Cocky Romance: Chapter 11

If Beth knows about the malicious comments online, she hasn’t brought it up.

I’m hesitant to talk about it first, just in case she managed to avoid all the trending topics about me and Stinton Group today.

Unfortunately, I make the mistake of checking the video again.

It’s still up.

Not only that, it’s gotten even more views.

The comments are basically a ‘take a crap on Dawn Banner’ parade.

Can we cancel this woman already?

She’s such a fake.

I heard her dad wasn’t even a good mechanic.

The line about dad hit me the hardest. He fought so hard to restore his good name after the accident. He struggled every day. Seeing his name getting dragged into the mud because of me makes my head feel like it’s about to split open.

“Mom?”

“Huh?” I startle.

Beth is in her car-themed pajamas, gold bonnet over her head and teeth freshly brushed. She grips the blanket and stares at me in concern.

“I’m sorry, baby. What did you say?”

“I said I finally won an UNO game. Bailey said I might even be good enough to go against Belle.”

“That’s great, sweetie.” I run my hand over her hair as I pull the blanket to her shoulders. “I’m glad you had a nice time at the farmhouse.”

“Yeah.” Intelligent hazel eyes fall on me. Beth chews on her bottom lip and gives me an assessing stare.

This kid.

Always holding her thoughts close to the chest.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You can tell me.”

“You can tell me too,” she says in a prim voice.

I curl my fingers around her hand and squeeze. She’s so precious. All I want to do in this world is protect her. How is it that she’s so young, but she manages to protect me with everything she has?

“I’m old enough,” she adds.

My laughter pains my chest. “When you were little,” I whisper, staring at her brown hands, “you used to latch onto my fingers like this and you’d smile at me. Show all your little gums.”

Beth blinks, her long eyelashes bouncing up and down.

“You were so small and helpless, but when you held my hand like that, you made me feel like I could do anything. It’s amazing how you still seem so small and yet you’re growing so fast at the same time.”

“Mom, is everything okay?” Her voice carries a heavier weight than a seven-year-old should.

I force a smile. “I’m perfect.”

“I know about the video,” she admits.

My eyebrows hike.

Beth sits up and her bonnet leans forward when she hunches her shoulders. “Everyone at school was talking about it. Micheal almost hit a kid who tried to talk bad about you in front of me.”

“Bailey’s brother Micheal?”

“Yeah.” She purses her lips. Her eyebrows tighten into a V. “But I hit the kid myself, so he didn’t have to.”

“Elizabeth.” I jump back. My daughter engaging in violence to protect herself is one thing, but I never wanted her to make that decision because of me. “You know you shouldn’t—”

“Is that the point, mom? What are you going to do about the video?”

“I… we’re working on it.”

“Did you really make a mistake with the car?” Her gaze is frank and burning. In the soft light of the lamp, the hazel in her eyes are a murky brown.

I swallow and glance away. “No.”

“Then the person who did needs to apologize. It’s not fair that you’re getting blamed when it wasn’t even your fault.”

If only the world could be that reasonable.

This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten blame dumped at my feet when my suggestions were dismissed. I’m not holding my breath about this time being any different. If Henry had planned on making a statement admitting to his mistake, he would have done it by now. The radio silence on his end tells me he’s relieved I’m the one getting dragged through the mud.

As the scapegoat, all I can do is take the heat.

I place my hand on her shoulder. “Elizabeth, I don’t want you to worry about this. I’m handling it.” I rub her arm up and down. “If anyone bothers you about this, don’t fight them, okay? You hold yourself back until you absolutely can’t anymore. You solve the issue with everything but violence first, you hear me?”

She glares into the distance.

“Do you hear me?” I use my stern voice.

“Yes,” she mumbles.

I lean forward and press a hard, firm kiss to her forehead. She smells like natural hair products and baby powder. I feel my heart slam against my ribs. This little girl is the reason I’ve gotten this far. I’m not going to give up now.

“Everything’s going to work out, mom,” she mumbles.

I smile. Just like when she was a baby, Beth makes me feel like I can do anything.

“Thank you.” I hug her and nearly shed a tear when she pats my back as if she’s the grown up.

“Now go to sleep.” I help her to lie down, kiss her forehead one more time and tiptoe out of the room.

I get ready for bed in a heavy mood.

My movements are slow and plodding. The whole world looks grim right now. Uncertain. Stinton promised he’d find a way to make me fix Mila’s car, but he didn’t give me a timeline.

Maybe there is no timeline.

There’s a possibility he could have been lying to me. It’s not like he’s above that.

Still, I don’t get the feeling that he was.

While we were working in the garage today, Max Stinton seemed almost… human.

Hair disheveled.

Tie loose.

I don’t think he realized he was unbuttoning his shirt and rolling up his collar as the garage got hotter and hotter.

I don’t think he realized the way I watched him.

The way watching him made my heart beat out of time.

He was intense on those phone calls. A king holding court even from a remote location. I could just imagine the team on the other end shaking in their boots when he was silently brooding. I imagined them scribbling furiously when he gave an instruction and then dashing out to see that it’s done.

Power is flinging out an idea and having a team of people turn it into something concrete. Something tangible. It’s pointing in a direction, one jut of a finger to the horizon, and a crew putting their hands to the oars and pushing that ship through stormy waters.

I’ve always resented the rich—no, I’ve always resented Stinton Group for the ruthless way it conquers everyone and everything in its path. But I realize the head that wears the crown has to know how to bear the weight of that power. That responsibility.

And Max Stinton does it with grace.

He worked like a sleep-deprived tiger.

He’s been going all day, I realize.

Even after finding out that his brother’s gone.

It sobers me. That thought.

Trevor was a drunken mistake. I had no emotional ties to him and if I wasn’t reeling from my father’s death, I don’t think I would have been drawn to him or his story the way I was.

However, Trevor was Max’s brother.

His brother’s dead and no one gives a damn.

Why would they?

Right now, Stinton Group doesn’t need Max the grieving sibling. All anyone sees when they look at him, hell, all I saw when I looked at him this evening, was the prince of Stinton Group, flexing his dominance and making crap happen.

He might be a rogue, but that doesn’t mean I have to be a jerk in return.

Besides, I asked him to trust me.

That road goes both ways.

When I lost my dad, it wasn’t the big gestures of pity or condolences that brought me comfort. It was the simple things. Just a reminder that I had someone to talk to if I was overwhelmed. That I wasn’t alone.

I grab my phone and send Max a picture of a lollipop on my dresser.

ME: You’re probably still working like a lunatic at this hour. This is a reminder to have something sweet if you’re feeling tired.

Considering the hour, I expect him to ignore my text until morning. It’s not like I’m an important asset to Stinton Group right now. I’m causing the company to bleed money thanks to this Mila Dubois scandal.

However, my phone pings immediately with his reply.

MAX: Unlike you, I treasure my health. No lollipops for me.

I smile, my fingers flying over my phone.

ME: That’s why you’re always miserable.

MAX: Fine. Save that one for me. Maybe it’ll give me magical mechanic powers.

I snort at my screen while alarm bells clang in my skull.

He’s making me laugh.

I find him charming.

Maybe because it’s late at night. Or because I feel a sense of camaraderie after seeing all the pressure he’s under with Stinton Group.

Either way, my defenses are all the way down. I shouldn’t be having this much fun texting a man like Max Stinton at this time of the night.

ME: Nothing can save you, Stinton. Not even magic.

I climb into bed and lean against the headboard. Tucking my knees under me, I pull the blanket over my body. Sleep is pulling at my eyelids, but I fight it back.

It’s not because I want to talk to Max.

Heck no.

I just hate leaving conversations hanging. In general.

Has nothing to do with the fact that I feel a little less alone right now. Or that he might feel a little less alone too.

Nope.

Not going there.

This is just me being a decent human being—something Max is altogether unfamiliar with.

MAX: How is Beth? She’s not upset, is she?

I jump when he mentions Beth. His concern for her feels genuine and it makes me even more off-balance.

ME: She’s fine. I told her not to worry about it. Nothing is going to stop me from fixing this.

MAX: I feel sorry for that car. It has no idea that it’s met its match.

I laugh again.

Dang.

I still don’t know when I got this comfortable around Max Stinton, but I should probably back away slowly.

Slowly?

Screw that. I should run for the hills.

He’s a Stinton. He’s Beth’s uncle. He’s the very definition of off-limits.

These bubbly feelings in my stomach are because it’s late and even jerkwads look appealing at this time of night. It’s the booty call hour, after all. A time when women make the worst mistakes for the stupidest reasons.

ME: I should turn in. The world’s most hated mechanic needs to look great for the tabloids tomorrow.

MAX: The hate won’t last. You’re my number one asset, Dawn. I don’t invest in ventures that fail.

I roll my eyes.

ME: Screw you, Stinton.

MAX: Sweet dreams, Dawn.

Annoying boss-hole.

I slam my phone down and burrow under the blankets to escape from the unsettling twist in my stomach.

This is all Max’s fault.

But I’m determined to not think about him for the next six hours.

Max Stinton can’t fill my head if I’m asleep, can he?

The answer to that question, unfortunately, is yes.

Max Stinton has no problems taking control of my dreams the way he takes control of everything.

Great.

Even when I’m knocked out cold, he still finds a way to claim every thought in my head.

In the dream, I’m in his office, arguing with him as usual. Except, when he prowls around the desk to bark at me, he doesn’t stop there. His arms scoop me up by the waist and his lips plunge toward mine.

I wake up just before he kisses me, my heart roaring and my body as hot as flames.

I sit up and shake my head crazily. “No, no, no.”

Frantic, I throw myself out of bed and dash to the bathroom. Cold water on my face doesn’t do jack. Neither does reading up on the manual for Mila’s car so I can see if I missed anything the first time.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake off the dreams.

It’s not just the near-kiss that haunts me. It’s the impressions of him that I hadn’t even realized I’d been picking up on.

The minty smell of his aftershave that’s exactly the fragrance in his car.

The charisma that swirls around him, always a tad dark and mysterious, as if he’s not putting all his cards on the table and he probably never will.

The lashing ocean-blue eyes that fix on my mouth as if he wants to devour me whole.

Crap, crap, crap.

Max is always staring at my mouth. I notice, but I pretend not to. It’s easier that way. To just glower at him and call him creepy for staring instead of admitting that his gazes are like a caress and every time he watches me like that it feels like he’s touching me.

I’m too warm.

I fan my face and give up on reading the car manual.

So much for not thinking about Max.

My brain completely missed the point of the assignment.

I stagger into the kitchen and grab a frying pan. In the surface of the rarely-used stainless steel, I see a frazzled woman with dark skin, a silk scarf over her hair and dark bags under her eyes.

“Get yourself together, Dawn. Now you’re just being embarrassing.”

My reflection rolls her eyes at me.

Okay.

I’m officially insane.

Abandoning the frying pan, I pick up my phone and scroll through the messages with Max from last night.

In the daylight, the texts have a certain… flirtatious angle to it.

I cringe.

Then shake my head.

Nope.

Not with Max Stinton.

Anyone but a Stinton.

Groaning in frustration, I grab the frying pan again and slam it on the stove.

The commotion wakes Beth, who drags herself out of bed to pin me with the most judgy eyes a seven-year-old can muster.

“Mom, you’re not thinking of cooking, are you?”

“Yes, I am.”

She yawns and scratches her belly over her pajamas. “I’d rather have cereal.”

“No, you’re eating a big breakfast today and you’re going to school and you’re going to have a wonderful, productive day.”

She scrunches her nose. “I can’t do that if I’m in the toilet throwing up eggshells and burnt toast.”

I narrow my eyes at her.

Ungrateful little…

There’s a knock at the door.

I pad over and check the peephole. There’s nothing there except a trolley filled with stainless steel pans.

A frown mars my face.

“Who is it? Is it Chef Aimsley?” Elizabeth bounds over with so much hope I start to get offended.

My cooking isn’t that bad, is it?

My daughter throws the door open and glances back and forth. “Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know.” I wheel the food inside. As usual, it smells delicious and my stomach grumbles.

“Mom.” Elizabeth plucks something from the pan. “There’s a note.”

It’s in Stinton’s cramped handwriting.

Mila’s car will be in the shop today. Wait for me.

My lips curl up.

“Mom, did you really win a lifetime supply of food?” Elizabeth watches my face carefully.

“Huh?”

“Why is someone sending us this?”

Because your uncle also happens to be the bull-headed billionaire who practically owns my face.

I get that strange feeling again.

Max is Dawn’s uncle.

It’s… weird. An oily, unsettling gunk that settles on my skin.

He’s Trevor’s brother and you’re dreaming of kissing him.

I force a small smile on my face. “Hurry up and eat breakfast. You have to get to school.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t ask any more questions.

After dropping Elizabeth off and making her promise she’s not going to be throwing punches at people for their comments, I return home and wait for Max’s call.

It’s nerve-wracking.

I’m not the woman who waits around for a man and my hands are dripping with sweat by the time he finally knocks on my door.

I throw it open. “What took you so long?”

“We had to make some… arrangements.” He stalks into my living room and immediately fills up the space.

My nerves jitter from his near proximity.

Because of the dream, I’m hyper-aware of Max’s lips which look even more delectable in real life than they did in my subconscious.

“The video’s getting a little out of control.” There’s something about him today. Something sharper. Harder. Like he’s being pushed to just a hair away from the edge of his patience.

I hate that my first response is concern and not utter hatred.

Hate that there’s a pang in my chest because I can see that all this pressure is getting to him.

He’s not allowed to falter. He’s not allowed to break.

He has to keep going or the entire corporation will turn to ash.

All those people, those families, those jobs they depend on to survive, to send their kids to college, to retire happily—it’s all balancing on his shoulders.

He didn’t build that company.

But it’s sucking the life out of him.

Responsibility flocks him like flies on a corpse.

How must it feel to know you can’t make one mistake?

What strength must it demand to answer to your own fallible limits by pushing harder and harder until one company is all that consumes you?

I look for a hint of resentment in his eyes, some kind of doubt, of dissatisfaction with the lot he’s been given.

Nothing.

Does he really not care or is he just that good at pretending he has everything under control?

“The auto shop is surrounded right now. No one can get inside without getting photographed.”

“I know. Clint called.” He rang earlier, while I was driving back home. Said I probably shouldn’t come in to work today, although he didn’t give me a reason.

“We’ve managed to keep your home address from being leaked, but if we transport Mila Dubois’s car here, it’ll raise some alarm bells. The only solution is to get you into the garage.” He juts his sculpted jaw at the door. “Come with me.”

It’s dangerous to pretend the villain of the story has a beating heart beneath that tailored suit. It makes me quietly comply instead of snapping at him for ordering me around like I’m his toy.

Which, technically, I am.

But now isn’t the time to start quietly accepting it, dammit!

Jefferson’s driving. He gives me a worried look that I can’t interpret.

What’s going on? Everyone’s mood is so strange today.

Stinton doesn’t say anything on the trip. He types on his computer and answers phone calls in rough, low tones. He’s in pure overbearing boss mode as he shoots curt orders from his firm pink lips. There’s an edge of frustration to him that I’ve never seen before too.

Did something happen last night?

It bothers me that I want to know. It bothers me even more when we arrive at the private airport and a team welcomes us at the door like we’re freaking royalty.

Max stalks past them, not acknowledging anyone. His steps are sharp and sure. I watch him slip so easily into the skin of a Stinton: cold, unbothered, dominating. A fiend who commands every room even when he’s not speaking.

People scurry around him, eager for his approval or his attention. Either one will do. I hate it and I’m fascinated by it all in one breath.

Max tugs me close to him when we get on the tarmac. I don’t know if it’s because of the activity swirling around us or because he wants to make sure I don’t run off.

Either way, his touch flusters me.

I push his arm down and glance up at him. “Why do we need a helicopter?”

“You asked me to trust you.” He stares down at me. “Now, I’m asking you to do the same.”

Dangerous, dangerous man.

I let him nudge me into the helicopter and we take off. The city looks small and insignificant before me. The sky stretches out in all it’s glory. It’s my first time riding a helicopter, but I can’t even enjoy it because I’m too busy studying Max out of the corner of my eye.

Stop doing that, my common sense begs. You’re not supposed to care about him.

I glance through the window and gasp when I start seeing familiar landmarks. That’s… are we going to the garage?

My question is answered when the helicopter lands directly on the roof of the auto shop. Cameras turn upward. Journalists point. Clint was right to warn me away from coming here. It’s like the horde multiplied overnight.

Max helps me out of the helicopter and the powerful propellers push my afro back until it looks like my hair is being beamed up to space.

“Really? This was your idea?” I yell to be heard. “To let everyone know we’d arrived?”

“If we’re going to be filmed, we might as well get filmed in style.” He speaks with a straight face. “I want their attention.”

“You could have driven.”

“Their attention, Dawn. Not their bloodlust. Not them swarming the car and bumping you on every side while you try to walk in.”

He’s languid arrogance. A razor-sharp knife lying in wait, patient. So incredibly patient. Because he knows he’ll win no matter what. That chilly edge settles on him as easily and smoothly as new oil in a clean filter. I used to find his aura cold and scary. It still is, but it’s not as intimidating as I used to think. Maybe because I know that everything Max Stinton does is for a reason. I might not agree with those reasons, but he has them and it drives him to these lengths.

He sighs wearily. “Clint’s been made aware of the plan. He’s on his way up to the roof to collect you.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I have other matters to attend to.” He squeezes my shoulders. “You do what you do best, wolverine. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“But—”

“Dawn!” Clint’s voice rings behind me.

I turn to face my manager. By the time I swing back around, Max is already climbing the helicopter. A second later, it takes off, flying through the sky. First, it’s a little out of reach and then it’s so far away that if I tried to follow him, I’d plummet to my death.

Apt comparison.

Clint pins me with his worried stare. “Are you okay? Can you believe all this fuss over that one celebrity talking nonsense?”

“The world of social media notoriety is definitely not where I belong,” I mumble, following him down the stairs to the garage.

I expected the workshop to be empty.

But it’s not.

There are cameras set up all around Mila’s convertible.

“What’s this?” I motion to it.

“I don’t know. Stinton called me early this morning and asked for the keys so he could send a team to set this up.”

“Early this morning?” I start making calculations in my head. Max and I were texting late last night. What did he get—like two hours of sleep, in order to wake Clint early enough to sneak these in before the tabloids arrived?

“Yeah.” Clint scowls at Mila’s car. It’s bashed terribly at the side. The rear bumper is practically hanging on the ground. To restore it completely, they’ll need to rip it off and install a new one. However, I’ll have to get the car working first so that it can get all the cosmetic repairs it needs.

“You know what to do?” Clint asks, pointing to the car.

“Yeah. I studied up last night.”

He shakes his head. “I get so mad when I think about it. I heard Stinton tried to approach Henry about admitting his wrongs on screen.”

“What?” My eyes widen.

“For a chief mechanic, Henry sure doesn’t know how to accept responsibility. Rumor is, he pretended like he didn’t do anything wrong. I heard Stinton ripped him a new one.”

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Thereabouts. I heard about it in the night from Hal. He works at Henry’s shop.”

My heart pangs. So… some of those harsh words Stinton had been dishing out yesterday were being directed at Henry?

I can’t believe it.

It really doesn’t make sense to me.

“I’m talking too much.” Clint stares at my face and steps back. “I’m sorry. I’ll let you have your space.”

I barely acknowledge his words and turn woodenly toward the car. My mind’s a jumbled mess, but I have to focus.

For a while, it works.

I lose myself in fixing Mila’s car and don’t even realize the time that passes until Clint stumbles out of his office.

“You got it running already?” His eyebrows jump.

“Yeah.” I press the gas, then shift into another gear and test if the problem re-emerges. “Diagnosis is the hardest part of fixing a car. The actual work is much easier if you know the real cause of the problem.”

“I’m impressed.” He claps his hands.

At that moment, a commotion sounds from outside.

Clint and I give each other anxious looks and race to the window. I’m not sure what I expect, but it’s definitely not the journalists climbing into their cars and taking off at the speed of light. The lawn, that was packed with cameras, reporters, and vans before, is creepily empty now.

“Huh. Do you think they know you fixed the car?” Clint asks.

“No. Something else is going on.”

My phone pings.

So does Clint’s.

He fishes it out of his pocket while I retreat to my purse to find mine.

“Oh,” Clint says with awe in his voice. “I think the story moved locations.” He flips the phone over and shows me the screen. “Look.”

It’s a livestream from Stinton Group. Max is standing on a podium filled with mikes from different news networks. He’s wearing a suit that’s tailored to his broad shoulders. His hair is carefully brushed away from his face and his ice-cold stare pierces me even through the camera.

“As acting CEO of Stinton Group and Stinton Auto, I’d like to apologize to the public and to Mila Dubois. Lately, there has been suspicion about the validity of Dawn Banner as the spokeswoman of Stinton Auto.” His eyes take on a cruel glint. “I’m here today to expose the truth.”

Everything, down to my very bones, is rattling.

“Kindly look at the screen,” Max says. The people who are there live are probably staring at a projector but, in the live stream, the video shows up fully on screen. In it, I’m clearly telling Henry that he’s wrong to change the transmission.

“What is he doing?” Clint gasps.

“Isn’t it a good thing if he exposes Henry for the dirtbag he is?” I point to the phone.

“Look, what Henry did was low, but if the boss starts flinging mechanics under the bus just to protect you, it doesn’t send a good message. Will he pin all the blame on Henry, a man with a family and a kid with disabilities? Does that mean if someone else messes up, he’s going to turn on them too?”

I blink rapidly.

Clint’s right.

Wait, Stinton. Don’t say anything. Just let them believe it was my fault.

I can handle this.

But can Henry?

The video stops and Max returns on screen. They pan up to his handsome face and his chilly gaze sweeps the crowd.

“As you can see from the footage, when fixing Ms. Dubois’s car, Ms. Banner insisted on a different diagnosis, but I didn’t listen. Because of my bias, I went with another mechanic. It’s my fault for not validating her words and ignoring her opinion on the true problems with the car.”

My heart stops beating.

My lungs decide they’re not into oxygen right now.

Dang.

He said ‘my fault’.

Fully.

He didn’t throw Henry under the bus.

He’s protecting us both while pushing the truth out to the public.

Max Stinton is taking responsibility again and it’s having a warped effect on my brain.

Because I actually feel admiration.

It’s rough and violent and it courses through my stomach, wrenching my insides.

Then it pools, soft and fluttering, between my legs.

I’m aching for the cold billionaire with the heart that might not be entirely made of coal.

Is this a crush?

Ugh.

That sucks. It sucks deviled eggs.

I can’t look away from the camera. It feels like he’s speaking directly to me when he says, “If I’d listened to Ms. Banner, Mila Dubois would not have suffered the mental distress of seeing her precious car hurt, nor would the crew members have nearly lost their lives. I’ve asked you here today because I’d like to publicly extend my apologies to the team and to Ms. Dubois. Stinton Group will handle the insurance for the damage as well as pay for any hospital treatments that ensued from this event. And rest assured,” he leans his elbows on the podium, looking like a predator in the jungle even as he hands out what’s supposed to be an apology, “the vehicle will be completely restored. I’ll put our best mechanic on it. And she will get the vehicle working better than new.”

The chuckle that goes up from the crowd is soft and vulnerable and open. He has them eating out of the palm of his hand and he did it all without breaking a sweat.

I dig my fingers into the phone as the screen goes black. The press conference is over.

It doesn’t matter.

I can still hear Max’s deep and sultry voice slaying all the naysayers in one sharp swoop. I can still feel his cobalt eyes, crackling with intensity in an otherwise expressionless face, as he sears every viewer with a silent challenge. He threw himself under the bus and, in doing so, he dragged all the people who were hating me under there with him.

I can’t breathe.

He’s not here, but it’s almost like he’s standing in the room with me, taking up all the space around me, enveloping me in that cold and magnetic aura.

Why is a dangerous and majestic beast like Max Stinton going to so much trouble for me? And why am I starting to forget all the reasons I should stay the hell away from him?