Chapter 622

Brielle needed an outlet, but she hadn’t chosen Max.

Max settled her into the car, fastening the seatbelt with a click that sounded like commitment. Her eyes, clouded with confusion from the alcohol, fluttered open and met his. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming.

Trying to balance her woozy frame, she leaned in for a kiss, but Max deftly placed a hand in front of her lips. The scent of liquor was overwhelming.

Brielle blinked and, resigning to the barrier, pressed her lips to his palm instead.

That simple act sent a ticklish sensation coursing through Max, a feeling that burrowed into his pores and settled deep within him. He withdrew his hand, hiding it behind his back as if to capture that fleeting moment forever.

Slumped in her seat, Brielle seemed on the edge of slumber. But then, a warm kiss brushed her lips.

“This one’s on the house,” he said, his voice a casual note as he secured the seatbelt properly and stood up to leave.

Brielle caught him. Her mind was a foggy swirl, and her eyes gathered a misty haze. “Where’s Mr.

Lynch?”

Max stiffened, a cocktail of irritation and annoyance brewing inside him. He gripped her chin and, with the sleeve of his suit, wiped her lips, erasing the kiss as if it never happened.

She was drunk and still thinking of someone else.

His touch was too rough, and Brielle’s lips felt raw. A frown creased her brow, and she murmured, “Ouch.”

Softening his grip, Max stormed off to the driver’s seat.

Patrick had left to drop off Dustin, leaving Max to drive. The ride was anything but peaceful, with Brielle’s hands wandering and her head bobbing close to him. Max tried to contain his temper, but the thought of her being alone with Dustin soured his mood.

Once back at Premier Palace, he carried her straight to the master bedroom.

After filling the bathtub, he stripped Brielle down without ceremony and placed her in the water. Drunk as she was, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and she showed no signs of waking.

Max watched her peaceful face, the petty jealousy ebbing away. He leaned in for a kiss but was met with resistance and a sudden rush of nausea from Brielle.

She vomited, the contents unpleasantly adorning Max’s suit pants.

His frustration was palpable, but he simply massaged his temples in resignation.

Even in her inebriated state, Brielle managed a polite smile and a slurred, “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Mr. Dorsey?” she said, her words laced with alcohol.

Sober, she called him Max. Drunk, he was Mr. Dorsey.

Max’s expression darkened. He showered and changed into his pajamas, then, with unpracticed hands, began to wash her hair. His clumsy movements drew winces. “Gentle,” she protested.

“I’ve never done this before, so deal with it,” Max snapped back.

Brielle’s mind was a blur, and she suggested, “Maybe you need more practice.”

Max’s pride stung; he just barely managed not to scowl. “Duly noted, Ms. Haywood.”

Brielle mumbled an acknowledgment before falling back into a deep sleep.

Max rinsed her hair and bathed her with care before moving her to a lounge chair. Taking up the hairdryer, he resigned himself to the task at hand.

Wesley entered with a hangover remedy and couldn’t help but marvel at the sight. Max was always so sharp, but around Ms. Brielle, he was all tender edges.

Wesley placed the remedy down and hesitated before asking, “Sir, you haven’t eaten either. Shall I prepare something?”

Before Max could reply, Brielle stirred and opened her eyes, still disoriented by her unexpected return to Premier Palace.

Hearing Wesley’s concern, she interjected with a simple request. “Soup.”

Wesley looked to Max, who continued drying Brielle’s hair and went with the flow. “Bring a bowl of soup,” Max said.