“Oh, my gosh,” she says as she taps my forearm with her hand. “You’re adorable . . . how that just got you a little embarrassed.”

My eyes shoot to Max, who looks extremely bored with everything, and then back to Camille. “Well, it’s all still a little new and overwhelming to me.”

“How long have you two been dating?” she asks, sliding a little closer to me with a look that says, Hey, let’s dish about hot guys.

“Just a little over six weeks,” I tell her. “But it seems like just yesterday we met.”

“So how does one go about meeting a famous hockey star?” she asks with a grin. “Because I want to go hang out there.”

I laugh and lean in a little closer to her. “We met at a convenience store where I was working.”

“No fucking way,” she says, her eyes going round.

I nod with a chuckle. “Yeah . . . two rednecks were harassing me and Max sort of ran them off.”

“Oh my God . . . that’s so romantic.”

Sighing, I slide my eyes back over to him and keep them there when I tell her, “You don’t even know the half of it.”

“Well, we’re in for a lot of photos and wardrobe changes and I’m not going anywhere. I want to hear all about it,” she says with a grin.

Over the next hour, Camille and I watch from the couch as Max poses for photo after photo. The two bikini models were only used in one setup and that was the one where he was in his training shorts and nothing but his training shorts. I know it probably should have bothered me, watching Max flex his biceps while each skimpily clad woman flanked his sides, but I couldn’t find it within me. They were extremely professional, and in between sets, Max only had eyes for me and not them.

Camille entertained me with stories about famous people she’d met through her dad’s work and I learned that she was a senior at the University of North Carolina. She was also very knowledgeable about photography, taking the time to explain some of the lighting and posing techniques.

Finally, when it was all done, Max practically bolted to the bathroom to scrub all the makeup off his face, and when he came back out, he looked utterly exhausted and for the first time I felt bad for him. He’d had a really long day, flying back from Pittsburgh and straight into a photo shoot, and while I had my fun teasing him a little bit, it was time to get him home and to bed.

“I want to stay at your place tonight,” Max says in the car as we head out of the downtown area.

“Baby . . . you’re exhausted. You should sleep in your own bed tonight. As much as I love having you with me, your body’s going to suffer for it.”

And that’s the truth. Max stayed at my house on Saturday night after the “Dwayne fiasco” and again on Sunday, and because Annabelle sleeps in my bed, that meant he slept on the couch.

It also meant I slept on the couch, and while couches are great for cuddling and snuggling for movies or something else that lasts no longer than two hours, they are not great for getting a good night’s sleep. In order for both of us to sleep, we had to press ourselves in close to each other, which is great in theory but not so great in practicality when you’re constantly trying to shift to get comfortable and the temperature of your two bodies together rises to about a thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

“You’re probably right,” he mutters and then punctuates that with a yawn. Yeah, he’s exhausted and needs a good night’s sleep. “Maybe you and the kids could stay at my house sometimes,” Max suggests.

My nose wrinkles slightly and I tell him straight up, “I don’t know. I mean . . . how do we explain that to them? I mean . . . is it kosher to bring them to my boyfriend’s house for an overnight? For them to see us sleeping in the same room together?”

“They saw us sleeping on the couch together,” he points out, and I giggle when I think about Sunday morning when Annabelle ran out of the bedroom and jumped on top of both of us when she saw us there.

“Let me think about it,” I hedge, because while I would love nothing more than to take him up on his offer, I’m just not sure morally that’s the right thing to do.

My heart becomes heavy as I realize that Melody would know what to do. She was such a good mom and always seemed to know exactly what her kids could handle and what they needed to be shielded from.

“You know,” Max murmurs, breaking into my thoughts. “You could move to a bigger apartment. A three-bedroom.”

“Maybe,” I say thoughtfully, and on its face, that would definitely give Max and me more time together as he could stay the night. But on the flip side, again . . . is that cool to do with young kids in the house? Again I hedge. “I’d have to check the cost out and see what I could afford.”

“Speaking of things you can and can’t afford,” Max says in a slight change of subject, “I did something that might piss you off.”

My head snaps to the left and I look at him across the dim console. He turns his head briefly and glances at me but it’s too dark to see much. When he looks back to the road, he says, “I bought you a TV. It’s being delivered tomorrow.”

“What?” I blurt out.

“Your TV is broken and you need a new one, so I bought you one,” he says, and I note there isn’t an ounce of apology in his voice.

“Max,” I exclaim. “I do not need you buying TVs for me.”

“You wouldn’t buy it yourself,” he points out.

“Because I can’t afford it,” I retort.

“And I can,” he says simply, and again . . . unapologetically.

“I can’t accept,” I say firmly, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring out the window.

“You can,” he says.

“I won’t,” I promise him.

“Fine,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “Just don’t accept the delivery. They can leave it outside your door. I’m sure someone in the apartment complex could use it. Figure it will get stolen as soon as the sun goes down.”

I growl low in my throat and turn in the seat to face him, my eyes narrowing, which is completely lost on him since he’s paying attention to the road. “Max . . . it’s too expensive. Too extravagant.”

“Are you not worth it?” he asks quietly. “What’s the difference between that and buying you a pretty piece of jewelry because you’re my girl? If I do that, Jules . . . you going to throw that back at me too?”