Read Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) for Free Online Page B

nourish his son’s magic and give him
everything J. J. Garrett had longed for.
    Garrett breathed the river air one more time,
felt the peace of this place he’d been awaiting. As he walked back
to Livy’s house he made a vow to himself.
    He was going to become the father he’d always
wanted.
    * * *
    When the doorbell rang, Livy let out a
startled yelp. She wasn’t ready.
    Oh, she was dressed and Max was gone and the
house was empty. But she was not ready to see the man again. Not
now, maybe never.
    As she approached the door, Livy gave herself
a quick pep talk. She was stronger, smarter, older. She had
everything she needed in her life; she did not need him. J.J. could
not hurt her anymore.
    She did not love him. He could not touch her
and make her do anything. He could not speak to her in that
haunting voice and make her dream impossible dreams.
    She would fix this. Wasn’t she the best
family law attorney in town? If Livy Frasier couldn’t take care of
her own problems, what good was she to anyone else?
    Livy opened the door and her breath stopped
in her throat, making her chest hurt. He was more beautiful now
than he’d been all those years ago. His hair just as black, but
longer, his face more defined—a man’s face now, with no trace of
the boy she’d lost everything to.
    Foolish girl. What difference did it make how
he looked?
    His dark gaze met hers, and she shivered
despite the rising heat of the day. The warmth of the sun became a
memory; the strength she’d talked herself into, a whisper gone on
the wind. This man had been her everything, and when she’d lost him
she had nearly lost herself.
    Kisses in the moonlight, sex beneath the
stars, secret meetings, murmured promises. She’d been so young, so
unbelievably naive and stupid. But she’d never felt anything that
strong, or that magical, since.
    Love that deep destroyed. The girl she’d been
then was no more. Thank God.
    Tightening her fingers on the doorknob, Livy
moved back, the only welcome she could bring herself to give. As he
stepped inside, her head spun with memories of other times he’d
been here, the occasions he’d snuck up the servants’ stairs to her
room.
    Since this house dated from the mid-1700s,
there were also servants’ quarters, where Rosie lived, and such
antiquities as a front parlor—where, Livy recalled, she’d shared
her first French kiss with this man on the chaise lounge. There was
even a wrought-iron gate around the garden, where once, in the
middle of a thunderstorm, he’d put his hot hands all over her icy
cold skin and—
    “Shall we go into the dining room?” Her voice
polite but brittle, Livy hoped he could not tell that her palms had
gone damp and she was having a hard time remembering this was
business.
    Business she could manage. The past was
beyond her control.
    “I’d rather keep it informal.” Taking charge,
he strolled into the parlor and sat on the blasted chaise lounge.
When he glanced at her, she knew he remembered the same things she
did.
    Her face flamed and she wanted to hide. Her
hard-won self-discipline slipped another notch. If he kept
reminding her of the past, she didn’t know how she’d make it
through the present.
    Livy waited for him to speak. That was always
best in situations like these. Be patient. Wait for them to spill
the beans, tip their hand, talk too much—then pounce. She remained
standing, as far away from him as she could get without leaving the
room.
    “You look...” He hesitated. “Different.”
    “You could use a haircut.”
    How she looked was irrelevant. Just as how he
looked—spectacular—was not going to make her dreamy-eyed any
longer. She had dreamed herself dry long ago.
    Livy glanced at her watch. “Can we get down
to business?”
    “I wouldn’t call Max business.”
    “What would you call him?”
    “My son.”
    “You’re so certain?”
    “He looks exactly like I did at that age.
Size, hair, feet, everything.”
    The mystery of the blond hair