"I know enough." Max laughed.

"Like what?"

"Like I can't be honest and speak my mind, which by the way"—he motioned at her with his finished tamale before he put it in the pot—"in case you haven't noticed, I do a lot. But it pisses you off, hence the drama."

"Judging by your reaction to it, seems to me you enjoy the drama." Pat was doing so much eye rolling she was surprised she didn't have a headache yet. "And just because someone doesn't agree with you doesn't mean they're full of dramatic bullshit. Ever stop to think maybe you're the problem?"

"Me?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Just because I speak the truth and sometimes the truth hurts?" He shrugged, grabbing another husk. "Ain't shit I can do about that, sweetheart."

"And therein lies the rub." Pat began putting together another tamale.

"What?"

Shaking her head, Pat didn't bother trying to explain Shakespeare to him. "You make these obnoxious blanket statements that are nothing more than just your opinion, but you expect people to just accept them as facts. And when they don't, they're the ones with the problem." Remembering his comment about her being wound too tight, she added, "And it doesn't piss me off, Max. I'd have to actually care to get pissed off. I was just responding to your lame comments, is all."

"Ooh, name-calling." He chuckled. "I'm impressed. Didn't think you could get any feistier."

"I didn't call you lame," she clarified. "I said your comments are lame."

Bringing her attention to the tamale he was trying to stand up in the pot, Pat demonstrated how it was done. The verbal sparring ceased for a while as she showed him some more tricks on how to make the process of making the tamales faster. It was more for her benefit than his. She needed to move this along.

Pat wasn't sure if it was the wine, but the longer she stood in that kitchen with Max, the more she kept observing things she should not be noticing. Like how the muscle on his big forearms flexed whenever he moved them a certain way. How perfectly straight his teeth were each time he smiled big or laughed—which irritatingly was too often. As many times as she'd been around him and his brother, she never thought to use the term bedroom eyes to describe Max's—until today.

She hated to admit it, but because she was so used to working with clean-cut professionals, she'd always sort of frowned upon Max and Manny's disheveled facial stubble. But now that she'd had a much longer and up-close view of his salt and pepper stubble, she could see it wasn't disheveled at all. It was very well kept. Too well kept. Like he paid for it to be trimmed that way.

Max had just made it clear he wasn't into the bullshit drama of relationships. And despite the obvious impression she'd made on him; she wasn't wound that tight. She was a grown ass woman with needs of her own. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility for Pat to do something spontaneous to satisfy them. But getting involved with a man like him, even if it were just a onetime thing, would be absolute madness. The mere fact that she'd allowed even this to be happening had her questioning her sanity.

With the tamales nearly done and the wine bottle gone, Pat suddenly remembered something. "Oh shit."

She rushed to the kitchen door that led into the garage and walked out. The dryer was still running after all that time. "Damn it."

Max walked into the garage behind her. "What's wrong?"

"This stupid dryer. The timer's not working, and I totally forgot I turned it on just before you got here. It's been on all this time."

Taking a few steps closer to examine the timer, Max's hard forearm grazed her hand, and this time Pat refrained from flinching. "Should be an easy fix." He turned to her. "Where do you keep your tools?"

Pat winced as she ambled off toward the cabinets in her garage. "I might have screwdriver somewhere in here and a hammer."

"What? That's it?"

"Well, I usually call in a handyman," she explained, holding up a pathetic little screwdriver. "Only reason I hadn't this time is because I've been so busy and I keep forgetting."

"That's not gonna cut it." Max informed her, shaking his head.

"Well, never mind." She put the screwdriver back in the drawer. "I'll just have to call someone soon."

They walked back into the kitchen where Pat checked the tamales. "Umm, they're ready and they're good."

After eating a few each, Pat got up and brought out some plastic wear. "I should've brought stuff to make some sweet ones for dessert," Max said even as he spoke with his mouth full. "I always have to have something sweet after a meal."

Remembering the lone chocolate-covered strawberry in her fridge, Pat decided she could part with it. She reached over and pulled it out. "Here." She set it down on the counter in front of him. "It's my last one, but it's all yours. I'll grab more next time I'm at Vons. They're my favorite."

She started packing them up for him as he continued to eat on the kitchen island behind her. "Aren't you gonna leave some for yourself?"

"No, you bought all the stuff." She glanced back at him. "Take them home to Manny and Aida."

"Yeah, but you did most of the work," he insisted. "Leave some for yourself." Nodding, she placed three on a plate next to her. "Take more than that."

"No, that's fine," she said, covering his container. "There's only one of me here, and there's three of you at your place. Besides my behind has enough cushion. Not trying to add more."

"Oh, I think your cushion's just fine."

Feeling her face warm, Pat pressed her lips together, pissed that she'd walked right into that one. Turning back to look at him only made the warmth spread up her neck. He was standing now, holding his empty plate and making no qualms about enjoying the view of her ass.

She cleared her throat, and those bedroom eyes finally lifted to her face. Swallowing hard, she lifted the container with his tamales. "These are ready to go. Thanks for the . . . interesting afternoon and the wine. But I have work I need to get to now."

"Don't you ever take a full day off?" he asked as they traded his dirty dish for the container.

She placed the dish in the dishwasher then started to walk him out. "I will tomorrow."

"Plans?"

"None. Just relax, binge-watch something on Netflix, and maybe do more laundry."

They got to the door, and he flashed that smile that just might be the end of her. "Well, thanks again for showing me how to get this right."

"No problem. Glad they came out good."

He started down the stairs, and Pat took in his broad shoulders, big back, and what appeared to be a very hard ass under those jeans. How in the world had she not noticed any of this before? She was only glad now she'd gotten through this and she'd be done giving it any more thought ever again.

Because it was completely out of the question.

Once in his car, he motioned the container of tamales at her and said something as he started to drive out of her driveway. Pat shook her head, touching her ear to let him know she hadn't heard.

He slowed as he pulled out into the street and backed up a little, leaning over to the passenger-side window. "I said I'll bring my tools tomorrow when I come drop off your container. Fix your dryer right up." He saluted her before she could respond to that and drove away.

Pat stood there, jaw falling open. "No, he didn't."