Bonnie was probably fuming that he’d stood her up. Dean would be pissed too; they were supposed to get shitfaced and watch Clint Eastwood movies once he got home. Dean wanted a stripper but Max refused. He hadn’t had strippers at his buck’s party, he wasn’t going to start stuffing G-strings as a divorcee. Max sat up quickly, imagining for a single brilliant moment that Dean would discover he was missing and come to their rescue. Then he remembered Dean was the human equivalent of a cocker spaniel and would probably wait around for fifteen minutes, call him once and wander off into the night. His best mate had moved in the week Bonnie left, offering emotional support. Max figured his lease ending also played pretty heavily into the decision. For the most part, he didn’t mind having Dean around but it wasn’t exactly a dream come true to be single at thirty-three with a high school buddy crashing in his spare room—
“Max?” He looked up to see Julia smirking at him. “You need to think of three things. Like today.”
“Iamthinking.”
“Are you sure? Because it looks like you’re spacing out.”
She swished her hair over one shoulder like a long brown waterfall. It was so long he could probably wrap it twice around his wrist while she suc—
“Max?”
He swore under his breath. “I’m…completely focused and am thinking about my statements.”
Three things, three things. Bonnie and I are over minus one signature and some uncooked fish, Dean is a terrible roommate, and I can definitely control myself around you.
Two truths. One lie. Nothing he wanted Julia to know. God, the way she looked made him wish he was drunker.
She leaned forward, the heady smell of whiskey mixing with vanilla. “Can’t think of anything, Senior Constable Connor?”
Everything below Max’s belt ached. He needed to adjust again, badly. He also needed to get this question thing over with.
“Uhh, I was a runner in high school, I have a motorbike and—and I love puppies,” he blustered, still thinking about his hard-on.
“You weren’t a runner.”
“You’re right. You are scarily good at this.”
Julia looked nervous. “I had a clue.”
With a surge of alarm, Max realized she meant the night they met. The night they’d agreed never to mention or think about. He hurriedly changed the subject. “Come on, your turn now.”
Julia gestured for the bottle. He gave it to her and she took a deep swallow. “Technically you should keep going because you lost but I’ll throw you a bone. I’m a Virgo, I once stole a packet of cigarettes from the milk bar, and I love romance novels.”
He imagined having to arrest Julia for stealing and for some reason the image morphed into her lying across his lap in a plaid skirt—
“Dude, if you keep zoning out you’re going to be cut off.”
Max felt his ears burn. “Fine, you stole smokes.”
“Nope.”
“You’re not a Virgo, your birthday is in November. That’s Sagittarius.” He frowned. “You like romance novels?”
Julia stared at him, her eyebrows practically in her hairline.
“What?”
She burst into peals of laughter. “You know mystar sign? What the hell, Max? Are you sure you’re not the one with amazing Internet stalking powers?”
“You had a birthday cake a few weeks ago! That’s how I remember.”
Julia laughed harder. “Yes, I’m sure my cake was totally distinguishable from the dozens of cakes that grace this station basically every single day.”
“I’m good with dates. It’s a cop thing.”
Julia’s beatific smile faded. “I guess that makes sense.”
Phew. Talk about a close fucking shave. Max snatched up the bottle and noticed it was three-quarters air. “So you like dirty books, huh?”