hand. Not a t-trained b-b-b…a trained…b…” Max growled and pulled out his pad and wrote “behavior” and shoved it in front of me.
“Interesting. So you didn’t know that Snafu could alert you to seizures when you got him?”
“No. Just a cute…puppy.”

“Does he help with stress?”
Max grinned. “Hell yeah. But he needs a…playmate. He gets d-depressed because...I’m ddepressed.”
“Huh.” I gazed at the big chocolate lab who was currently sprawled at Max’s feet, hungrily eyeing the prosciutto Max was munching on. “He doesn’t look depressed now.”
Max paused in his eating and swiveled his stool to face me. “No. That’s you. I’m nnot…depressed either. You’re good for us. Th-thank you, Holiday Jones.”
My heart does a happy leap at the emotion in his eyes. “You are welcome, Max Harper. It’s my pleasure.”
Max grinned at me and slid off his stool. “I need a … shower. And aspirin.” He placed his hand on my arm. “Can you stay? Hang out?”
“Sure.” I smiled. “I can stay for another hour or two. Take your shower and I’ll put away this stuff.”
I busy myself putting away the food and cleaning up the kitchen. Both Snafu and Max had left a trail of sand from the door to the kitchen so I sweep that up also. By the time a freshly scrubbed
Max saunters into the living room looking like some shirtless pagan god of sex in low-slung
Wranglers, I’m curled up on the sofa with Snafu watching Animal Planet’s, The Search for
Bigfoot . This is a reality show? Really?
“Hey, stud.” I smile at Max as he walks to the sofa, displaces Snafu and sits next to me.
“Hey, babe. Feet here.” He pats his lap.
“They’re pretty dirty. I showered last night but I’ve put some barefoot miles on them since.
You sure?”
“Positive. Right here.”
“Okay.” I’ll put whatever body part Max wants in his lap. Happily. Yeah…I went there.
I stretch out and put my feet in his lap and both of us pretend to watch TV while Max massages my feet and rubs my legs. After fifteen minutes of this, Miss Kitty is giving Max a standing ovation and my eyes are crossing from pure pleasure. There are parts of Max that are pretty happy, too, but his gaze doesn’t leave the TV. I guess we’re ignoring the growing lump in his jeans.
“Holiday?”
“Mmm?”
“Today.” He pauses in my foot rub and turns to face me. He holds my legs up while he repositions himself with one leg up on the sofa and one foot flat on the floor. “The seizure. I didn’t … want y-you to see…that…but…”
I sit straight up on the sofa, all bliss from the foot rub gone. That last thing I want is Max feeling bad about this morning. “Oh, no, no…”
Max holds his hand up to stop me and rolls his eyes. “Let…me…finish. Please?”
I snuggle back into the cushions with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
He watches me and when it’s apparent I’m settled, he digs in his pocket and hands me a crumpled piece of paper. “Read it.”
I straighten the creased and folded paper. It’s a note from Max in neat block letters.
Holiday,
Hope you can read my chicken scratch. I’m printing to up the odds.
I’d rather be saying this to you. I’m working on that.

You were awesome this morning. No surprise. You’ve blown me away since I first saw you playing fetch with Snafu. The last two days have been fucking amazing incredible. Because of you, for the first time in fucking forever a long time, I look forward to getting out of bed.
Thanks for being so cool about my seizure. You’ve pretty much seen me at my worst. So, not too scary, huh? The good news is that they are getting less frequent and less intense.
So, just wanted to say thanks and tell you that you put a smile in my life. I’ve been kinda down about the leg and the PCS. Thanks for making me forget it for a while.
And about that molesting stuff this morning? You can do that anytime.
Max
Can you fall in love with someone in two days? Because, I think I just did.

“Max?” I curl my feet off Max’s lap, kneel and straddle him. I’m careful to put my weight on my heels when I sit back. Don’t want to hurt his leg. My arms wrap around his shoulders. One hand strays up the nape of his neck and plays with his hair. My face is inches from his and he smiles. People wear that exact amused smile when they watch kittens play. “Can sex trigger a seizure?”
He shrugs then shakes his head. “Maybe. Not mine.”
“What triggers yours?”
“Stress. Fatigue.”
“Good.”
He straightens a little. “Good?”
I realize what I said and laugh. “Good that sex doesn’t cause your seizures.” I catch my lower lip between my teeth and wait for his reaction.
“You coming…on to…me, Jones?”
My eyes widen and with lower lip firmly caught between my teeth, I nod. “Contemplating a little molestation.”
“Ah.” He studies me through eyes suddenly half-lidded.
“I think I’m out of my pay-grade with you. I’ve a great imagination but little life experience.”
“Only Carl?”
I nod. “I’ve a sex bucket list. You could help me with that.”
Max mouths the words, “sex bucket list.” His eyelids slip a little lower. The gaze he fixes on me loops an endless feed of porn-worthy images through my mind—all to the soundtrack of
“Animals”
by Maroon Five. He sits up and takes my arms off his shoulders. “Up. Get up.”
I stand. Hand-in-hand, he leads me into his bedroom. My heart beats out of my chest. I wonder if Max can feel it. Probably.
The same designer that did the rest of the cabana has been at work in the bedroom, too.
There’s dark distressed hardwood everywhere and a white flokati rug in front of a bed from
The
Arabian Nights —all jewel toned pillows on a gold shot-silk duvet with one of those mosquito net canopy thing-ums hanging from the ceiling over the bed. In an effortless move that only truly strong men can pull off gracefully, Max swoops me into his arms, places me on my back on the bed and then lies down next to me.
“Max, I’m too dirty to be on this silk duvet. I’ll ruin it.”
He eyes me thoughtfully for a minute. He nods, picks me up and puts me on my feet then grabs a corner of the bed cover and strips the bed of coverings right down to the fitted sheet on the mattress. Whereupon, he picks me up again, and I’m back where I was thirty seconds ago, minus the silk duvet and 1200 thread count sheet and the jewel toned pillows, all in a disordered heap on the floor. I can’t help it. I laugh. Max lays beside me on his stomach and smiles.
“Happy now?”

I look into his hazel eyes and smile. “Yeah. Now I can relax. Umm, well, worry about other things, anyway.”
He props on his side, his head resting in his hand and traces his finger from the notch in my collar bone to the vee of my breasts. “Don’t worry, Hol. I won’t do…anything…you d-don’t like. Just a little…molestation.”
His gentle voice strokes me inside. Oh, mama, I’m in real trouble here. Down below, Miss
Kitty is leading a marching band onto the field.
“Max, I don’t think you could do anything I wouldn’t like. I’m worried about doing something you don’t like. I just recently I discovered I’ve never had sex with a straight guy. Do all you guys get off the same way?”
Max chuckles so deep in his throat I feel the vibrations and little goose bumps break out all over my skin. The goose bumps could also be due to the havoc his thumb creates rubbing back and forth across my nipple while his long fingers cup my breast. My swimsuit top is so worn there’s very little between my girls and the outside world and his thumb action is scattering my brain cells hither and yon.
“Yeah. I think…it’s the same. T-tell me about your…sex…bucket list.”
He leans over and nuzzles light kisses into the crook of my neck, and then works his way up my jaw. The wonderfulness of it freezes me in place.
“Take a breath, Hol,” he murmurs and then goes for the jugular—a soft kiss on my mouth. I open with a groan and the soft kiss goes vertical—straight up like the rockets that launch from
Cape Canaveral. I grab his face and hold him to me and try to keep up with the demands he is making with his mouth and tongue. I’m so into him that when he pulls away I follow him without thinking until our positions are reversed and he’s lying on his back and I’m crawling on top of him in pursuit of his kiss.
“Babe! Your knee,” he gasps and jerks.
“Oh! Sorry, sorry.” I remove my knee from his crotch. “Sorry.” I wince at the pained look on his face as he curls a little inward.
He starts laughing and groaning at the same time. “It’s okay. I’ll live.”
I move back, chagrined. “I got a little carried away. Will you be all right?” He laughs harder and I can barely understand what he’s saying. I think it was something along the lines of, “Gay or…straight, no k-knees to the nuts.”
***
I was worried that the sweet, willing, 100% fuckable girl on this bed would make me do something I hadn’t done since I was sixteen—come in my pants. While I might have opted for a different solution, being kneed in the balls definitely puts the safety back on the gun.
When I can, I straighten and lie back. Holiday sits beside me Indian style. The look on her face makes my aching balls unimportant. I hold out my arms.
“Come here.”
She snuggles into my side. “I’m sorry. I ruined the moment, didn’t I?”
“I didn’t have…an agenda.” I chuckle and pull her closer.
“Well, I’m certain if you did have an agenda, that wasn’t on it. You know, the having your nuts crushed part. It was pretty fantastic up until then.”
She sounds so forlorn that my heart—which was pretty much all hers anyway—melts even more. “Tell me … about your sex…bucket list.”
She props up and looks at me with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Really?”
I nod and she sits all the way up.

“Wow, Max. Okay. Let me have your pad and pencil.”
I scrounge in my jeans and hand her the pencil stub and flip pad. For about ten minutes, I watch her write, think, cross out and write more. Finally, she tears the page out of the pad and hands me the list.
My sex bucket list with Max Harper:
1.
Cunnilingus—Remind me to shave (or have him shave me) Ask Max if he likes a
Brazilian or totally bare?
2.
Fellatio, Deep throat? Swallow? (Remind him to shave—bare!)
3.
Strip tease, pole dance, lap dance?
4.
Bondage Sex—read Lovely again. Read Lovely to Max!
5.
Pool sex!
6.
Beach sex!
7.
Sex in the shower!
8.
Sex in the Wombat!
9.
Sex with chocolate, whipping cream and cherries!
10.
Sex with me on top! Reverse cowgirl!
11.
Swing sex!
12.
Any kind of sex that results in an orgasm with Max in me!
13.
Anal sex?
She watches my face hopefully. “What do you think?”
“I think all of these…are great. Do we g-go in order? Because I’d love … to shave you bare.”
I see when she remembers what is first on the list. Her eyes widen. “Ah…no, not in order, no.”
“Chicken.”
“Am not.”
“Are to.”
She frowns and purses her lips. “Fine, in order, then,” she huffs. “But, I’m bringing my own safety razor and shaving cream. Do you have any experience with shaving Mr. Harper? Miss
Kitty is very sensitive and I would hate to have a mishap down there.”
“M-miss Kitty?” I grin when she crosses her arms and nods. “I shave my f-face every…day, babe.”
“Umm…what about STDs?”
“What about them?”
She scratches her head. “Well, I’ve never been with anyone except Carl, but there is the Allen factor. I think you should require a health certificate from me. I can go to the free clinic, tomorrow. They are pretty….”
I watch her, bemused as she goes on about the free clinic and what is involved. I’m not worried about her or me. Hell, my dick hasn’t been combat ready for over two years. Prior to that, the Army checked us regularly. I know I’m cleared for action.
“Holiday…stop. Holiday?” She pauses and looks at me.
“Yeah?”
“When was the last …time…you were with C-carl?”
“Last time as in intercourse?”
“Yeah. Fadoodling, h-horizontal refreshment, m-monkey love, fucking.”

A flush starts above her breasts and works its way up her neck to stain her cheeks the color of a ripe watermelon. “Umm. I can’t remember.”
“More than a month?”
“Yeah.”
“More than s-six months?”
She nods.
“More than a year?” I know my voice is becoming incredulous and it’s not helping her embarrassment so I try to remove all emotion and simply do a countdown. “More than eighteen months? More than two years?”
She sighs. “Yeah. I honestly can’t remember, Max. It’s been awhile. But I don’t know if, maybe, he was with, you know, Allen? I won’t feel right until I have a screening for STDs. The free clinic is very good about getting results back in a week.”
“I haven’t had s-sex with anyone…for…three years. Before t-that I … was clean.”
“Whoa.” The little cutie next to me simply blinks.
“Yeah. I was combat f-forward or … in some hospital stateside.”
“So, it’s been awhile for both of us.” The biggest grin spreads across Holiday’s face.
As per usual with this woman, I have to grin back. “How about t-that Holiday. We’re BAVs.
Born again virgins.”

This morning my backpack contains, among other things, two Frisbees, two bottles of water, two beach towels, sunscreen and a travel size Gillette Shave Gel for Sensitive Skin—it has a neutral scent—with a four-pack of Gillette razors. I’d originally selected Skintimate Signature
Scents Flirty Mango, but had second thoughts. Do I really want Miss Kitty to smell like a flirty mango? What if Max hates mangoes, even the flirty kind?
A warm glow has buzzed below my navel since yesterday afternoon. I can’t think about what
I hope will happen after lunch. Even with his halting speech and physical injuries, Max is sex incarnate. I can’t believe I kneed him in the balls and ruined what had all the promise of an outof-this-world make-out session. Chalk it up to being in the moment, lost to reality, whatever.
Putting my feelings for his owner aside, I’m looking forward to seeing Snafu and I quicken my steps down the beach when I see two profiles in their usual place.
“Hey, Max!”
He waves back. When I reach them, I squat and give Snafu some head noogies.
“I thought we might spend some…time in the p-pool today,” Max says. “Throw the bbumpers for Snafu.”
“Works for me, boss.”
He grins and I take his offered hand. We sit side-by-side on the edge of the pool and throw
Snafu’s mallard bumpers, over and over and over. Snafu never tires. Our conversation is light and easy. Max tells me about teaching Snafu to retrieve. It seems his family has always had retrievers and he knows quite a bit about the process. The change in Max’s speech pattern as the morning wears on is amazing. As he forgets himself and relaxes, he stops stuttering and speaks in an almost normal rhythm, as though brain and mouth are finally communicating. I’m not about to draw his attention to his improved articulation. I’m simply happy that he’s at ease with me. Max leaves for a couple of minutes to answer the phone and Snafu drags his water-logged body to his dog bed and collapses, his head on his feet. What a cutie.
I swing my legs in the water and count my blessings. I cannot believe I’m being paid for this gig. If I were in a position to refuse the money, I would. It doesn’t seem right to take money for spending time with Snafu and Max. They are such a joy. Unfortunately, my savings account haunts me with the reminder I don’t have my first semester tuition and enrollment is two weeks away. I am determined to make something of myself. It’s frustrating. As hard as I try, as much as
I scrimp and save, my goal always seems just out of reach. I’m beginning to think it won’t happen—ever. Horse-hockey!
I refuse to acknowledge such a defeatist thought.
Max rejoins me and stands smiling down at me. “Come on, Hol. Let’s get some lunch.”
“Wow. Is it that time already?” I glance at the clock on the cabana wall. Sure enough.
“Goodness, the morning has flown, and for once, I think we’ve worn Snafu out.”
He looks to where Snafu splays on his dog bed, a mallard bumper on the ground next to him.
His toes twitch as if he’s retrieving in his sleep. Snafu sleeps the sleep of the innocent. Awake one minute, gone the next.

As we sit at the kitchen bar eating, I want to question Max about his military career. I am curious, but I don’t know how much I can ask without bringing back bad memories. I sit on my bar stool and try to figure out a good opening. I have no idea what Max is thinking. We both sit and eat in comfortable silence.
“Have some of the cantaloupe. It’s sweet.” Max motions to the fruit and I pop a chunk in my mouth.
“Mmm. Good.” I reach for another piece of melon.
“Did you bring your shaving cream and razor?” he asks around a mouthful of salami. When he turns to look at me, his eyes gleam with mischief.
Eeek!
My second slice of cantaloupe hangs mid-air when my hand halts on its way to my mouth. I carefully swallow. I put the cantaloupe back on the plate and wipe my fingers on a napkin. “Mmmhmm.”
He laughs quietly. “We don’t have to do…anything. It’s your bucket list.”
I run my hands down the sides of my shorts to dry my palms. “I want to.”
It’s a sign of how easy I feel with Max that I confessed I had a sex bucket list—well that and the man is just smoking. Nevertheless, a bald Miss Kitty is a big step for me. I’ll be naked and spread out and…! Okaaay, that’s enough for the visuals. I take a big breath. “I just wasn’t prepared. One minute it’s cantaloupe and the next minute…” I shrug and grin.
“Why don’t you get…comfortable and I’ll deal with this.” Max indicated the wreckage on the bar.
“Okay,” I chirp and hop off the bar stool. If my heart beats any faster I’m going to faint. I’m practically hyper-ventilating by the time I reach my backpack by the front door. Ain’t no way
‘comfortable’ features in the next few minutes. This is such a bad idea! I’m brain to mouth with no filter. I must learn to filter. Not be so impulsive.
“Aggh!” I leap into the air, startled by Max’s hands on my bare waist. The shaving cream and razors I’m holding fly across the room. Max cracks up laughing. His strong, tan arms wrap around me. He turns me in his hold and pulls me into a gentle hug against his bare torso. He smells like sweat and sun. I want to lick him all over.
“Babe, relax. If you don’t want to, say so.” He puts a knuckle under my chin, tips my face up and meets my wide-eyed gaze. “I want you to have fun, not freak out.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Would…you feel better…if I blindfolded you?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.” I snuggle into Max and wrap my arms around him. “I want to be all brave and adventurous and daring, so please ignore my nerves. I’ve been looking forward to this.”
He considers me for a moment and frowns. “Hmm.” His arms release me. “Hop on the couch.
Let’s watch a little TV and just talk.”
Disappointment replaces my nerves. I’m so let down. I’ve done it again…gone and spoiled the moment. I flop down on the couch while Max retrieves the razors and shaving cream and then comes to sit next to me. He pats his lap. “Right here, babe.”
I get in his lap and wrap my arms around him and we watch TV. Or, at least, the TV is on.
The man is a foreplay ninja—skilled in stealthy, deadly attack. From the moment I’m relaxed in his lap, his hands are busy pushing my buttons, not the ones on the remote control. He feathers his fingertips over every part of me within reach. He doesn’t miss an inch of exposed skin. At the same time, he places mind-blanking kisses on the column of my neck and under my jaw and culminates by ravishing my mouth. We haven’t even gotten to the first commercial in “Unlikely
Animal Friends” on NatGeoWild, when I forget all my previous awkwardness.

“Max, please. Touch me here.” I take his hand and place it between my legs.
“Trade places with me, Hol.” When he stands, I sit where he’s been sitting. “Take your shorts off.” I shimmy out of my cut-offs, twirl them around my finger and launch them across the room.
He grins. “Hello Kitty panties? Cute, Hol. Take them off.”
I hook the sides of my panties and wriggle out of them. They, too, are sling-shotted across the room. My reward for bravery shines from Max’s eyes. His lust is my Medal of Honor.
“Now your top.”
I reach behind me and pull the strings that release my bikini top. The girls spring free in all their 36C bounteousness. Max groans. “You are so f-fucking beautiful, babe. Not having wild monkey sex with y-you for a week will be …next to impossible, but I’m a man of my word.
Spread those thighs. I’m going to give Miss Kitty a s-shave.” He grins. “Among other things.
You’re not leaving here until I make you come so hard you s-scream my name.”
What can I say to such dedication to duty? I can’t think of a darn thing.
He pulls up an ottoman, situates himself between my knees and breaks open the four-pack of razors. He lays them on the end table next to us, beside the travel-size can of shaving cream
…and a mixing-bowl of water? How did I miss that? He must have brought it in before I freaked.
He shakes up the aerosol can, squirts some in the palm of his hand and smells it. “Clean and neutral. Nice.”
“How do you feel about flirty mango?” His eyebrows rise in response to my question.
“Nevermind…”
Max nods at me solemnly and then proceeds to drive me ape-shit. He smooths the creamy soap all over my groin, between my legs and up to my anus—everywhere I have hair—and only where I have hair. My clit is hairless and surrounded by sensitive hairless flesh. I’d forgotten that little detail. His conscientious, methodical application brings me to the brink of begging him to abandon the shaving and get me off!
After he covers Miss Kitty and her surrounding cast in white foam, he sits back and inspects the area he’s prepped. He rinses his hands in the water bowl, dries them on the sofa cushions and then selects a razor as if he were an open-heart surgeon selecting a scalpel.
I squirm as I whimper, “Max, pleeease, finger fuck me...please, please, finger fuck me.”
He shoots me a happy little smile, flourishes the razor and begins gently scraping my groin with the care of a jeweler faceting a diamond. My inner slut struts on stage and shouts cuss words. I have no excuses. She has a potty-mouth. By the time Miss Kitty is as bald as Vin
Diesel, Max has teased me to the brink of orgasm.
The soft strokes that almost touch my clit are the worst. When Max finishes and drops the third razor in the water bowl and rinses his hands, I could come if he breathed on me. Max simply grins and parts my swollen lower lips with his thumbs, and exposes my aching clit. “God damn, Holiday. You’re so pretty.” He holds me with an intent stare and gravely announces,
“Rangers lead the way,” before closing his lips and tongue over my clit and sucking gently.
I go off like the A-bomb dropped on Hiroshima in those old newsreels from WWII. Yeah.
That could have been me. When I regain conscious thought, Snafu is raising a ruckus at the door, barking and scratching to be let in, and Max slumps on the ottoman in front of me with a look of gloating male satisfaction.
“I woke the dog?”
“You were pretty loud, babe.”
“Did I scream your name?”

He gravely shakes his head. “No, babe. You didn’t scream my name and you know what that means.”
My eyes widen.
“We have to do it again.”
Max kept his promise.

When I recover from The Rapture—it had to be The Rapture, I saw God—Max slips his arms under me and carries me into his bedroom. I wrap myself in his 1200 count sheets and snuggle next to him. He lies on his back, eyes closed. His mouth—God’s gift to women—smiles.
I’m blissed out, and desperately want him to feel the same way. He can’t possibly be comfortable—not with that erection outlining his shorts. I prop up on my elbows and carefully wiggle up to peer into his gorgeous face. “Max?”
His eyes open and smile at me. “Mmm?”
“Wow, Max…just…wow. You’re really good at that.”
He grins. “I enjoyed the hell out of it.”
“Yeah, about that. Umm, I want to make you feel good too.”
His eyes sparkle and his grin widens. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’ve always been good with my hands.”
“Knock yourself out, babe.”
“I’ll be right back.” I wiggle off the bed, keeping the sheet wrapped around me. Why am I being so modest? Max has seen everything. I’ve been in his face, so to speak.
I drop the sheet, toss it back onto the bed and pad to the kitchen dressed in nothing but my tan lines. I return with a bottle of sweet coconut oil I’d seen in the pantry. Max props up on the headboard with his arms behind his head. His eyes never leave me as I walk toward him. Between my legs, a happy buzz starts up again.
Down girl. It’s his turn.
“Do you mind smelling like coconut?” I hold up the oil as I get on the bed.
“I like coconut.”
“This might get a little messy. We’ll have to change the sheets.”
Max laughed. “It will be worth it.”
“Okay. I need you out of your shorts.” My fingers creep up to the buttons on his waistband.
My curiosity runs amuck. I feel like I’m six years old and unwrapping a Christmas present. Max sucks in his already trim waist and I unbutton and unzip his shorts. He lifts his hips so I can slide them off. Surprise! Out springs Mr. Happy, reporting for duty. So…no boxers or briefs. I peel my eyes off the largest penis I’ve ever seen—not that I’ve seen all that many—okay…I’ve only seen one other, and glance at Max. “Wow. Umm, you certainly give a woman a lot to work with.”
His gentle, bemused expression warms me. “You going to be okay, Holiday?”
I smile and nod, and pet his cock from the broad, pink, flared head—the same pink as my nipples—to the base of his shaft. Hi there, Cock-a-saurus Rex. Let’s be friends.
The monster bobs in agreement. Miss Kitty waves a hand in hello. “He’s beautiful, Max.” I think my awestruck comment takes him by surprise.
“That’s a first,” he says laughing. “My dick has never been called beautiful—other things, but not beautiful.”

I simply grin. I don’t mind that he’s laughing at me. He appears carefree and boyish. I kneel between his legs and pour a stream of coconut oil on his abdomen. With both hands, I thoroughly oil all the parts of him I intend to make very happy. I start by cradling his balls in one hand and working them gently. I grip his shaft with my other hand and glide from the base of his shaft to the head in a twisting motion then back. Repeat twenty times.
“Oh fuck…that’s good, Hol.” Max props up on his elbows to watch my hands. He enjoys what I’m doing because occasionally his hips surge forward to increase the pace. I take his cue and speed up. His head falls back and he groans. “Harder, babe…fuck…don’t stop.”
I don’t. I keep a firm, steady rhythm that I know will get him off. His back arches. “Holiday!
Fuck!” His cock pulses and white cum jets onto his chest. I gentle my grip but keep stroking until he shudders and relaxes to the bed. “Fuuuck,” he groans. “Damn, Holiday.”
I lay my head on his groin next to his shrinking but still impressive erection and snuggle into the vee of his legs. We both lie there for long moments. I didn’t think it possible, but I’m turned on again. What I just did with Max is some kinda sexy. I love seeing his face as climax overwhelms him. I gave him that pleasure. But, what makes the act poignantly beautiful is that it’s Max. I’ve known Max Harper for three days, and I am crazy in love with the man.
***
For once, my mind and body feel ecstatic, and it’s all due to the precious girl tucked between my legs—the one with her head resting inches from my born-again dick. I’m sure the “bornagain” element factors into my euphoria, but there’s more to it than that. I’ve had a shit-ton of
HJs—either by my hand or someone else’s—pretty much a daily occurrence before I got
“blowed up”. None of them prepared me for what it feels like to have Holiday’s hand wrap me.
Fuck.
It’s a lightning strike of undiluted pleasure straight to the dick.
I’ve seen a bodacious number of naked women, and other than the last three years, I reacted like any normal male. But I have no precedent for the mind-blowing sight of Holiday spread out naked on my sofa. That sweet girl revs me higher than jumping out of a C-130 at five hundred feet. I’m more at ease with her than I’ve been with anyone else on the face of this earth and I’ve only just met her. Combine that with her rocking body and she simply destroys me. I’m content to wait until she gets the paperwork from the free clinic for full immersion. She seems to think we need it, and that’s enough reason for me.
Man, it rides my ass that I haven’t come clean with her. Damn-it. I will. I just need more time.
I need her to feel for me what I feel for her. Meanwhile, I will explore all of Holiday Jones because sex with her is only part of why I am stupid crazy about the girl.

Snafu woke us by jumping on the bed. I’d fallen asleep on Max’s thigh with Max out cold, flat on his back in the middle of the bed.
“It’s his dinner time. Guess we’d better get up.” Max waited for me to move. Smart man.
“Yeah. I need to be going. I’ll be walking home in the dark.”
I get up and begin the roundup of my clothes. Max steps into the bathroom to clean up and by the time I’ve gotten dressed and straightened the mess we’d left, he and Snafu join me in the kitchen. He still smells faintly of coconut. I’ve always liked coconut. Now I love it.
“I don’t want you walking home in the dark, Holiday.” Max holds my hands and stands looking down at me. “I can’t drive, so I’m calling a cab for you. I’ll pay for it.”
“This is Palm Beach. The cops ride bicycles and drive ATVs. A big bust is an expired parking meter at the beach. I’m perfectly safe.”
Max cups my face and captures my lips in a tender caress of a kiss. He lingers with his forehead pressed to mine. “I will worry. Let me do this for you, please.”
“When you ask like that, how can I say no?” Mom had loved me with everything in her, but as soon as I got old enough, I took care of her. Carl said I was the most self-sufficient person he’d ever met. No one had ever asked to take care of me—until Max. A sweet glow suffused me.
Max murmured, “Good, stay for dinner. Afterward, I’ll call a cab.”
We ate linguini in garlic-butter sauce with capers, bits of prosciutto and fresh grated Asiago cheese.
“Wow…you cook, too. You are starting to assume god-like proportions, Max.” I elbow him as we sit on the sofa, slurping linguini into our mouths and watching “Pawn Stars” on the History
Channel. He rolls his eyes.
“It’s not hard to boil water and melt butter, Hol.”
“It’s more than some could manage,” I say with a laugh, thinking of Carl and some charred spaghetti noodles. I slurp more glorious carbs into my mouth and wipe the garlic-butter off my cheek with my finger. Max takes my finger and puts it in his mouth to suck the butter off. The feeling of his tongue reminds me of earlier activities. Miss Kitty gets out the pompoms and starts to lead a cheer. It would be so easy to throw the bowl aside and jump his gorgeous bod. “Tell me about your family. Are they here in Florida?”
Max shakes his head. “My mom and dad, older sister and younger brother are all back east.
We’re from Portsmouth and most of the extended family still lives around Portsmouth.”
“All I know about Maine is they have lobsters and moose. Are your family lobstermen?”
Max chuckles. “Most people think of Portsmouth as being Maine, but 99% of it is in New
Hampshire. No, not lobsters…Dad is involved with wood and paper products. Almost all the family works with him in some way.”
“You didn’t want to?”

“Making tongue depressors and post-it notes didn’t appeal to my sense of adventure. I went into the army straight out of high school and then into Ranger School when I turned twenty.
After Ranger School I was accepted into the Rangers and stayed deployed most of the time.”
“And now you care take expensive property. Any plans to return to New Hampshire?”
My heart pounds. I act casual, twirling my fork in my linguine. We both know why I’m asking. Max gazes at me thoughtfully for a long moment. He opens his mouth as if to say something then stops. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. When he opens them again he gives me a quiet smile. “N-no immediate plans. There’s this cute…blond girl I’ve just m-met. I really like her. I’d like to see where…that goes.”
“Oh.” I melt—utterly. Slather me in garlic-butter and call me linguini. My heart bursts with happiness. Can this really be happening to me? A tiny voice of caution keeps my feet on the floor and my eyes on my pasta. Only the zings of surprise when I learn something new about him remind me I haven’t known him long at all. I feel so comfortable with Max—as if he’s my BFF.
My heart smiles, knowing Max feels the same. His now mostly-easy speech is a dead giveaway.
He still stutters from time to time but the long pauses between words have vanished.
All too soon, dinner is over. Chumlee from “Pawn Stars” scores another big deal on an antique ice cream maker and it’s time for me to leave. Max and Snafu walk me down the drive and through the walk gate beside the wrought iron entry gates guarding the driveway. Without lights, the darkness is almost complete. I’m glad Max knows the gate is there. I’d never have found it. There’s a small bench and that’s where we sit and wait for the cab. When it comes, Max leans in, tells the driver where to go and hands him some bills.
“See you tomorrow. I had fun today,” he says as he hands me into the back seat. He slams the car door and the cab pulls away. I know I should play it cool. I can’t. I hang out the window and wave until we turn the corner. Max stands by the bench with Snafu sitting at his feet. He laughs and waves back.
***
Shit . I blew a golden opportunity. I’m such a god-damn coward. I started to tell her. I couldn’t fucking do it. I can’t un-hear the words,
I’d never trust a relationship with one of the entitled on this island.
Each day that passes without my telling her makes it that much worse. My family’s money has never mattered to me—but it matters to her. I’ll tell her tomorrow. I will.
***
I awake to the sound of thunder so loud it rattles the windows at Studio 6. It’s 4:45 a.m. and it’s raining—as in a palm-frond-lashing, rain-pelting, thunder-rolling, lightning-cracking rain storm. I never asked Max what to do if it rained. I eye my prepaid cell phone, a parting gift from
Carl. Useless. I don’t have Max’s number. I’m going to have to drive the Wombat to Max’s house. The on-foot-beach route is out of the question. In Florida, more people die from lightning strikes than any other accidental death. I don’t want to be among them. So, that’s the plan. I’ll take the Wombat—if it will start—and hope I don’t break down on the way.
Since I have the luxury of extra time this morning, I flip through the course catalog for Palm
Beach Junior College and plot out my semester hours. I’m determined that no more time will slip through my fingers. I’m implementing the Holiday Jones Self-Improvement Plan come hell or high water. From the sounds outside, both have arrived. I get lost in the course catalog. So many fascinating subjects. I’d loved school. When I graduated, I’d applied for a financial-hardship

scholarship and gotten it, but then Mom became ill and my Holiday Jones Self-Improvement
Plan derailed. But I’m back on track now.
A violent crack of lightning, simultaneous with a boom of thunder, startles me badly, and the lights go out. Great. I scoot over to the window to read. Two hours elapse and then I’m scampering through the deluge and leaping into The Wombat to chug to Max’s. Miracle of miracles, The Wombat starts. The water on the road splashes up through the hole in the floorboard and The Wombat rocks in the wind. I have problems seeing the road though the wipers are on high, and every couple of minutes I have to rub another hole through the condensation on the windshield. I hope Max isn’t waiting on the beach for me. The beach is the most dangerous place to be in a Florida lightning storm.
When I get to the property, the big black gates bearing a stylized “H” are closed, so I park on the apron, pull my orange rain poncho over my head and backpack, and skinny through the walk gate. By the time I trot up the main drive, around the big house and to the pool cabana, nothing on me is dry. I knock on the louver door and wait. No answer. God, please tell me Max and
Snafu aren’t waiting for me on the beach. Please tell me they haven’t been standing in this tropical storm since 6:30, waiting. Oh, Max.
I turn and trot through the downpour, my anxiety rising. It’s difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. The wind whips the rain into stinging pellets and foliage whirls through air. My poncho becomes an orange flag, whipping around my body and doing no good whatsoever. I’ll bet this storm has a name. It’s violent enough. I’m almost down to the beach when I see them. Oh, Max.
“Max!” I wave and shout again and keep trotting forward. I cup my hands to my mouth and scream, “Max! Behind you.” Snafu hears me and bounds through the rain toward me. Lightning cracks not too far from us and I flinch. “Max!” The rolling thunder makes it hard to hear. Finally he turns and sees me. When I reach him I wrap my arms around him. “Thank god. Don’t you know how dangerous it is to be on the beach in a lightning storm?”
“I was afraid you would try and walk. I didn’t want to miss you. Let’s get inside.”
We get to the cabana as quickly as possible. Once through the louver door, Max hustles us to the kitchen and we shed our wet clothes. I’m down to my bikini top and my boy-cut underpants.
Max is standing in what God gave him. I think God had a particularly inspired day when he created Max. Wow. Just...wow. He sees me admiring him and stops schlepping our water-logged clothes into the sink. His glance takes me in and pauses at my panties. An eyebrow climbs his forehead.
“Betty Boop, Holiday?”
Chattering, I nod. “I l-like B-b-betty Boop.”
“Who’s tomorrow?”
“Ah…C-c-cookie M-m-monster.”
He silently laughs and picks me up in a kiss. I wrap my legs around his waist, hug his neck and surrender to a desire that rivals the storm outside. We wind up in the shower with steaming hot water pelting down on the two of us. I slowly stop shivering. Max undoes the strings holding my top and drops it to the shower tile with a splooch . “Holiday Jones. You’re some kind of magical. I’ve known you for four days. How can I feel like this?”
His hazel eyes hold mine. The incredulous joy I see in them brings tears to my eyes so I’m glad of the water from the shower that pours over my face. “I’m so into you I’m lost, Max. I don’t know how to be careful. What I feel is too big.”
“Oh God, Holiday. Don’t be careful.”

I want to do something for this wonderful man. I want to give him pleasure. I release his waist and slide down his front, careful not to trap his gorgeous cock. I kneel in front of him and capture his cock and balls in my hands. Max looks down at me and smiles. His eyes get that sleepy look. “You sure about this?”
I nod and nuzzle his cock. “Hey, Rex. Remember me?” I smile and rim the head of his cock with my tongue. I open my lips was wide as I can and slide the entire head into my mouth. It’s a tight fit. Max groans his appreciation and holds my head gently. I’m going to rock this man’s world. I suck hard and mouth as much of his length as I can. Max yelps and pulls away so suddenly I land on my butt on the shower floor. He cradles his groin.
“Teeth! Hol…no teeth.”
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. Rex is so thick. I didn’t realize…oh…” Mortification swamps me until
Max starts laughing. I have to laugh too. He extends a hand to me and pulls me up.
“You’ve never done this before, have you? It’s on your bucket list. I should’ve remembered.”
“I wanted to do something extra nice for you and I know guys think a blow job’s a big thing.”
“Ah.” Max turns off the shower, grabs some towels and we pad into the bedroom. As we dry each other off, I covertly study Max’s cock. It bears three suspicious reddish-purple crescents that could possibly correspond to three teeth in my lower jaw. I sigh. There’s no avoiding it. I bit him on the dick.
“What did you mean by ‘Rex is so thick’?”
Oh…this just gets worse and worse. I cover my head with a towel, scrub at my wet hair and mumble, “Cock-a-saurus Rex. So…Rex. It’s my nickname for your cock.”
Max lifts the towel off my face and peers at me. “Cock-a-saurus Rex?”
I can feel the heat rising up from the middle of my chest to my neck and into my cheeks. I look at Max and shrug. “Cause it’s a monster.”
I strip off a sodden Betty Boop, wrap myself in a towel and pick up a random copy of The
Palm Beacher from a bedside table. I snuggle on the bed, flipping through the magazine. I figure, sooner or later, Max will stop laughing. Eventually, he gazes at me from where he lays and a look of gentle amazement replaces the humor.
I stop flipping the pages. “What?” I ask softly.
He simply shakes his head and rises. He crosses to the bed, lifts the covers and slides in. I watch from my seat against the headboard.
“Come snuggle with me.” He picks the covers up in invitation and I accept. Max strips the towel off me, first thing, and then spoons around me, his arms wrapping my waist, his chin resting on the top of my head. Warmth from his bare flesh blankets me and I relax into him.
“Thanks for the thought,” he murmurs.
“Are you brave enough to let me try again?” I feel him laughing.
“Sure, as soon as the teeth marks fade.” He gives me a little squeeze. “Just kidding, babe. Just kidding. I have a suggestion though.”
“Yeah?”
“Start when I’m not hard. I’m not such a mouthful and it still feels damn good.”
“Good point. Um…other than the teeth thing, is there anything else I should avoid?”
He’s laughing again. “Not that I can think of. You warming up?”
“Yeah. You’re better than a hot rock.”
“What’s a—no—I’m not going to ask.”
I let out a long breath. “You know those exotic lizards they sell in pet stores?”
“Okay. Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, they are cold-blooded so you have to buy them a ‘hot rock’ to keep them from becoming sluggish. Carl had one.”
Max tightens his arms around me. “Holiday Jones, you are as far from cold blooded as a body can get. But, I’ll volunteer as your ‘hot rock’ any day.”
I smile and close my eyes, blissfully warm and amazingly content and listen to the storm rage around us.
I awake to the quiet chirping of the birds and bright sunlight. Somehow, I’ve done a 180 and
I’m curled on Max’s stomach, my arm around his waist. He’s propped against the headboard reading.
“
Tifway Bermuda Lawn Maintenance . Is that the latest best seller among caretakers?”
Max looks at me over the top of the pamphlet. “Hey, sleepy head. Yeah, I’m trying to get the putting green back into shape.” He grins. “Storm’s over. Time to earn your money and take
Snafu out for some exercise, then I’ll feed you lunch.”
“Absolutely, but I should probably move The Wombat off your driveway apron before I get a ticket.” I frown. “Max, after I earn my keep, will you go with me to see Bennie-Under-the-
Bridge and Crazy Kate? I’m worried about them after this storm.”
“Let’s get your van moved, take Snafu out for a spin and then I’ll be happy to go with you.”
***
“You’re sure you don’t mind calling Fred and telling him my van’s broken down?”
“I’m sure I don’t mind.”
“You’re the best, Max. Thank you.”
When she smiles at me like that, I’d fucking jump the moon for her.
“Fred used to date my mom, and he’s kept The Wombat running forever. Fred’s like a televangelist for anything with an engine. He simply lays his hands on The Wombat, says, ‘Be healed,’ and I drive off into the sunset. Unlike most faith healers, Fred’s cures are for real.”
“You don’t tow it to him?”
“No. I just tell him where it is. Half the time he won’t let me pay him. He says he has old parts just lying around. I don’t believe him, but…” Holiday shrugs. “Hey, my cab is here.” She jumps up and hugs my neck. “Thanks so much. Ask Fred to please leave a bill this time. See you tomorrow. Oh…wait, today’s Friday. Guess I’ll see you Monday.”
She sounds as let down as I feel. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her to come Saturday and
Sunday, but it might be good for both of us to have a couple days to ourselves. I wave to Holiday as her cab leaves the driveway. She hangs out the window and blows kisses—the kook. Snafu and I walk back toward the house and I eye the pink and white pile of rusted metal squatting in my driveway. The Ali Baba we shot at in the sandbox drove better shit than that bus.
The piece of crap held up until after we visited the homeless Holiday has taken under her wing. Holiday dropped Snafu and me off and was going to head home for a catering job when the engine died. She couldn’t get it started again.
I call “Fred the Mechanic” and leave a message with my address. Maybe two hours later, a
Willie Nelson look-alike shows up on a Vespa scooter pulling a trailer. Where does Holiday find these people? I wander down the drive to meet him.
“Hi, I’m Max.” I hold out my hand and we shake. He has an old USMC Vietnam tat on his right forearm and the grimy calloused hands of a man who uses them for a living.

“Fred, the mechanic.” Fred stares at the van like it’s evil incarnate. “It won’t start?”
“No.”
He shakes his head. “I worked on this rust bucket when Patty was alive. It was junk then. I keep telling Holiday to get rid of it.” Fred gave a disgusted snort. “I guess she’s got a sentimental attachment. Do you care about Holiday?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Then drive it into the ocean and let the fish have it.”
I scratch my head. “Well…as you said, there’s a sentimental attachment. What does the van need to make it safe and reliable?”
Fred pins me in a steady squint. “Starter motor. Battery and battery cables. Alternator. Brakes.
Floorboard. Head gaskets. Engine block. Belts, hoses, plugs…new wipers. Rear suspension. I’m not done. Want me to go on?”
“Might as well.”
“It would cost you less to buy a used Mercedes. How much you wanna spend?”
I shake my head. “Whatever it takes. But Fred…” I hold his gaze intently “…Holiday never finds out. Bill her for the battery cables. I’ll cover the rest.”
He grunts. “Told Patty I’d keep an eye on Holiday. Make life hard for her girl and you’ll be seeing more of me.”
“Acknowledged.”
He stares at me and I stand there and let him look. He’s entitled. “You a queer or a druggie?”
“Hell, no.”

At 6:30 a.m. Monday, the ocean looks still looks rough, and I walk around all sorts of oddities cast up by the storm three days ago—a tennis shoe for the left foot, a toilet seat and a life vest, among other things. I can see the shoe and the life vest, but how do you lose a toilet seat? I missed Max and Snafu. Oh, who am I kidding? Mostly I missed Max. It’s a little scary how much I missed him. Max had texted over the weekend, thank God.
Max: Only Saturday morning and I miss U. R U wearing Cookie Monster?
Me: LOL Miss U 2. LOL Yeah, Cookie Monster. Did Fred come?
Max: Yes. Van will B ready Monday.
Me: $$$??
Max: Just a battery cable.
Me. Phew!
Max: What’s next on the bucket list?
Me: LOL you have it. U tell me.
Max: Lap dance/strip tease
Me: Gulp
Max: Only if you want to.
Me: I want to!  Gotta go. Carlos is here. Later! XXOO
Max: !! Who is Carlos?
Me: LOL No worries. My catering boss.
Max: Tell him UR taken.
Me: I am?
Max: U R
Me: 
I’m taken? I throw my arms in the air and spin in circles, laughing. I’m taken! Carlos watches me through the windshield like I’ve lost my mind. I’m in full possession of my senses. My heart is what I’ve lost.
As usual, when I get within sight of the estate’s gate, I see the tall profile of Max and the small dark shadow of Snafu and wave. I smile to myself. I’m determined to make this lap

dance/strip tease epic to make up for my misplaced knee and over-eager teeth. For inspiration and courage, I’m wearing my Wonder Woman panties. Ha! Max won’t know what hit him.
This time, Max and Snafu meet me half way and Max carefully braces himself and lifts me off my feet in a big hug.
“Missed you, Miss Jones.” His hazel eyes twinkle in the early dawn.
“Missed you, Mr. Harper.” I grin back. My legs wrap around his waist. My arms hug his neck.
“The storm washed up some interesting stuff. Want to walk the beach this morning?” Snafu leaps around us, woofing. When Max puts me down, I kneel, hug Snaf’s neck and try to avoid his doggie kisses. I’m not successful and resign myself to a dog-slobber facial. Max chuckles and picks up the tennis ball chucker he’d laid in the sand before he caught me up in an unsteady hug.
“Sure. Let’s make this interesting. A kiss for every man-made thing we find that isn’t trash.”
I laugh. “Can I collect on a shoe, a life-vest and a toilet seat I saw on the way here?”
Max pulls me to him. “Yeah.”
By the time Max returns me to earth, Miss Kitty is high-stepping it down the middle of I-95, waving a banner that says, “Do me.” I remind myself to check the mail when I get home. The free clinic should be sending my labs any day now.
***
This weekend was an effing endurance contest. I’ve never missed someone so bad in my life.
Fuck
. I’m waving the white flag, here. Either I’m in love or my PCS has sent me round the bend.
All that stupid shit I gave my buddies hell for…the mooning over a picture of their girl or wife, the hours of waiting to get online for ten minutes of Skype, the reading and re-reading of the last letter she sent, the tears, the laughter…I get it. The capper is Holiday’s reference to some Carlos dude. Shit.
I want to get in the face of a total stranger.
Late Sunday, Fred finishes what he can do on the VW. He’s a good guy. If he helps Holiday, I like him. He hands me his bill and I eyeball the list. It comes to $3,381.62. I give him $4,500.
“That’s for the times you didn’t charge Holiday.”
Fred stares at my check for a minute. “She know who you are—Maxwell Carlton Harper,
III?”
“No, and Fred, I would like to be the one to tell her.”
I stand for a good thirty seconds while Fred squints at me. “Word to the wise, son. Tell her before you get in her pants.” His chin jerks in a nod and he gets on his Vespa and pulls out of the drive.
I stuff my bill in my pocket along with Holiday’s for $12.99. Shit. He’s right. I gotta tell her.
Holiday and I spend Monday morning walking the beach and throwing the tennis ball for
Snafu. My leg hurts like fucking hell the whole time. My knee and ankle hate the shifting sand.
By the time we get back to the house, it’s all I can do to hide the pain. I want her attention, her company…not her care. Call it pride…whatever. I’m effing over being seen as damaged.
Besides, I’d put up with a whole hell of a lot more to watch her and Snaf play like two puppies.
It’s a tossup who loves Holiday more, me or my dog. While we are eating, I pop a pill. I’ve been weaning myself off the Oxys and haven’t taken any in months. But, I’m looking forward to after lunch and I want nothing to spoil the moment.
Holiday puts the last of the food in the refrigerator and sashays up to me with a sassy quirk of her mouth. “So Mr. Harper, are you ready to let me entertain you?”
I grab her by her waist and pull her to me. “I believe I’ve been ready for the last half-an-hour,
Miss Jones.” She laughs, all sexy and wicked. I get harder.

“Well, parts of you are ready.” She bats her eyes at me. “I need you to do one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Get on Amazon Prime Music and create a playlist of these songs.” She then lists a bunch of songs like Ginuwine’s Pony and Weeknd’s
Earned It . They have one theme in common— grinding sex to a heavy bass beat.
“I can do that.” I smile. “Background music for this afternoon’s entertainment?”
She bites her lip in a flirty smile and nods.
“You got it, babe. So…where do you want me?” With a wiggle of her eyebrows, Holiday leads me into the living room and points to the couch.
“There.” She looks over her shoulder at me as she disappears into my bedroom. “Music, please,” she calls.
I hook us up with the music she’s asked for. The slow, deep, bass beat reverberates through the Bluetooth speakers and I sit on the sofa where she indicated. I shift several times before I can get the thin cotton of my cargo shorts to stop binding “Rex”. I chuckle to myself. She’s got me using “Rex”.
Holy fuck.
Holiday slinks out of my bedroom in time to the beat of the music. She wears nothing but one of my white, long-sleeve, dress shirts and some shiny, black, sky-high heels that make her legs look a runway to fucking nirvana. I can see her erect nipples through the Egyptian cotton. The message in her eyes pulls a low groan from me. The flirty, bubbly Holiday has disappeared. A full on, come-fuck-me-now woman has replaced her. “Shit, Holiday.”
“Spread your arms on the back of the couch, Max.” She saunters up to stand between my parted knees. Her body undulates gently to the music. The outside of her thighs brush the inside of mine. Even through the cotton, the electric sensation drives straight to my dick. “Good boy.
Now…” she bumps my legs “…spread.” She notices my reaction and grins, a momentary peek at the playful Holiday before the sex goddess reappears. She holds my gaze and runs her clawed hand down the front of my shorts, splitting her fingers around my erection. I groan and shift. She leans forward and tickles her nose along my jaw while below, her body taunts mine with herethen-gone-again pressure. “We have some rules for this game.”
“Shit, babe.”
Her low chuckle competes with the pulsing bass for sexy. She pauses by my ear and whispers,
“You don’t touch, don’t move from the couch. You don’t talk—no moans, no groans, no sounds, nothing. You initiate nada. Got it, Max?”
“Shhiiit…”
She placed a finger across my lips. “That’s the last sound you make until I’m through. Got it, stud?” I nod. “Good. This is going to be epic .” She grins. Her knees straddle one of my legs as she dips and grinds her crotch up my thigh to graze my chest with her breasts. Swinging her leg over mine, she reverses position and bends at the waist. My eyes are a foot from the juncture of her thighs and a seriously sexy ass covered in thin blue cotton. She grabs my attention with a sultry look over her shoulder and slips her hands along the inside of her thighs. One hand pauses in the middle of her crotch and fans out as she dips lower from her waist. My eyes follow her hand as she draws her fingers forward, caressing her pussy.
Ah, fuck. Her panties have a wet spot. Ah shit.
I’m dying here but I don’t make a sound. She casts another glance over her shoulder and backs up until she’s almost sitting in my lap. My eyes devour her as she writhes to the music, her ass cheeks and parts between, pressing on my dick and balls. Were we naked, I could grab her waist and fuck her just like this. I fist the couch cushions to keep from moving my hands.

“You get me so hot, Max.” Holiday holds my gaze over her shoulder and unbuttons the shirt.
It slips down her slender back before she pulls it off and drops it on the floor. Her hands run up her sides and cradle her breasts and she turns to face me. God… I want to tell her how pretty she is, instead I smile and put all that I’m feeling into my eyes—which I close promptly when
Holiday leans forward and nuzzles her breasts into my face. “I’d love to have your mouth here,
Max, sucking on my nipples. Mmm.”
Oh, fuck, Holiday…me, too.
Holding my hand in hers, she slithers down the front of me. Her torso pauses immediately over my dick, which raises hell about being confined to base. She rubs ole Rex with her breasts while she slides my middle finger between her lips and mouth fucks it.
I pretty much lose it right there.
Arching up, I try to grab her. Holiday springs back, wagging her finger. “Naughty, naughty,
Max. I told you. No touching.” Her hips bump to the music. Backing away from me in a sexy slither, Holiday hooks the sides of her panties—oh god, Wonder Woman, how appropriate—and skims them down her legs. I blame my preoccupation with a gloriously flushed and clean-shaven
Miss Kitty for not preventing what comes next.
As she slowly slips one high-heeled shoe out of her panties, holding me in a smoldering gaze,
Snafu ambles out of the kitchen and gooses her bare crotch. Holiday yelps. With the heel of one foot caught in Wonder Woman, she loses her balance and tumbles backward over the dog. She lands hard on her right butt cheek and then the back of her head audibly whacks the marble floor. She doesn’t move.
Ah, fuck. That's not good.
***
“Ouch…owie, owie, owie,” I whisper when the black spots fade and I gingerly feel the back of my head. I’m naked, flat on my back on Max’s marble floor, with four-inch patent leather pumps on my feet and my Wonder Woman panties around one ankle. Sade’s The Sweetest Taboo fills the room. I vaguely remember how I got here. Max’s concerned face fills my vision. To his left is Snafu. “Bad dog,” I croak.
I defy anyone to remain balanced flamingo-like on one stiletto when a dog sticks their cold nose up their bare nether regions. Nevertheless, I blink back tears of disappointment mixed with frustration. This isn’t how I visualized my strip tease ending. I was killing it. I know I was. A forlorn trickle escapes the corner of my eye and wanders down my temple.
“Aww, babe. Does it hurt that bad?” I let him think I’m crying because of pain. Max leans in and feathers a kiss on my lips. “Come on…sit up slowly and let me see the back of your head.”
His arms surround me and gently sit me up.
“Could you hand me your shirt, please? The one I took off?”
“If you insist.” Max grins at me then helps me into his dress shirt. He buttons the front up to my chin and rolls the cuffs up to my wrists. His fingers separate my hair and he peers at the back of my head. “You have a quite a lump, but no broken skin. Come on, let’s get you to the sofa.”
Max helps me to my feet. Actually, Max puts me on my feet. I didn’t help much. “Put your arms around my waist, Hol, and I’ll help you into your panties. I get another one of his grins. “Love the Wonder Woman, babe. Let’s get those killer shoes off before you go down again.”
I lift my leg. Pain streaks up my spine. It’s all I can do to hold each foot up while Max pulls my shoes off. “Max, I think I broke my ass.”

Max slips my foot through the leg hole in Wonder Woman and pulls her up with a little snap of the waistband. “Yeah. You came down hard on your fourth point of contact.”
I wrinkle my brow. “What’s a fourth point of contact?”
“The fourth point of contact is your ass. In Jump School you land a parachute drop on five possible points of contact; one, the balls of your feet; two, the heels of your feet; three, your thighs; four, your ass; and five, your shoulder blades.”
“What number is your head?”
Max holds my face between his hands and kisses me again. “No number. The Army discourages using your head as a point of contact. That gets you dead. Okay, let’s try for the sofa.”
I whimper when I attempt to sit and Max lowers me the last foot. Nausea roils in my stomach from the pounding in my head. “Max, I’m going to be sick.”
“I’ll get you a waste basket. Don’t move.”
I’d rather not remember the details of the next couple of hours. After I empty my stomach of everything I’ve consumed today, Max picks me up, carries me into the bedroom and after swapping the dress shirt I’m wearing for a well-worn undershirt, he snugs me into bed.
“I’m something of an expert on concussions, and you have a concussion. I want you to stay here tonight so I can keep an eye on you. Is there anyone I need to call, like your catering boss?”
“No.” My head pounds, my butt aches, and my nausea is under only tenuous control. “I just want to close my eyes and sleep.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I can’t let you sleep. I need to make sure you don’t slip into a coma, so
I’m going to get in bed and hold you, and you’re going to satisfy my curiosity about everything
Holiday Jones for the next twelve hours.”
Max was as good as his word. He stripped off his cargo shorts, slipped into a pair of sweat pants and crawled into bed with me. I wish I’d been in a better position to appreciate his naked body and to further my acquaintance with Rex.
“Okay, Miss Jones. What’s your favorite color?”
“Hot pink.”
“Favorite flower?”
“Gardenia. I like the waxy white petals and the smell.”
“Favorite flavor of popsicle?”
“Cherry.” I settle next to Max’s body and decide it is almost worth the concussion.
Throughout the late afternoon, evening and well into the early morning hours of Tuesday, Max jostles me periodically and asks some random question. I don’t know how he stayed awake.
From time to time, Snafu places his head on the side of the bed and snuffles, then goes back and flops down on his dog bed.
Weak rays of the early morning sun slip through the shutters on the bedroom windows and I realize it is Tuesday. The clock reads 6:05 a.m.—late for me. My head has finally responded to the aspirin Max gave me every four hours and I feel almost human—until I try to move. I yelp softly.
Max’s sleepy voice resonates in my ear. “Morning. Sore?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm. What hurts the worst?”
I move cautiously and inventory my body’s feedback. “Pretty much everything from my shoulders down hates me.” I slooowly roll to my back. “Oh, back of the head is a lot tender.” I peer up at Max’s heavy-eyed, beard-scruffed face. He’s got bad bed-head. One half is flat to his

skull and the rest sticks out wildly. He’s so handsome. It’s not fair. I shudder to think what I look like, and surreptitiously, I exhale into my cupped hand and sniff. Not too bad. Max laughs at me.
Guess I wasn’t sneaky enough. He leans over, kisses me on the forehead and then rolls out of bed.
“Let me spend a few minutes in the bathroom, and then it’s all yours.”
“Okay.” I roll to my side and snuggle back into the covers happy not to move.
I guess I must have fallen asleep, because the next time I wake up, I smell coffee. I prop up carefully and glance at the clock. It reads 11:30. “Oh wow…I gotta get up,” I mutter.
“If you want to stay in bed all day, that’s fine with me.” I hadn’t noticed Max sitting in a chaise lounge in the corner of the bedroom. He’s reading the paper and drinking coffee. Snafu is lying next to him with a hopeful look on his face.
“Nope. I’m getting up.” I smile. “The bathroom is calling.” I ooze from the bed and Max is there immediately. He helps me gimp to the bathroom. I stop at the door. “Thanks, I can take it from here.”
“Feel like eating anything?”
“Oh…coffee would be heaven.”
“Coffee it is.” He places a quick kiss on my nose. “I’ll be back.”
On the granite counter by the sink, a toothbrush, still in its package, and a travel size tube of toothpaste stick out of a tumbler. Next to the glass rests a towel and clean washcloth with one of those guest soaps in the shape of a seashell. I hold it to my nose. Gardenia. Awww…how thoughtful. I sigh. I love you, Max.
As soon as I have the thought, the truth of it hits me. I do love
Max Harper. I smile to myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth. I’m in love with Max Harper, and I’m very hopeful he likes me more than a little.
After taking care of my immediate needs, I wander out of the bathroom in search of my backpack. It has a change of clothes. I shouldn’t spend the day wearing only Max’s t-shirt and my Wonder Woman panties. I shouldn’t spend the day with him, period. I’m sure Max has work he’s put off, and the last thing I want is to get him in trouble with his employer. I should get The
Wombat, go home, feed Rover and check my mail. I don’t want to…but I should.
I pad into the kitchen. Max is standing with both arms outstretched against the kitchen counter watching the coffee maker as if it will cease to exist if he takes his eyes off it.
He looks up and smiles but doesn’t move. “Hey. Making you a fresh pot.”
“Hey, yourself. Thanks for the toothbrush and the gardenia soap. I slip behind him and wrap my arms around his waist in a hug. “Can I have a do-over on the strip tease thingum?”
“Hol…” he straightens and turns in my arms “…you can have all the do-overs you want, anytime you want. I’ll save the playlist.”
“Yeah?”
He nods solemnly. “Yeah.”
I lift a shoulder with a half-hearted chuckle. “Last night was a microcosm of my life.”
“How so?”
“Well, I be killing it…
” I flashed Max a look of inquiry and frown. “I was killing it, wasn’t
I?”
Max smiles and nods with a soft, “Yes, ma’am. You were effing laying it down.”

“Well…I’ll be killing it and then something unforeseen will put me on my ass.”
Max’s arms tighten around me and we stand there in silence until the coffee is ready.

I fucking hate myself. I should’ve told her. I should have told her when we were standing in the kitchen this morning. I want to protect her. I want to shelter her from all those ‘unforeseen’ circumstances—not be one of them. What are the words to that song? If you liked it, you should’ve put a ring on it.
Yeah, I want to put a fucking ring on it. It’s that simple. She’s it for me.
Holiday insisted on going home. Said she didn’t want to get me in trouble with my boss. Fuck that. I should’ve told her then. Instead, I drove her the five-minute drive to her apartment in that piece of crap bus—the poor babe could hardly walk, much less work a clutch—and then I called a cab and came back to the cabana. I’m not supposed to drive because of the seizures, but I figured I could handle a five-minute trip to West Palm. She lives in a dump. The effing cockroaches are as big as her goldfish. I want her out of there. I should’ve told her. Shit.
I can’t lose her. I gotta find some way to tell her.
***
The first thing I do after waving good-bye to Max is check my mail. Yes! My lab results. I rip open the envelope and scan the small print. All normal, not that I was worried—much. We won’t need condoms for birth control, either. I have an IUD. Good thing, as I would probably forget to take a pill every day. I can’t even remember my vitamins.
I lean against the kitchen counter and pull my dirty clothes from yesterday out of my backpack. A white legal envelope falls to the kitchen floor. I eye it. Do I want to know what’s in it bad enough to bend down? Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I do. Five minutes later, I carefully open the envelope and smile. It’s cash. Max paid me. I still feel guilty about taking money for something that’s such a joy. I count it. $250.00 in twenties and tens. I feel giddy having so much money. I pull out $50.00 to use for groceries. I’ll bank the rest for my tuition. I put the envelope in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, as I have no illusions about how easy my apartment is to break into. I figure no thief will check the freezer. My phone chimes.
Max sent me a text.
Max: Miss U. What U doing today?
Me: LOL U just saw me. Miss U2. Laundry!
Max: U have food? Aspirin?
Me: Yes. I’m good. Go to work! Don’t worry about me.
Max: Not happening.
Me: OMG labs came. We R free to whatever.

Max: Whatever? Babe, UR killing me.
Me:  Thks for the $$$
Max: You earned it. Whatcha wearing tomorrow?
Me: LOL I think Super Girl is up. Give Snaf a kiss. XOXO
Max: Nope. Keeping them all for me.
Me: 
True to my word, I spend the day hanging out in the laundry room and then grocery shopping.
OMG. Driving the Wombat? Either my yelps when I shift are pretty loud or the engine runs quieter than usual. Hmm.
I think Fred has fixed more than the battery cables and not charged me.
I wouldn’t put it past him. I’ll have to add some extra to the $12.99 I owe him.
I blame fantasizing about tomorrow for the extravagance of the warming lube that made its way into my grocery cart. $4.59 for a one-ounce bottle? Wow. That’s two twelve-packs of ramen beef noodles. If Max likes it, it’s cheap. What can you say about a man who makes me forget about my awkward ineptness? Yeah, I wish I was a world-class lover who blasted Max into orgasmic space. Realistically? Sex is like dancing. No one is very good while learning the steps.
Somehow, with Max, I don’t mind my klutziness or lack of experience. His eyes light with a gentle humor that tells me he’s charmed and entertained—instead of irritated or put off. Well, after the pain fades, anyway. Le sigh.
In the three minutes before I fall asleep tonight, a warm glow fills me. I’ve never felt such joy and hopefulness about my future. My happiness is bulletproof.
***
I’m up extra early Wednesday morning. I figure I’ll want the time. While I feel bunches better than I did yesterday, my right butt cheek still shrieks stop every time I ‘go’ and sitting down is, um, problematic. But! I’m not going to let a little discomfort rain on my Sex-With-Max parade.
Gosh…I hope he’s planning on sex with me; Miss Kitty is tired of being dressed with no place to go.
My heart does a little leap when I see the two of them waiting in the early dawn light. I can’t think of a better way to start a day—or end it for that matter—than seeing Max Harper and
Snafu. Max saunters toward me with a wave and a big grin on his face. Snaf does his usual imitation of a bowling ball and I brace for contact.
Max’s limp is barely noticeable. I shouldn’t have suggested we walk the beach yesterday. I caught the grimaces of pain on his face and the pill he took at lunch when he thought I wasn’t looking. I didn’t say anything. His pride has taken such a battering. I’m not about to deal it one more blow by suggesting he can’t handle a slow stroll down the beach. I’ll remember to keep it short next time.
“Free for whatever, Holiday?”
I shiver in anticipation at the suggestive note in his call as he approaches. Miss Kitty is doing high fives all around. “Um…yeah, Max.” I bat my eyes playfully and channel my inner sex kitten. “Whatever,” I call back.
When he reaches me, Max hands me the tennis ball chucker and I dutifully hurl a ball down the sand for Snafu. Max pulls me into his arms for a gentle hug and I can tell the direction his mind is taking. I wiggle my hips into his groin. “Rex is up awful early this morning.”

Max throws his head back and laughs. I’m toast. The carefree joy I hear fills me with such love for this man I’m about to burst. I’ve been warning myself to be more cautious with my heart, but I have no defenses against Max Harper. None. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
“Babe, Rex has been up since your text yesterday.” Max grins at me from his towering sixthree and waits for me to toss another tennis ball for Snafu. “More important, how are you feeling?”
“My butt’s a little cranky and the back of my head is still tender.” I smile up at Max. “But, given my enthusiasm for the upcoming game, I can play with the pain, coach. Put me in.”
His smile softens and his gaze holds mine. What I see in it sends Miss Kitty strutting to Bruno
Mars’
Uptown Funk . When he leans down, cradles my face and kisses me, I’m lost in the warm pressure of his lips and the gentle play of his tongue. He tastes like mint toothpaste. Years go by.
Okay…minutes. He has to steady me when he finally pulls away, and both of us are breathing like we’ve run five miles. “I’ll get back to this later, babe.” He strokes my cheek and steps away.
For the rest of the morning we play with Snafu, laughing at his antics and chatting about my plans for enrolling at Palm Beach Junior College. I tell Max about my ambition to become a legal assistant and child advocate. The entire time, anticipation for later this afternoon plays like a song in the background.
“A child advocate because of your situation in foster care?” he questions.
“Yeah. There are so many kids lost in the system who need an adult to speak up for them.
What about you? Happy being a caretaker?” Max shifts his position on the beach towel and gazes at the water. He picks up some seashell fragments from the sand and flips them into the shallow surf.
“It keeps me occupied while I’m recovering and I don’t mind the work. I wouldn’t want to make a career of it, though.”
“Do you know what you’d like to do?” I toss the 1,523rd ball for Snafu. He bolts after it as if it were the first. Tireless. I’d pay for his energy. Max continues to flip shells into the sea.
“Once I get a handle on my physical situation, I’d like to go back and finish my masters in finance. What I’ll do with it, I’m not sure.”
“Gosh, Max, when did you have time? I thought you were pretty busy ducking for cover.”
Max snorts and cocks his head, flashing me an amused glance.
“I was a forward sharpshooter, babe. Most of the time, you couldn’t distinguish me from the cover.” He flipped another seashell into the surf. “There’s some down time and the Army encourages you to get your degrees. I took most of my classes online. It’s a slog…no doubt about it, but I’d need something more than high school when I got out. It took me over six years.
The norm is four or five, but I stayed after it.”
“You’re down-playing the work involved. You must be pretty smart.” Max shrugs. “Come on.
Fess up.” I poke him in the ribs and he flinches with a grunt. “What’s your GPA?”
He rolls his eyes and mutters, “Three point eight-five. Writing for the Business Professional was a bitch.”
“Max! That’s almost an ‘A’ average. You are a genius.” I cross my arms and gloat. “I knew it. Handsome and smart and you cook. You are truly a god among men.” He makes a rude noise, shakes his head and stands, pulling me to my feet. I yip at the protest from my hind regions and wave off his look of concern. “Fine, fine…just a little sore.”
We pack up our stuff in silence charged with sexual awareness. Max holds my hand all the way to the cabana. There’s that low voltage—again. When we get there, we set about our normal

routine but I stare at the shrimp salad and slices of avocado on the counter. “I don’t think I can eat,” I whisper. “I don’t know why I’m whispering.”
Max hits me with a half-lidded, smoldering side-glance. “I’m not hungry either and I know why you’re whispering,” he whispers.
“You do?” I whisper back.
“Mmm-hmm.” He stands, holds out his hand and helps me off the barstool. His warm hand envelopes mine and he leads me quietly to his bedroom.
I gesture to the bed and whisper, “Are we going to…ah…”
“Mmm-hmm.” Max’s lips curve in a half smile. His gaze examines me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and refocuses on my breasts. I’ve seen cheetahs on Animal Planet wear that look as they stalk their prey. “I need my backpack,” I whisper. “It’s by the door.”
Max nods. “I need you on that bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll get your backpack.” My heart beats triple time in my chest as I back away and sit in the middle of his bed, Indian style. I can see the sexual tension floating in the air. It has disguised itself as dust motes. It’s not. He points at me.
“Don’t move a muscle.”
Holy Moly . I swallow heavily. Then he grins and laughs.
“Breathe, babe.” The tension eases, but his eyes never leave mine until he turns and strolls out of the room.
When he returns, he tosses my backpack to me and begins to unbutton his shirt. I stall, caught in admiring the golden tanned skin, sculptured pecs and abs on display. With a shiver, I shake myself and unzip the compartment holding my extravagant purchase. I toss the backpack on the floor and hold up the bottle of heating lubricant. “Thought this might be fun.”
Half-undressed, Max crawls over the bed and lies down on his side with his head propped on one hand. He pats the bed next to him. “Right here. Show me what you have there.” I snuggle next to him and hand him the bottle. “Hmm. ‘Enhance your intimacy with a gentle warming sensation’…” His eyebrows rise and he shoots me an amused look. “Love the idea…but, let’s try vanilla for our first time. I’m pretty sure I can get you warm.” He grins. “I used to be pretty good at this.”
My mouth rounds in an unspoken, “Oh.” Max traces a finger under my chin and gently closes my mouth. At the nape of my neck, his fingers find the bow to my bikini top and pull. His fingers trace down my spine to the other strings at the middle of my back and pull those. As his hand skims my flank, his fingers close around the material of my top and slips it free. The girls rejoice in their liberation and ache for a touch. With a fascination undeserved by my worn cutoffs, Max watches intently as he skims my shorts off. With a bark of laughter at my panties, he catches my eyes. “Superwoman? Good choice.” He hooks those off, too.
Max groans. One arm wraps around me and pulls me underneath him. He bears the majority of his weight on his elbows. One heavy thigh lies across my groin and his erection prods my thigh.
“Aren’t you going to take off your shorts?” I want to feel all of him, skin to skin.
“Eventually. I’m not rushing this,” he murmurs as he nuzzles into the crook of my neck. His pecs graze my hard nipples and I inhale sharply at the lance of sensation. Miss Kitty is dancing the Jive. “I’m going to make you feel real good first.”
“That won’t be hard. I feel pretty good already.”
“Ah, babe, I’m just getting started. You’re so pretty. I don’t want to neglect a single inch of you.”

He doesn’t. He pets, licks, teases and caresses every single centimeter of my flesh—front and back, even between my toes—until I’m a screaming, pre-orgasmic wreck. How long have I been here? I’m sure it must be Friday by now. Max pauses to skinny out of his shorts then returns to my breasts.
“Max! Please, please, please. In me, in me. I need you in me!” I begged, writhing under his sucking and laving of my nipples. All the while, Rex lurks on Miss Kitty’s threshold promising ecstasy. She’s thrown the door to the party wide open but Rex ignores her blatant invitation— just leans against the doorframe and growls naughty things to her. Max flashes his hazel eyes at me, smiles around my nipple, then comes off with a pop. My chest heaves with my strident inhales and exhales. “Please, Max…please. No more teasing.”
His long arms wrap under my shoulders and his hands hold each side of my face. “Keep your eyes on mine, babe,” he murmurs. He centers himself and pushes with his hips. Oh…um…wow.
Miss Kitty’s gonna have a full house. My eyes widen at the stretch. Max pauses.
“You okay, babe? I know it’s been awhile.”
I nod vigorously. “I’m okay. Don’t stop.”
A wicked smile flirts with his lips. “No. Not for a long time.”
I think I did something dignified—like whimper. He works himself into me gently, only stopping when he nudges my tonsils. His eyes hold mine with such warmth and tenderness that had my heart not already been lost to Mr. Harper, he would have captured it then. There’s something about being filled to the point where it’s almost painful. Somehow, your body accepts the invasion and then…oh…and then.
He’s in no hurry. It’s as if he luxuriates in the feel of me, as if he wallows in the pleasure one body creates for another. Max uses his like Michelangelo used his brush. He paints a masterpiece of physical sensation that lifts me higher and higher to a crisis of pleasure that fractures me into millions of pieces of ecstasy. My screams still ring in the room when I open my eyes. Max watches me with a look of immense satisfaction. I’m lost in his handsome face. It takes me a moment to register the steely hardness still filling me.
“You didn’t come?”
He kisses me, lingering and soft. His heart pounds in heavy thuds in his chest and the muscles in his arms tremble. “Not yet.” He nuzzles me and places small kisses around my lips. “Am I too heavy for you? How’s your butt?”
“What butt? You mean I’ve body parts not centered between my legs? Oh, Max…I had no idea.” I feel his laughter inside where he still stretches me. His hips begin a gentle advance and retreat. Miss Kitty sits up from where she’d passed out on the floor and straightens her party hat.
“Oh…Max,” I moan. “Oh…”
Methodically and thoroughly, he destroys me again. This time, his groans accompany my screams, and afterward he rolls over and pulls the shot-silk duvet over us. I’m too happy and too limp to utter one word of protest about duvet abuse. I snuggle to his chest and surrender to an excess of bliss.
“Holiday? Stay with me tonight.”
Max’s chest vibrates under my ear. I nod. “Mmm-hmm. Max?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s still Wednesday, right?” His low chuckle bounces me on his abdomen.
“Yes. It’s Wednesday for another ten minutes.”

“Mmm-kay. The orgasms displaced my brain. I kinda lost track of time. I have a catering job on Friday afternoon. Please don’t let me miss it.” His arms hug me closer and he kisses the top of my head.
“I won’t let you miss your job, babe.”
“Thanks.” I wiggle closer to his warm body. “I don’t want to move.”
“Let’s slide under the sheets and then you don’t have to.”
I prop up long enough for Max to turn the sheets back and then we both slide in and spoon.
I’m oblivious until morning.
The smell of fresh coffee hits my nose about the same time as Snafu. The Lab snuffles and licks my face. “Hey, buddy.” I pat him on the head and stir. I’m alone in the bed. I crane my head to see the clock. “Oh, wow, Snaf, 9:00 a.m. I gotta get up.” I carefully straighten in bed and do a mental inventory. I ache between my legs—a good kind of ache. My head is still tender. My butt still complains. None of it can dim the euphoria of my spirit. I’m so in love it makes me dizzy. I need to find Max.
The man of my heart walks into the bedroom. He smiles and sits on the side of the bed. An ordinary white undershirt and low riding jeans have never looked so good. “Hey, babe.”
I beam at him. “Hey yourself, stud.” His grin widens. Shyness overwhelms me for absolutely no reason and I examine the slubs of shot-silk on the duvet. “Last night was…ah…awesome.”
Max’s voice drops a register and warms to a verbal caress. “Yeah. I think we did pretty good for a couple of BAVs.”
I draw circles on the duvet with my forefinger and peek up through my uncontrollable curls.
“You know, as born-again virgins we have an obligation to practice as often as possible to remove our ‘lack of recent experience’ deficit.”
He cocks his head with an arch of an eyebrow then he frowns in consideration. “You have a point. I can see I don’t have as good a handle on this ‘born-again’ stuff as you do.” He studies me solemnly. “In the interest of putting our BAV status as far behind us as possible, do you suppose we should…?”
I nod, equally serious. “Absolutely. At the first available moment.”
“I’m available now.”
There are worse things in the world than making love with Max Harper all day. ‘Army strong’ takes on another perspective. Hooah!

Early Thursday evening, Max dashes from our joint shower to take a call, and from the little I overhear, it’s the estate owners. All that devastating sex must have affected my hearing. Every part of my body has lapsed into a pleasure coma, including my ears. I turn off the water and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel.
Max walks back into the bathroom in his altogether. We trade ogle for ogle. “What time is your catering job tomorrow?”
“Um, I need to be at the catering company by 1:00 p.m. The affair being catered will run into the evening.”
“Damn. I have to pull the hurricane shutters off the big house tomorrow and prep it for company. I’m going to be tied up all Friday morning and some of the afternoon.”
“So, I guess, I won’t see you tomorrow?”
Max wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on the top of my head. “I’ll miss you, but it would probably be best if we waited until Monday.”
I pull back and rise to my tip-toes to kiss Max’s chin. “Well, if I’m not going to see you for three days, perhaps we could try out that warming lube before I leave.”
“Babe…” Max dropped his chin and caught my eyes. His lit with humor. “Ole Rex may need a breather, but I have other skills. Just what did you have in mind?”
I worm my naked skin against Max, cup his hard butt cheeks and nuzzle at his pecs. “I’m very good with my hands.”
Max groans and sweeps me into his arms. Oh, yeah, and Rex reported for duty.
***
I don’t want her to leave—ever. As the taillights on her cab disappear, I make a call to a friend of the family. He manages Tiffany’s on Worth Avenue. Mom and my sister, Chrissie, spend a fortune there. For once, I use my stroke as Maxwell Carlton Harper, III and ask him to stay open late. At 2:00 a.m., I get back to the cabana with a black box holding a 2.65-carat round solitaire in a Tiffany platinum setting. It’s simple and classic. I’ll tell her I love her, get her to say yes and then tell her who I am. Shit.
That’s got to work.
Friday morning I’m up at zero-dark-thirty to get my workout in. If I know Dad, he’ll bring a crew of workers with him. When he saw me four months ago, I was in no condition to remove the massive, aluminum shutters. He’d called regularly, but we simply shot the bull. I didn’t want to raise any hopes about my physical improvement. The call yesterday was simple courtesy to let me know he and Mom were coming down.
Sure enough, around 9:30 a.m. his silver Bentley rolls into the drive, followed by four pickup trucks from Zeke’s Maintenance Service, the guys we normally use for the grounds. I’m standing in the front yard and wave at Zeke as he gets out of his truck. “Zeke. Glad you brought some muscle.”

“Hey, Mr. Max,” he hollers back. “Good to see you up and around.”
Snafu and I walk out to meet my parents. I’m eager to tell them about Holiday. They’ve gone through so much bad shit with me, it’ll be great to give them some good news. I open the car door for Mom and smile. “Hey, Mom.”
“Max, darling!” Mom gives me a big hug and bends over to love on Snafu. “How are my big boys?” She straightens and her eyes examine me, missing nothing. “Max…you look wonderful.
Harp, look at our handsome son!” she exclaims, giving me another huge hug. Dad walks around the car and holds out his hand. I take it and he pulls me into a bear hug.
“You look good, son.” He grins and the relief in his eyes kills me.
“I’m doing good, Dad…Mom. Come to the cabana while the guys get the house opened up.”
Mom exchanges one of “those” looks with Dad.
“You’re right, Harper. He didn’t stutter once.” The cautious hope in her eyes turns my gut.
Sometimes I think my injuries hurt Mom worse than me, especially the brain injury. It’s the reason I left Portsmouth. Mom’s lousy at hiding her feelings, and I couldn’t take the veiled disappointment and forced cheerfulness on a daily basis.
“I’m doing well, Mom. Real well. I’ve had only one seizure in the last three months and my speech is almost back to normal.” She doesn’t need to hear about the resurrection of other parts of me.
“Oh, Max,” she breathes. “That’s so good to hear.” Tears appear in her eyes before she hides her face by petting Snaf. I have to clear my throat.
“Come on. I’ve got fresh coffee and cranberry/orange scones from Napoleon Bakery.”
The three of us sit around the kitchen bar and I catch up on what my sister and brother have been up to. Our morning is filled with warm laughter and easy conversation, just like it used to be—before. Mom runs her hand up my forearm.
“Max, you look happy and you’ve put on a little weight.” She tugs a lock of hair on my forehead. “Though you could still stand to gain more.”
I smile and think of all the breakfasts and lunches and dinners I’ve shared with Holiday. I’m sure a few more weeks of that will put on some pounds. “Yeah. I’m eating more regularly.”
“Have you looked up any of your old friends in the area? Dexter and Paulo have called the
Portsmouth house regularly asking about you.” Mom frowned. “I obeyed your orders. I told them you couldn’t be reached, but I know they’d like to hear from you. You three used to be so close.”
“I’m not into the club scene anymore, Mom.” On more than one occasion, I’d seen Dex and
Paulo’s names in the Palm Beach Shiny Sheet , a glorified gossip column with pretentions of grandeur. Paulo, Dex and I had been regulars on the club circuit the times I’d been home for some I&I, army-speak for intoxication and intercourse. I hadn’t looked them up for obvious reasons.
“Well, how about a small gathering at the house? A quiet welcome home party with a few of your friends?”
Mom sounds carefully eager. She’s a wonderful hostess and gives great parties for the slightest reason. I remember teasing her, years ago, about all the parties she gave and her response was vintage Caroline Harper, Life contains far too much rain and not nearly enough parades . In some ways, Holiday reminds me of Mom—always looking for the bright side but resilient if it doesn’t materialize. I can show up at a party if it will make her happy.
“I suppose I could handle something small,” I cautioned. “Low-key.”
Dad chuckled. “Max, this is your mother
.” He looked at Mom sternly. “Caroline, you heard the man. Low-key
.”

Her face creased in a heart-warming smile. “I promise. You can leave it all to me. I’ll plan something modest. Say an hour or two on Sunday evening, only a few close friends?”
“Yeah, okay.” I pointed a finger at her. “Remember, low-key.”
She crossed her heart then held her fingers up in the Girl Scout salute. Her eyes studied me intently. “You look happy, darling—not so depressed. What’s changed?”
I shifted on the bar stool and cleared my throat. “I met someone. Her name is Holiday.”
Saturday went by in a blur. Mom and Dad got moved into the big house. Mom insisted that I take my old room back, but I dissuaded her by mentioning the stairs. I want my privacy. As soon as I leave the cabana, I can wave good-bye to that. Staff buzzed around the grounds and all the outbuildings as well as the main house, “straightening” as Mom called it. I found time to send
Holiday some texts.
Me: Miss U. Rex says he misses you more. How was Friday?
Holiday: Miss U2! LOL Miss Kitty sends Rex kisses . Late. I’m beat. The same place again this evening.
Me: Carlos pay you good $$$?
Holiday: Yes. He better! The stuff I put up with.
Me: What do you put up with?
Holiday: I hate when the guests R drunk
—sometimes the men R rude.
Me: Rude = ?
Holiday: Handsy. Disrespectful. The usual. Don’t worry. If it’s too bad, Carlos puts me in the kitchen.
Me: WTF Holiday!
Holiday: Aww.

Seriously, I can deal.
Me: You shouldn’t have to.
Holiday: Love that you care.
Me: I care.
Holiday: 
Me: I have something big to ask you.
Holiday: ???
Me: Not like this. In person.
Holiday: Monday?
Me: Yeah.
Holiday: Can’t wait!

I sign off fuming. I know exactly who Holiday is dealing with. I used to be one of those entitled pricks. In my defense, I always took no for an answer, unlike Paulo or Dex who seemed to think no means try harder. It eats at me that I can’t defend her. Even more reason to pop the question. Saturday finally winds down and I sit down to dinner with Mom and Dad. Mom smiles as we help ourselves to lobster tail, Caesar salad, spinach with artichoke hearts and artisan olive rolls. Dad and I discuss my progress in renovating the putting green and then talk turns to tomorrow.
“So, Mom, have you got the meet-and-greet planned for tomorrow?” She is preoccupied buttering her roll and suspicion begins to form ugly thoughts in my mind. “Mom…?” She picks up her wine glass and takes a sip, and then another, and then another.
“Mother?” My voice becomes increasingly wary. “What have you done?”
Her eyes finally meet mine. Apology is written all over her face and she slumps slightly in her chair. “I may have gone a little overboard.”
“Caroline?” At my dad’s stern voice, she looks even more stricken.
Her gaze bounces back and forth from me to my dad and the words come spilling out. “I was so thrilled for Max…I wanted all his friends to know he’s back…and…I kept remembering more people…and then we needed even numbers…and…I moved the time back to accommodate the menu…and…we had to have music…and flowers and…” Her voice trailed off. She stilled the frenetic twisting of her napkin and sat with her head bowed. “I was just so, so happy. I wanted to celebrate. It just grew like the blob that ate New York. I’m sorry.” She raised her head and her loving eyes held mine. Unshed tears trembled on her lids. “I’m sorry, Max. You’re going to hate it.”
Aw…fuck it.
I slide my chair back and walk to where she sits. I pick up one of her hands and squat so we’re eye-to-eye. I chuckle. “The blob that ate New York, Mom?” She sniffs and nods.
“Hey…if you’re happy, I’m happy. It’s just one night. How bad can it be?”
“Black-tie…catered…open-bar…live-music...valet-parking?”
Inside, I groan. What a cluster-fuck. I’m going to hate it. I paste a smile on my face, stand up and plant a big kiss on her cheek. “Sounds like all the ingredients for a great time. It’ll be fun.
Thanks for all your hard work.” Her face brightens and she swipes at her tears with her napkin.
She straightens in her chair and smiles tentatively.
“Caroline, your son is being far too nice. How many people did you invite?” My dad scowls at her.
Mom stares straight ahead. Her expression blank. “One hundred and fifty, give or take a dozen.”

It’s late when Carlos drops me off from the catering job on Saturday night.
Holy Moly , am I glad this night is over.
“I’m sorry about those ass-holes, Holiday. The next time some dude corners you like that, I’m filing a complaint with the Palm Beach Police Department. Just because he’s richer than shit doesn’t mean he gets away with that kind of behavior.” The quiet anger in my boss’s voice warms me. It’s nice to know he cares even if he can’t do anything about it.
“Unfortunately, it does. As soon as you complain, you’ll lose a client.” I shake my head. “You can’t afford that, Carlos. You’ve done three parties for them in the last month.” I pat his arm. “I think dumping a tray of mojitos down the front of Mr. Rivera’s tux cooled him off just fine.” I lean over and give my middle-aged Cuban boss a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for being so sweet.
Your three girls have a great papa. I’ll see you tomorrow. This has been quite the weekend, huh?
And it’s not over yet.”
“Sleep well, querida. Si, tomorrow. You sure you don’t mind driving at night?”
I smile. Carlos picked up a last minute catering job. “I’m sure. I know exactly where I’m going.”
I look at the piece of paper where he’s written tomorrow night’s address. I know that house well. Bubbles of happiness tickle inside. I hope I’ll have a chance to sneak away from the party and say hi to Max. I laugh when I imagine his look of happy surprise.
Sunday night I pull into the driveway of the house where Max works and I’m stunned.
Candle-lit lanterns line the drive, and from every window of the house, gold light streams onto the manicured lawn and shrubbery. Large planters of gardenia bushes in full-bloom decorate the entry and perfume the night air with their fragrance. If Max did all this work alone, he’s probably passed out in exhaustion on the floor of his cabana. I hope he didn’t strain his leg too much.
A white-shirted valet shows me where the staff parking is and I park the Wombat behind what appears to be a storage shed next to Carlos’ white catering van. I’m there an hour early and it’s a good thing. When I walk into the kitchen, Carlos puts me right to work prepping trays of appetizers. Over the jumble of preparations, he makes an announcement.
“Boys and girls, listen up. Those of you circulating with the champagne tonight for the toast, be careful with the champagne flutes. They are $1,500 per piece, antique crystal stemware that
Senora tells me came from the Palace of Versailles. Please, please, please be careful.”
A chorus of “Yes, Carlos, we’ll be careful,” reverberated in response. I turned to Annetta, a cute little Ukrainian girl and one of my fellow workers-in-the-trenches.
“I don’t think I could drink from something I knew was irreplaceable. Could you?”
“ніколи не.
Never
…I’m afraid to touch half the stuff in this house.”

I laughed. “I haven’t been out of the kitchen, but if it’s anything like their pool cabana, I know what you mean.” Annetta frowned and cocked her head. I waved my hand. “I’ll tell you later.
Let’s get these shrimp wraps put together.”
We work frantically assembling the appetizer platters and handing them off to the wait-staff to circulate through the party. When the double doors to the kitchen swing open, strains of big band music filters down the long hallway along with flashes of gorgeous women in evening gowns and handsome tuxedoed men. I can’t contain my curiosity about the house and pick up one of the trays, intending to circulate among the guests. Before I can take three steps, Annetta takes the tray from my hand with a sharp, “Нет, nope!
That same prick from last night, Rivera, is out there. You will have a chance to gawk when everyone takes the champagne for the toast. For now…wrap more shrimp.”
***
I’m fucking dying. My leg is killing me. My head is pounding and my face is frozen in an idiotic smile. I’d forgotten how restrictive a tie can be and if some airhead debutante asks me one more time why I didn’t become a navy SEAL instead of an Army Ranger because it’s so much sexier , I’m going to strangle the bitch.
Worse, when did my two running buddies, Dex and Paulo, turn into complete douche-bags?
Were they always this bad and I just missed it? As the fucking night-without-end wears on, they get sloppy drunk, and all they can talk about is trying to nail some wait-staff chick they’d cornered at a party last night.
Mom breezes through all proud and smiling and introduces me to another “someone I need to know.” I dutifully smile and make polite conversation. For tonight, I will play the returning hero because it makes her happy. This is payback for those endless hours deep in the night in some foreign hospital when I awoke screaming and Mom or Dad was there to talk me down. This is a return on the worry and tears that she and Dad shed during dark days when it didn’t look like I’d keep my leg or be able to talk. All I have to do is glance across the room and see the proud smiles on their faces, the love in their eyes, and I tell my leg to ‘soldier up’ and I smile another empty smile. Dad silences the band and clinks a knife against his glass to draw everyone’s attention.
“Dear friends, thank you for joining us tonight in this celebration to honor the service of one of our wounded warriors. To all those who have served, I raise my glass in silent salute and thank you for your service to preserve for our future generations the gift of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Dad smiled and nodded as the room filled with wait-staff holding silver trays bearing Mom’s precious Marie Antoinette crystal flutes. “I would ask you to please take a glass of the champagne that is being circulated and join with me in a toast to our special honoree.
I’ll wait until all of you have a glass.”
The focus of all eyes in the large ballroom, I do my best to stand quietly and look pleased instead of annoyed and in pain. The two douche-bags I can’t seem to shed snag glasses of champagne from one of the passing wait staff.
Dad continues, “This evening, dear friends, raise your glasses in a toast to our son, former
Army Ranger, Maxwell Carlton Harper, III.”
As the guests lift their glasses, Dex chortles, shoves Paulo and points unsteadily with his champagne flute at something over my shoulder. “Small world. That’s the chick from last night.
I’ll bet even you’d tap that, Army Ranger Maxwell Carlton Harper… the Third
.” Paulo sniggers.
They laugh at their toast and throw the contents of the stemware back.

“Tap what?” Shaking my head in irritation, I turn and stare into the devastated features of
Holiday.
“Max?”
***
“Okay, boys and girls, everyone take a serving tray with the champagne and circulate through the guests. They are ready to make their toast. And remember, por favor, be careful with the stemware.”
With Carlos sending us through the double doors one at a time, I carefully balance a silver platter bearing six to eight flutes of champagne and make my way through the crowd. Since I was one of the last to leave the kitchen, I have to go almost to the center of the room before I find people who still need champagne for the toast. The massive space is filled with well-dressed guests, the women elegant in long evening gowns and the men impossibly handsome in black tuxedos. In the center of the ballroom, there is a small gap around three men in idle conversation.
I recognize two of them from last night’s party. They leer as they recognize me. The third man has his back to me. I stop in my tracks. I don’t care if those men don’t have champagne. I’m not going any closer. Annetta sees my dilemma and circulates within reach of Mr. ‘Come-on-baby.
You-know-you-want-it’ and his friend.
The host proposes a toast and I listen, but most of my concentration is on my tray to ensure the safety of the few glasses I hold. The name sounds...? No. I must have misheard.
“Small world. That’s the chick from last night. I’ll bet even you’d tap that, Army Ranger
Maxwell Carlton Harper… the Third
.” The two slime balls from last night raise their glasses and clink them together before tossing the contents down their throats.
“Tap what?” The elegant male with his back to me turns.
“Max?”
Time stops. I take in his beautifully tailored tux complete with orchid boutonnière, gold studs and cufflinks and the
MHC monogrammed on the French cuffs of his white shirt.
In mere seconds, my entire world unravels.
Max… my Max
…is not the caretaker. He’s the owner’s son. Max has lied to me. Big Time.
The silver tray falls from my nerveless hands and lands with a shattering of crystal. I turn and run.
“Holiday! S-stop! P-p-please!”
I make my way blindly through the crowd of people, down the empty hallway, through the kitchen, past Carlos and out the side door. Tears stream as I run past the cabana and the pool and down the paver path to the beach before the full realization hits me. I collapse onto the sand and tears flood my cheeks. My breath comes in sobs. The man I trusted with my heart lied to me.
Was any of what we shared real? Had I simply been used? I can’t think. I’m too shattered. I must get out of here, and I turn to retrace my steps to The Wombat. The tall profile of Max stands in my way. I straighten, swipe at my tears and fight to quiet my sobs. I refuse to be anyone’s patsy—not even Max’s.
“You look really handsome, tonight, Max. You didn’t get those threads from Harvey’s Tux &
Bridal Rental. What is that? Armani?” I shake my head.
“Wow…what a surprise tonight, hey? I feel incredibly stupid. You’re not the caretaker, are you?”
“No. I’m s..s..sorry. You ass..assumed. I w..w..wanted to t..t..tell you.”
“Yeah? Sometime during the last two weeks, I think you could have found a time. So…what was I? A two-fer? Play a little “hide the bone” with the dog-walker?”
“N-n-no. N-n-ever. Hol…”

His face has shut down and his body has gone rigid. It’s as if it pains him to even look at me. I can’t control the tears anymore and they start to run in a steady stream down my cheeks. “You know… I thought we had something special going. At least…it was special to me. I'm in love with you, Max. But where do I go with that? I don't even know who you are. I can rock with a lotta stuff…but I can’t handle a liar, and you lied to me on a pretty basic level.” I swipe at my tears and try to tame the shudders that wrack my body.
“Hol…Holli…” Max growls and scrubs his face. He pats his jacket frantically and I realize he’s looking for his flip-pad and pencil. He doesn’t seem to have them on him. Maybe they ruined the fit of his jacket. “Hol…” His shoulders slump and he shakes his head.
“Yeah. It’s okay.” I shrug. “I get it. What’s to say, huh? I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your friends, although I have to tell you, you need a better class of friends. How awkward for you that I created such a scene. I guess everyone has figured out by now you were banging the help. I think it’s best if I leave. Apologize to your mom about her glasses. I’m really sorry about that. I’ll find some way to pay her back. I’ll have to do it in installments, though.
Will you tell my boss, Carlos, I had to go? He, ah, he worries about me.”
Max nods. He is so handsome it hurts my eyes. The ocean is beautiful tonight. The full moon lights the beach in a silver glow. It’s a night made for lovers. It’s funny the stuff you notice when you want to curl up and die. Max looks as miserable as I feel. Well, why not? He’s been mortified in front of all his friends. He’s losing his dog walker with benefits. There can’t be many of those around. He reaches for me, and I slip around him careful not to touch. I’d dissolve from the pain if I felt his warm skin on mine.
“Don’t…g-g-go, Hol, w-w-wait, puh…puh…” He looks at the sky and snarls.
I stop and turn to face Max. I wrap my arms around myself trying to hold the pieces of me together. It’s too late. I’m shattered. Even through all my sadness, I still love him. I don’t want to hurt him. “It’s okay, Max. Don’t strain your brain. I’d hate to be the cause of a seizure or something.” It occurs to me there’s someone else I won’t see anymore. “Do you still want me to exercise Snafu?”
He nods. “P-p-please.”
“Okay. I’ll be by in the morning. I’d appreciate it if you weren’t there.”
I turn and walk away. He doesn’t follow. I don’t know how I made it home.
***
Holiday’s soft voice can’t hide her devastation and those little choking sobs that she fights to control fucking tear me in two. I’ve been shit-kicked into my worst god-damn nightmare and I fucking did it to myself. Fury and frustration roil inside me. The words to tell her how I feel won’t come. I hear them eloquently spoken in my brain but I can’t get my mouth and tongue to form the shapes. This emotional cluster-fuck is the worst possible thing that could happen right now. I have to manage the stress or I’ll never be able to talk and I have to talk to her...make her understand. She is everything to me.
I reach for her but she slips around me and walks back toward the house. I’m losing her.
“Don’t…g-g-go, Hol, w-w-wait, puh…puh…” I clench my fists, throw my head back and howl at the agony inside me.
She pauses. God, but she looks beautiful with the moon haloing her fly-away hair. She says something about not causing a seizure, and do I still want her to exercise Snafu? I jump on her offer. I’ll see her tomorrow. I can explain. I’ll stay up all night if I need to, figuring out what to say. I’ll write it all down.

“P-p-please.”
“Okay. I’ll be by in the morning. I’d appreciate it if you weren’t there.”
The pain is so intense I can’t move. Being blown up hurt less. She leaves and all I can do is stand staring out at the water, my mind blank. This can’t be happening. It can’t be.
Snafu finds me and then Dad. My father stands next to me and we both stare out at the ocean and the silver light of the full moon reflecting on the gentle surf.
“Was that your girl, Max? Holiday?”
I nod. “S-s-she’s g-g-gone…D-dad. I…c-couldn’t…s-s-stop h-her.” He enveloped me in a hug and I did something I hadn’t done since I was four. I cried on his shoulder.

Three weeks later…
I push my flyaway hair out of my face, pop the tab on a Miller High Life beer and stare at the stack of required freshman books obscuring the top of my pedestal table in my “kitchen” at
Studio 6. I raise the can in a personal toast and chug half. I made it through my first week of classes at Palm Beach Junior College and I’m treating myself to an adult beverage to celebrate— a poor girl’s happy half-hour as it were. Several new friends invited me to join them at a local watering hole. I can’t summon the interest. Although I’ve seen no corroborating signs, I’m pretty sure I’m living through the zombie apocalypse. I know I’m
a dead person walking. They say,
‘time heals all wounds’…or is it, ‘time wounds all heals’? Well, I guess not enough time has passed. The aching hole in my heart that my Max used to fill has definitely not healed.
After the events of the Sunday night that turned me into a zombie, I stayed awake—thinking and sobbing and thinking and sobbing. When morning came, I called Carlos, apologized for leaving like I did and asked him to loan me the rest of what I needed to make tuition. We agreed
I could work it off. I’ll be working catering jobs for Carlos every weekend until I’m eighty-four.
I figure working for Carlos is better than going back to the Harper estate. I couldn’t face the possibility I’d run into Max. It would like stabbing myself in the gut with memories. Max blew up my phone with texts, missed calls and even a couple of voice mails. I deleted them unread, unheard and blocked him. I don’t have the money to pay for that kind of overage and I was tired of crying.
A soft knock on the door brings me out of my reverie and I pull back the curtains to see who it is. For the first two weeks after the party, I had expected to see Max standing outside my door. It didn’t happen, so my expectation died. Now I’m simply curious. A distinguished-looking silverhaired gentleman in a navy Brooks Brothers blazer and khaki slacks smiles at me through the window. It’s Max’s dad. I recognize him from the party. I run my palms down my cut-offs to remove the beer-can sweat, take a deep breath and open the door. He stands in front of me with a gentle smile on his face, his hands hanging relaxed.
“Miss Jones?”
I clear my throat and stand straighter. “Yes, sir.” He smiles wider and holds out his hand.
“I’m Max’s father. My wife calls me Harp. I wish you would too.”
I take his hand and shake it. “Um…I’m Holiday Jones, but I guess you already know that. Ah, just Holiday is fine.”
“Thank you, Holiday. May I come in?” He grins and I see Max’s smile. A lump forms in my throat and I blink rapidly to dispel my stupid, stupid tears. I suppose that blows my zombie theory. I don’t think zombies cry. I step back and hold the door open.
“Sure, be my guest. Ah, take the armchair. I’ll get another one.”

Harp unbuttons his blazer, adjusts the creases on his khaki’s and relaxes into the ratty chair as if he sat every day in three-legged armchairs with stuffing escaping. He chuckles at the hula girl lamp and even flicks the fringe on the shade.
“Can I offer you something to drink? Ah, a Miller High Life or … water?”
“The beer sounds great, thank you.”
I snag another can from the refrigerator and pop the top. I slip a hot pink Hungry Harry’s koozie on the bottom of the can and that’s about as fancy as I can get. I hand Max’s dad his beer and pull up a chair to face him.
Harp takes a long draw, swallows, and then he examines the can. “Miller High Life. This takes me back to my days driving a log truck for Max’s grandfather, but I’m not here to talk about me.” He sets his beer carefully on the side table and leans over bracing his forearms on his knees. “I’m here to talk on behalf of Max, because he can’t. With your permission, I’d like to tell you a little bit about my son.” He watches me in patient silence, a pleasant smile on his lips.
I roll bits of soggy napkin stuck to my sweating beer can into tiny pills and toss them in the direction of the trashcan. I don’t know what Harp can say that will mend my destroyed trust, but the part of me still in love with Max wants to find out. The two sides wage a prolonged battle in my mind. Dozens of tiny balls of white surround the trash can when I finally whisper, “Okay.”
“Our family has an obscene amount of money.” Harp smiles at me, his eyes alight with humor at my shocked expression. “It’s true. But the money doesn’t define who I am, or my wife, and has never defined who Max is.” Harp shrugs. “Max forged his own path. He went into the Army straight out of high school. He said he wanted to do something useful based on nothing but his own talents and merit. He said how much money you had didn’t matter in the Army. You rose or fell according to merit. Of course, Max being Max, he pushed it a notch further and went to
Ranger school.” Max’s dad reaches for his beer and takes another swallow. He stares at the floor for several moments. I think he’s collecting his thoughts. From the look on his face, the thoughts are sad.
“Which brings me to Afghanistan. On Max’s third tour, his transport vehicle encountered an
IED and Max suffered a closed head trauma and extensive damage to his left leg. The doctors managed to save Max’s leg, but he was in a coma for two weeks. When he came out of it, he couldn’t speak. That young man battled back for almost two years—battled to walk and speak normally—but until recently, his mother and I resigned ourselves to conversations with Max that consisted of three-word sentences. When Max gets upset, he can’t speak at all. He says there’s a disconnect in his brain. Worst of all, I think, was his depression. His mother and I…feared…for him.” Mr. Harper’s gaze holds mine, and the pain in his eyes speaks more eloquently than words.
“Do you have any idea how I felt after speaking with a happy Max who conversed in regular sentences? Caroline and I packed up the car and the next day drove here from Portsmouth, New
Hampshire.”
I can’t help myself. I put my hand on his in comfort. “I never realized Max was that bad. He stutters a little when he’s stressed. He limps after a long day and I’ve seen one of his seizures … but that seemed to smooth out.”
Harp picks up my hand in his. “That was because of you, Holiday.” He holds onto my hand when I try to pull back. “No, please. Listen.” When he sees me relax, he releases my hand and I let it rest on the end table. “Caroline told Max how happy he looked and asked what had changed for him.” Harp squeezes my hand gently. “Max told us about this beautiful girl he’d fallen in love with and her name was Holiday Jones.”
I drop my head. I can’t hold eye contact with Max’s dad, and the stupid tears start up again.

“Max told us he was trapped in a lie. You thought he was the caretaker. Every day that passed, he vowed he would tell you the truth, but he couldn’t. You grew more and more precious to him and he was too afraid of losing you.”
I straighten on the edge of my chair. My arms wrap my waist tightly, and I stare at my lap through a watery haze. A river of tears flood my cheeks and my nose begins to run. I’m not a dainty crier. Harp’s hand appears holding a pristine white handkerchief. I didn’t know men carried those anymore. I take it, blow my nose and wipe my eyes. “And he did lose me,” I whisper.
“I hope not,” Harp said. “My son loves you. He says he is more himself with you than anyone else in the world. He says you make his soul easy.” Harp’s gaze lingered on mine. “Because of
Afghanistan, Max will always struggle to be normal. But, I don’t think that matters to you.”
I shake my head. Max’s injuries don’t matter. He’s a beautiful man—inside and out. I’m full on crying now…the silent kind that ties your stomach in knots and makes your body jerk. Max’s dad moves over and wraps his arms around me.
“I’m sorry Holiday. I didn’t mean to make you cry. It’s just…he loves you so much. He wants to marry you.”
I shake my head and stammer, “I don’t think I’d make Max a good wife.”
“Do you love him?”
I nod and Harp’s arms tighten around me for a minute. Harp gives good “dad” hugs. “I don’t have a crystal ball to see the future, but from what Max has told me and from what I can gather myself, I think you’d make him a wonderful wife.”
“I don’t come from money.” I blow my nose again and swipe at my tears. Harp pushes me away a little so he can see my face.
“Max told us. Remember I said I drove a log truck?”
I nod with a sniff.
“I met Caroline, my wife and Max’s mom, at a Waffle Hut. She worked the counter.”
“Oh.”
Harp chuckles “Just imagine what you could do with our money. You wouldn’t have to give
Bennie-Under-the-Bridge and Crazy Kate expired raviolis.” He reaches into his blazer and holds out a white legal envelope. “Max wrote this to you. Will you please read it?”
I blow my nose and wipe my tears one final time. I’m going to have to do some serious laundering on Mr. Harper’s handkerchief before I give it back. My hand trembles as I tear open the white envelope and remove a torn-out page from Max’s flip pad. I take a jerky breath and read.
Holiday,
I think I fell in love with you the first time I saw you playing on the beach with Snafu. You lit me up inside right from the start. Day after day, I fell deeper and deeper and then I was trapped in a lie.
I made a terrible mistake. I should have told you who I was in the beginning. I always meant to. I didn’t because I was afraid I’d lose you, but I lost you anyway. The look on your face that Sunday night haunts me. I hate myself for hurting you like that. I’m sorry.
I’m not doing very well without you, babe. Even I can see I look like hell and Snafu… he won’t even chase his tennis balls. He misses you as much as I do.

Nothing makes sense without you. You are the light to my soul. You are my joy. Please forgive me. I love you, Holiday. I need you back. Please come back.
Max
I think for a man who has trouble speaking, Max expresses himself very well. I look up through my tears at his father. “Does Max know you’re here?”
“Yes. He knows I’m here.”
I nod and sniff. “Um…where is Max?”
His dad snorts. “The same place he and Snafu have been all day, every day, for the last three weeks—waiting for you on the beach.”
I look at the clock. 4:00 p.m. “Do you think he’s still there?”
His dad’s face creases in a wonderful smile and he nods. “May I offer you a ride?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll take The Wombat.” I frown. “If you don’t mind an old pink and white VW bus parked in your drive.”
“Ah.” He smiles knowingly. “The one in the parking lot with the hand-drawn peace sign on the front panel?”
I smile. It feels a little strange. I haven’t smiled much lately. “That’s the one.”
“I don’t mind a bit. I like vintage automobiles.”
***
I walk through the gate in the sea grape hedge and step off the pavers onto the beach.
Somewhere between Studio 6 and the Harper estate, my heart took over and I forgave Max, though I suspect I’d forgiven him halfway through his dad’s little speech. Max is sitting a little way down the dunes in a beach chair staring out to sea. Snafu is at his feet. As I approach, Snaf sees me first. He bounds towards me in a series of exultant woofs. It’s all I can do to stay on my feet when he reaches me.
I look up from Snafu’s ecstatic welcome. A solemn, slump-shouldered Max stands motionless beside the beach chair. His gaze is riveted on me. Max was right. He looks horrible...at least…as horrible as a god-among-men can look. I can’t stand the thought of him hurting for one more second. I break into a run. I can see the white of his smile as he starts toward me. I leap onto him, with a glad cry of, “Oh, Max!” My arms and legs wrap him. He catches me in a tremendous hug, staggers and then falls backward onto the sand with a grunt. Snafu bounces all around us, barking.
“I’m s-s-orry, Holi-d-day. Oh, g-g-god, I’m so…f-f-fucking s-sorry. I l-l-love you, b-babe. I-
I-I’m…s-so…”
I gaze at his haggard, earnest face. “Shhh.” I stroke his cheek, rough with beard. “It’s okay.
You don’t have to talk right now.” I hold a finger to his lips. “You have some ‘splaining to do,
Lucy,” I say in my best Ricky Ricardo imitation. “But I’m staying right here. I love you, too, and
I have no plans to leave—ever.”
His arms tighten around me until I squeak. He pulls me forward until his lips smash into mine and his mouth devours me. I decide, then and there, to spend the rest of my life kissing this man.
Miss Kitty crawls out of the cave she’s been hiding in for the last three weeks and waves a small flag. When Max finally lets me up for air, I laugh in pure happiness. I understood what Max meant when he wrote I was his joy…because that’s what he is for me, too.

“So, Max…what was the ‘big question’ you meant to ask me?” I snuggle the girls onto his chest and watch his face while I wait for his answer. From his astounded expression, I’ve taken him by surprise. He swallows and sits up with me on his lap.
“H-h-oliday Jones…will…you…m-marry me?”
“You mean join the ranks of parasitic nabobs dripping in filthy lucre?”
He chuckles and nods.
“Yes!” I crow. I stand and pump my arms in the air while I twirl jubilant circles in the sand.
“Yes, yes, yes.” I pause and look down at him. “On one condition. I get to keep The Wombat.”
We went back to work on my bucket list. It’s true what people say. Make-up sex is the best sex.

Eight years later:
Announcement from the Palm Beach Shiny Sheet :
It’s a boy!
Congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Carlton Harper, III on the birth of their second child, Jonathan Davies Harper at 2:30 p.m. at the Okeechobee Holistic Birth and Health
Center. Baby boy Harper weighed in at 8 lbs 2oz. and measured fourteen inches in length. Ms.
Holiday Harper, Esquire—easily identified about town in her pink and white Volkswagen bus— is well-known to the Palm Beach legal community for her pro-bono and child advocacy work on behalf of Harper House, the non-profit home for single mothers established and funded by her husband Max Harper. Jonathan Davies Harper will be welcomed home by his older sister,
Amelia Caroline Harper.
~~~The End~~~

Want more fun with Max and Holiday? Check out my Pinterest Board “Undertow” for more visuals like these that inspired Undertow:
Max The Wombat