Burn Down the Night (Everything I Left Unsaid #3)- Molly O'Keefe Page 0,62

That way, I might be able to find out something about the people calling that number. I ran into the kitchen where my phone was charging on the counter, but it was alone.

Shit.

I checked all the plugs in the condo to see if he had his phone charging someplace else. But they were all empty. The drawers in every room in the condo were also empty.

I opened up the blinds and looked down at the pool deck only to find Max sprawled out on a deck chair, facing our side of the condo unit. He was wearing black trunks—where he got those, I had no idea. His chest was bare and his arms were lifted above his head, wrapped around the plastic strap above his head.

That tree and skull tattoo was revealed to the world. It felt intimate, that tattoo. I wanted to run down there and cover it up.

Every wiry muscle in his body stood out in relief. The bare skin of his chest not covered with bruises or tattoos glistened with sweat and his black hair was damp, slicked off his head.

His features were so defined. Elegant almost. Like if he were picked up and dropped back in some ballroom in England, he’d work there just as well as he worked here. All those women in corsets would faint at his feet.

See…historical romance novels: fueling sexual fantasies since I was too young to be reading them.

He should not be so hot. Not after last night. Not after we ripped open our pasts for each other and walked away because we were both too damaged to deal. Because we knew that if we touched—if we had each other it would only ruin everything.

But there he was. Sitting in the sun with all his tattoos and his bruises and even his gunshot wound like there was no part of himself he was ashamed of or felt like hiding.

And that was pretty goddamn hot.

And his phone, a small black rectangle, sat on the cement deck beside him.

Max

“Hello there!”

I opened my eyes to what had to be the twentieth little old lady standing over me. I shifted my head so she was blocking the sun. They all looked the same—the only variation being their skin color. Some were brown, some were black, most were white, but they all had curly white hair in a weird halo around their heads. All wore tank tops and skirts or hugely flowered swimsuits, like they just didn’t give a shit about the cellulite on their knees.

You kind of had to respect that.

This one had a swimsuit on, a baggy, nearly see-through thing.

I kept my eyes on hers.

“Hello,” I said.

“You’re one of the newlyweds in 304?”

“I am.” The lie was easy at this point, I’d been telling it all morning.

“Well, congratulations! Dean!” she yelled over her shoulder to a man sitting in the shade reading a newspaper. “It’s one of the newlyweds from 304!”

Dean lifted his hand, but didn’t lower the paper.

“Oh, ignore that man. He wouldn’t look up from The Times if the condo was on fire. Well, we’re just so thrilled to have you here. It’s nice to have younger people to liven the place up.” Now she was really getting excited. If I didn’t scare her away soon, she’d sit down on the lawn chair next to mine like the last old lady. I’d had to pretend to fall asleep to get her to leave. “With all us old folks around, it can get pretty boring! And you sitting here has already made it more exciting.”

I was pretty sure the dirty bird was talking about my body. Nice. Or maybe my bruises. I did look rough. I rubbed my hand over my beard which had grown bushier than I liked. Between the bruises, the ink, and my beard—I was pretty outlaw.

“Has anyone told you about the cocktail hours in the lobby?” She pointed toward the two-story building that linked the two wings of the condo building. Every single woman had told me about the cocktail hour. Cocktail hour was a big deal with the white-haired ladies.

“Gayle is making her Chex Mix tomorrow night and—”

“Hello, Susan,” a woman’s dry voice interrupted, and Susan and I both turned to see Aunt Fern standing there in another tennis outfit. This one was orange. It made her hair look like a fire on her head.

“Fern,” Susan said, her voice decidedly less chipper.

Not surprisingly, Aunt Fern was a total buzzkill.

“Hello, Aunt Fern,” I said showing a lot of teeth.