Take the Chance (Top Shelf Romance #9) - Brittainy Cherry Page 0,101

what, nothing is going to happen between us, got it? If I call you up crying and desperate some night, you have to stay strong, okay?”

Max gave an incredulous laugh.

“I’m only half kidding,” I said. “I’m not presuming you want to jump in the sack with me, but I can guarantee you I will have at least one lonely night, and you’re ridiculously good-looking. A bad combination.”

Max laughed harder. “I can tell I’m going to love this assignment already. But your chastity is safe, Darlene, I promise. I’m gay.”

I narrowed my eyes. “A likely story.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Fine. That’s a good place to start,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean you’re not going to get that phone call, that’s all I’m saying.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I can handle it.” He offered me his arm and I hooked mine in it. “Let’s see your new digs.”

“You’re my official San Francisco welcome wagon?”

“Brought to you by Narcotics Anonymous and the Justice Department.”

I harrumphed. “Three meetings a week is excessive, isn’t it? I’ve been clean for a year and a half.”

“Not up to me,” Max said. He glanced down at me. “You know you can’t skip any, right?”

“I won’t,” I said. “And while I might have a lonely night or ten, that doesn’t mean I’m going back to using. I won’t. Not ever.”

Max smiled thinly. “Good to know.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “You’ve heard it all before.”

“Yep, but it’s a good place to start.”

We stepped out into San Francisco and I turned my gaze all around, taking in my new city. The street sign on the corner read Folsom and Beale. The letters were black on white, instead of New York’s white on green.

“Brand new,” I murmured.

“What’s that?” Max asked.

“Nothing.”

From the bus depot, Max led me underground and we took a Muni train—San Francisco’s public transit system—deeper into the city. Compared to New York’s subway system; the red, green, and yellow snakes on the transit map looked simple.

“This doesn’t look too bad.”

“The city is only about seven by seven miles,” Max said, holding on to the overhead bar, as the Muni train screeched underground to my sublet in a neighborhood called the Duboce Triangle. “Big enough to feel like a real city, not so big as to get lost in.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I didn’t come here to get lost.”

“On the contrary,” Max said. “You came here to find yourself.”

“Ooh, that’s deep.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

I nudged his arm. “Are you on the clock already?”

“Twenty-four, seven. I’m here for you whenever you need me. I know how hard it is to start over.” Max scratched his chin. “Or even just to keep going, come to think of it.”

I smiled as warmth spread through my chest. “Did you have someone like you as a sponsor when you were recovering? I hope you did.”

Max’s dark eyes clouded up a bit, and his smile tightened. “Yes and no.” The train screeched to a stop. We were above ground again and the day was brilliant. “This is you.”

We exited the train, and Max tossed my army duffel over one shoulder as if it were nothing, while my overstuffed backpack felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“I hope it’s not a far walk,” I said.

“What’s the address again?”

I told him and he led me west along Duboce Street.

“This is a nice neighborhood,” Max said. “You found a place here?”

“My friend said it was the last rent-controlled Victorian in all of San Francisco.”

“Your friend is probably right,” Max said. “In most parts of the city, the words ‘rent-control’ bring about fits of disbelieving laughter.” He grinned. “And then crying.”

“Then I won’t tell you what my rent is.”

“Bless you.”

“So when you’re not spending every waking hour being my sponsor, what do you do?” I asked.

“I’m an ER nurse at UCSF.”

“Really? You weren’t kidding. You are an around-the-clock lifesaver.”

He shrugged nonchalantly, but his smile told me he liked hearing that. “And what about you? Do you have a job lined up?”

“Indeed,” I said. “Massage therapist by day…”

“Yes?” Max said into my silence. “Usually there’s another half of the sentence.”

“I used to dance,” I said slowly. “In my old life, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” he said. “Old life, drug life, new life. The life cycle of recovery. So did dance survive the drug life to re-emerge in the new life?”

“That remains to be seen,” I said with a small smile. “But I have hope.”

Max nodded. “Sometimes that’s all you need.”

We walked along a