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Look, I also ended up in the back of a police car,” she told him, her voice tight and controlled. “Then sat at the police station for hours with you fuming and not speaking to me.”
    “Really? You want to complain? Where did you go afterward?”
    Her face colored again. “Home.”
    “Right. I went off to juvenile detention. So I think you need to make that up to me.”
    Her posture went all stiff. “How do you propose I do that?”
    “I propose you accept that I will not be a groom. Not for the benefit. Not ever.”
    Displeasure crossed her face. “I could ask someone else.”
    He may have started out making demands for payback, but now he was just having fun. “You could, and you should. I’m out.”
    She considered that for a second. He’d expected a snarky reply, but instead she said, “Fine. You’re right. You’re aren’t the groom type.”
    “And you know that how?”
    “By the fact that you’re being very disagreeable.”
    “I’m sure there are lots of disagreeable grooms. Doesn’t make me a type.”
    She frowned then asked, “Do you own a tux?”
    “Never needed one.”
    Her gaze dropped to his faded T-shirt. “Any formal attire?”
    She gave him an assessing look, cringing over his less-than-designer jeans and faded T-shirt and boots, his usual stakeout attire, which he wore for the job he had scheduled for later this morning. Or maybe the stubble he’d failed to shave. Okay, so maybe he needed a haircut, but he’d been too busy to worry about it. Still, she didn’t have to look down that impertinent, freckled nose of hers.
    He scrubbed a hand over his chin.
    She had a standoffish look about her that rubbed him the wrong way. And the prissy way she perched on the chair, like she didn’t want to get her skirt wrinkled? Well, that toasted him, too.
    It took a few seconds for him to respond. Poised on the tip of his tongue hovered “none of your business,” but how juvenile would that sound? “I have nice clothes. In fact, I just ordered work shirts with Sanders Security stitched on the front.”
    She smirked at him, clearly thinking she had the upper hand.
    “Right. Whatever. Look, I’ll be at the historical society offices tomorrow to test the system, and I’ll drop off a proposal for the security of the jewelry collection. Nothing more.”
    Her lips tightened a fraction before she said, “That’s your final answer?”
    He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yep. Final answer.” He didn’t owe her more than that. He and Miss Prickly had nothing in common except a night on the beach that had ended before they’d had a chance to get started.
    She stood. Something about her, a vulnerability she couldn’t disguise, made him think of the carefree girl he’d once met. It also managed to soften the hard edges of his heart.
    “Thank you. The historical society appreciates your support.” She gathered her things and rushed out of his office, a waft of alluring perfume in her wake.
    Max sat there for a moment, trying to ignore the twisting in his gut. Her walking through the door had caught him off guard. To be honest, he hadn’t thought about her in years. Even when he’d decided to return to Cypress Pointe, he’d had only a passing notion that he might run into her again. But this way? Because of a charity event?
    Working for the historical society meant access to future clients, just by word of mouth alone. Cypress Pointe was a small town, after all. He’d make connections, secure a few more jobs. Positive. But the negative? Working with the new charity coordinator, a woman who happened to be from his past. A past he’d worked hard to overcome, although sometimes it felt as if he’d fallen short.
    Sitting back in his chair, he realized that his life had taken a hard right turn when she’d walked into his office. No. Today’s visit had only ramped things up. Really, it’d started for him the night at the beach. The anger still simmered, but when he pictured her pretty face,