Jennifer Probst - The Marriage Mistake

She finished her sandwich, guzzled her water, and pushed her bag away. Working so closely with him was bound to bring up some old memories. She needed to stay true to her vision and move ahead.

Carina threw away her lunch and got back to work.

Two weeks later, Max wondered if he needed to get laid.

He glanced at the clock and fought a groan. Almost one o’clock. His stomach roiled from too much coffee. Reports were overdue and an odd tension pulsed in his muscles. What was wrong with him? He’d been on deadline before and never experienced such . . . crankiness. All wound up and nowhere to go. When was the last time he had sex? And where was Carina?

She blasted through the door with a smile and a greasy bag in one hand as the odd combination of thoughts skittered through his mind. Her skirt was too short for the office and distracted some of the executives, but when he brought it up to Michael her brother didn’t seem to mind. Something about fashion and what was appropriate. Ridiculous. What happened to knee length? And didn’t she ever wear pantyhose? Somehow, not having that barrier only caused more stress, especially with the endless expanse of smooth, naked olive skin.

“Where were you? I need the updated supply report before I can get over to the new location for a walk-through.”

Her thick hair was pulled back in a severe knot, showing off the graceful curve of her neck and cheek. Sweat beaded her forehead as she dropped the bag on her desk and threw her briefcase down. “Sorry. Wayne called out sick, so I told him I’d cover.”

“Again?” He glanced at the calendar. “Damnit, it’s opening day at Yankee Stadium, Carina. He’s full of bullshit. Get him on the phone.”

Her plump lower lip twitched in amusement. “Oh, let him enjoy the game—don’t be so mean. I’ll have them in an hour. Here, maybe this will make you feel better.” She slid out a thick piece of bruschetta pizza, dripping with tomatoes and enough garlic to cause a stir of homesickness. His stomach roared on cue. When was the last time he’d eaten?

As if she heard his mental question, she answered. “You skipped breakfast again. Take a break and I’ll get the report together.”

“Did you eat?”

She waved her hand in the air and reached the door. “Not hungry.”

“Stop.” His command made her pause. He grabbed the plastic knife and sawed off a piece. “You don’t go anywhere until you share this with me.”

“Don’t need it.”

“Sit down or you’re fired.”

She laughed but obeyed. She dragged over her chair, snatched up the piece with a napkin and dove in. For a few moments, they chewed and enjoyed their food, a common staple in their childhood memories. He relaxed and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. Funny, most women he dated viewed food as a necessity or an evil entity that incited weight gain. How many times had Mama Conte prepared a meal and only he and Carina were left at the table? Their passion for eating in companionable silence was something he’d missed. Michael and his other sisters dove in fast to get back to what they were doing. But when it came to good food, Max loved taking his time and savoring each bite. Carina held the same type of respect and honor for a meal, the way she enjoyed everything in life.

He snuck a peek. Damn skirt rode way up on her thighs. Her signature stiletto heels should be outlawed for the office and allowed only in a nightclub. They were way too sexy with all those straps. And why didn’t she wear normal perfume? He was used to heavy musk and contrived florals. Instead, she smelled clean and fresh, like cocoa butter and a hint of lemon. Max focused on his pizza. “How are you holding up? I know I’ve been giving you a lot of work lately.”

“I don’t mind.” Her tongue ran over her lower lip to catch the last bit of olive oil. He shifted his gaze. “I have a new respect for Michael and Julietta. Growing up, I thought it was just about baking desserts and having a case to sell them in.”

He laughed. “So did I. When Michael first hired me, I had no clue, but we learned together and built an empire. I enjoy having a stake in all the departments, though. Maybe I’m a control freak.”

She rolled her eyes. “Definitely. You drove us all crazy when we were kids. Ordered us around and sulked when we didn’t listen.”

“I never sulked.”

“Sure you did. And when that didn’t work, you turned those baby blues on any female in sight, and they crumbled. You still do.”

He stared at her in surprise with a bit of embarrassment. “That’s ridiculous. You make me sound like some type of gigolo who uses his looks to get what he wants.”

She took another bite and shrugged. “Well, not just your body. You use your charm, too.”

“Cut it out. You’re pissing me off.” He tried not to squirm in his seat with the idea she thought his looks got him places. “I didn’t help build an empire without some brains.”

“Of course you have brains. That’s where the lethal charm comes in—you know when to use it. If you only had brawn, it would be easier to shrug off.”

Why was he engaging in this ridiculous conversation? He tried to take the high road but his mouth opened. “I give women the respect they deserve. Always did.”

She swiped her mouth with the napkin and sat back with her arms crossed in front of her chest. The movement pulled that conservative blouse tight against the heavy swell of her breasts. “What about that time Angelina got that new video game, and you convinced her to lend it to you for a whole month?”

Max sputtered with outrage. “She was being nice to me!”

“Yeah, right. Michael said she followed you around like a puppy in school the whole time. When you solved the game, you gave it back to her and barely spoke to her.”

He shoved the paper plate in the bag and crumpled it up. Irritation whipped through him at the memory. He never meant it like that. He was always nice to Angelina, he just didn’t want to date her.

“And how about that time you got Theresa to do your science report? Michael said you just had to sit with her at lunch and she wrote the whole thing for you.”

“Why did Michael tell all these lies about me?” he grumbled. “This stuff never happened.”

Carina lifted her chin in triumph. “How about this morning?”

“What about this morning?”

She smirked. “Weren’t you supposed to attend the party Saturday night at Walter’s house?”

He ignored her and cleaned his desk, but a sputter of unease flared in his gut. “Yeah. So?”

“You told Bonnie you were stressed and overworked and needed someone to go in your place. She jumped right in and offered to represent La Dolce Maggie.”

“How does that make me the bad guy?” he grumbled.

She smiled. “Because then she asked if you would go with her to the opera, remember? She had an extra ticket. You patted her on the shoulder, told her you were busy, thanked her for going to the party in your place, and left her with a confused expression on her face. Face it, Max. When it comes to women, you are bad news.”

Shock kept him mute and dumb. With triumph, she rose from the chair and threw out her lunch. “I was busy,” he explained. “And I did not pat her on the shoulder. I don’t do things like that with women.”

Somehow, she seemed delighted with his objections. “Yes, you do. You humor them with the hope they may have a shot with you. Then you pull the rug out from under them. It’s a classic Max move I’ve been seeing for years.”

Enough was enough. He was not that sort of guy and it was time she realized that. “Carina, I don’t know what kind of man you think I am, but I don’t pull crap like that. No matter what your brother told you.”