The drawings were his, and very fine they were indeed. The calculations and costings were Evie’s doing, and those costings were higher—far higher—than anything she’d ever worked on before. Evie stopped chewing over the financials long enough to spare her business partner of six years a glance. Max was an architect, and a visionary one at that. Evie was the engineer—wet blanket to Max’s more fanciful notions. Put them together and good things happened. Though not always. ‘Are you talking to me?’ ‘Yes, I’m talking to you,’ said Max with what he clearly thought was the patience of a saint. ‘I need access to my trust fund. To get access to my trust fund I either have to turn thirty or get married. I don’t turn thirty for another two years.’ ‘I have two questions for you, Max. Why me and why now?’ ‘The “why you” question is easy: (a), I don’t love you and you don’t love me—’ Evie studied him through narrowed eyes.
