“Um, okay.”
“But the bookstore… cleared things up.”
This guy talks like he’s paying tax on every word he speaks. And that damn inscrutable expression doesn’t help either.
But my mind races back to the sidewalk outside Strand and I want Dorothy’s tornado to pick me up and swing on by Savannah to drop me on its way to Kansas. My ears burn and I remember I need to search in my desk for something super important.
What I really need is to get this guy out of my office, and the only way I can see to do that is by letting him get on with what he came for.
“So, you’re sorry you thought I had a twin?”
And he comes right out with it. “No. I’m sorry I acted like an asshole.”
Ah. It seems we’re being brutally honest here. It’s about damn time. I forget my desk and my embarrassment, letting my eyes settle on his again. He runs his tongue over his bottom teeth like he’s chewing on his next words, so I fill in the space.
“Can I ask you a question?” I set both hands on my desk top.
He gives one short nod.
“Why did you agree to the interview?” I put a hand in the air because I’m not finished, not that he was racing to answer or anything. “I mean, after Elle officially turned us down. You were scot-free.”
His nostrils flare and I’m worried I pissed him off all over again, but then one corner of his mouth lifts the teensiest bit. If I hadn’t been studying his face like it was the answer to a final exam in biology I wouldn’t have caught it at all. But there it was.
“Curiosity,” he finally says—or, more accurately, grunts.
“Curiosity,” I repeat, not even putting any question in my tone. I’m like a parrot with the way I keep repeating every damn word he says.
Another barely-there nod.
Since I seem to have his attention and he shows no sign of leaving, I prop an elbow on my desk and decide to go for broke.
“You do know I’m not actually a writer, don’t you?”
A repeat of the chin dip of affirmation.
“Is that why you kicked me out when I came over today?”
“No.”
My brows draw together.
“So, you’re just… moody?”
Another twitch of his lip.
“Definitely no.”
A short laugh escapes my throat. “You sure about that?”
“I only have one mood.”
His economy of words and movements might say that, but his eyebrows and lip quirks say something else.
“If you say so.” I shrug and lean forward. “Where do we go from here? I doubt you want to give me that interview. Last time I tried to interview you, you barked at me and then made fun of me.”
Is that a wince I see? One mood, my ass.
“I guess my one mood is an asshole.”
I bark out another laugh despite myself.
His hand comes to the back of his neck and a furrow forms on his brow. “I’ll do the interview.”
My eyes go wide and I cross my arms on the desk. “With me?”
The curt nod again.
I gesture to the floor under my desk. “I’m still wearing the shoes, you know.”
“I’m aware.” His eyes narrow the slightest bit and I’m starting to feel like he has the ability to see through not just my desk but my clothes.
I squirm in my seat and try wrestling New York Poppy back to the surface. When my spine is straight, I open my drawer back up and pull my pad of paper from my bag. Then I clear my throat.
“Okay, Mr. McKinley,” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Mac.”
“Mac?” Again with the parrot.
“Call me Mac.”
I stare at him, words failing me. Mac? What happened to Angus? Or Mr. McKinley? I distinctly remember Elle calling him Angus.
I muster a weak smile, but there is no way I can call him Mac. It’s way too… familiar.
“Before we begin, I want to make sure you understand that while there will be photos taken at another date, there’s no cover in the contract you signed.”
“Thank Christ.”
Oookay. This whole thing is beyond strange. I look down at my pad and quickly scan the questions, desperate for solid footing. Everything he says throws me and confuses the ever-loving crap out of me.
Screw it. I slide the papers aside.
“Question number one: What’s your favorite rock band?”
Yep. There’s no mistaking it this time when his lips quirk and amusement makes its way into those brown eyes. But, for once, it’s not at my expense.
Ten
“Men wearing smiles are the same ones who know the power of a well-timed, expensive gift.”
– Cookie Rutledge
If I thought I could throw a few questions at Angus “Mac” McKinley and magically produce everything needed for a riveting magazine article from his answers, I was dead wrong. This interviewing thing is hard. Especially since he only speaks enough words to fill out a quarter column of copy. Now, if I could interview his lips or his eyebrows, or that damn tick in his left cheek, I might have more material, but they don’t translate very well to paper. This article is gonna need a hell of a lot more details to inform it.
I sigh as I hit send on my email to Naveed with the paltry contents of my notes.
When I was in the moment, I could swear I felt real substance and authenticity in his answers, but I realize now it’s a lot like interpreting a conversation with the real King Kong, in the sense that it would make much better TV. Especially with the growly bits.
Suffice it to say, by the time I shook his hand goodbye, I was not only a tiny bit smitten with the man, but I was also feeling almost protective of his laconic nature. I’m now of the opinion that he’d come off as disingenuous if he used more words. But none of this helps create a magazine article that gets down to the root of the brilliant and broody blacksmith.
And brilliant he is, I have no doubt. I’ve spent the last half hour poring over an Instagram account he mentioned Elle set up for him. While I’m sure he’s not the one to post, it doesn’t stop me from reading every single word and zooming in on the photos. I’m dying to see the man at work, especially when a shot pops up of him in a shadowed room full of tools, flames, and steam. He wears a leather apron of sorts with dark-rimmed frames over his eyes and a t-shirt much like the one he wore today. His sweat-slicked biceps gleam in the orange light as he grips a hammer that conjures images of Thor himself. This is undoubtedly the forge I was warned against by Jonathan.
The part of me that craves another excuse to be around him can’t wait for the photo shoot, but I know I’m being ridiculous. I have every right to be there as the creative director, but I’d just fade into the background as the photographer does her thing. Mac won’t even notice me if I’m not doing something to humiliate myself, and that is very much not in my current plans, thank you very much.
Which brings me to my upcoming move and Iris’s imminent arrival in New York. The James girls can’t seem to help but get into trouble. She’s scheduled to arrive in two days with a U-Haul trailer—if she can get out of Savannah without somebody hiring a chaperone, that is. She claimed she could get a friend to help her load my stuff from the storage unit without Cookie finding out, but I’m not counting my chickens just yet.
I sigh and close the app, knowing there’s no good reason to look at the pictures anymore now that my part is done and the notes have been sent to Naveed. My desk phone rings and I roll my eyes, figuring it’s the man in question calling to complain about the brevity.
But I’m proven wrong again when the receptionist’s voice sounds in my ear. “Ms. James, I have a Mr. McKinley on the line for you. Would you like me to put him through or send him to your voicemail?”
I smooth my hair as if anyone can see me and bite my lip while I consider my options. Oh, who am I kidding? “Put him through, please.”
I drop the phone back in its cradle and pract
ically jump out of my seat when it rings again.
“This is Poppy James.” I feign ignorance and a breezy tone.
“It’s Mac.” Oh, sweet lord, his voice is even deeper over the phone.
“Oh!” I’m an awful actress. “Did you forget something?” Wow, talk about bad manners.
“I want to show you something.”
Oh, if he only knew how badly I wanted to see something. I bite my knuckle at my inner brazenness and roll my eyes at myself.
“What’s that?” I will every ounce of flirtiness out of my tone and almost succeed. The man has a super model girlfriend, for glory’s sake.
But if I thought he’d actually answer, I’ve clearly forgotten who I’m dealing with.
“Meet me at my studio tonight at nine.”
“Tonight?”
“You got other plans?”
The nerve! I’m tempted to make something up, but it’s no use lying to myself.
“Fine. I’ll see you at nine, Mr. McKinley.”
“Mac,” he replies and then hangs up before I can rebut.
I’m thinking I won’t need to wait for Iris to get to town. I’m in a world of trouble all on my own.
* * *
“Hello?” I knock on the newsprint-covered window for a second time.
Maybe he thought better of it but didn’t have my cell number to cancel. Or maybe Elle stripped naked in front of him and he can’t remember my name or who I am. Yeah, that’s probably more likely.
It’s not like I spent any time getting ready for our meeting or whatever this is. It only took four outfit changes to find the right combination of professionalism and after-hours casual. And since I’m not sure what he wants to show me, I didn’t want to risk catching myself on fire. So I went with skinny jeans and the blouse from earlier, but I paired them with my tan cowhide boots in case he decides to be an ass again and needs kicking. Okay, not really, but the boots help with my confidence so they’re just right for a night like this.
But it looks like the outfit’s been wasted. I turn to go just as the door swings open and I’m hit with a gust of air from the sheer force of it. I stumble back and Mac—Angus—Mr. McKinley—Mac (grrrr) reaches out to steady me with a hand on my arm. So much for the self-confidence. But my brain doesn’t register anything much apart from his warm callused hand on my skin. Heat radiates from the spot where our skin meets and I look down to make sure I haven’t caught my damn self on fire.
Mac mistakes my look for one of reproach and quickly releases his grip.
“Sorry.”
“Oh, no need.” I push my hair behind my ear. That’s another thing I debated when I was getting ready. My hair went down and up and down again before I threw in the towel and left it hanging around my face. Now I’m second guessing that too as my skin warms at his misinterpretation of my movements.
I try a small smile and it sticks. “Thanks.”
He nods one of his clipped chin dips and holds the door for me. When I follow him in, I immediately notice how different the place looks without the overhead lights. Only a dim light down the make-shift hall illuminates the space and we’re left in near darkness as he closes the door behind us.
My back is to him, but I know exactly where he is and how close his body is to mine by the energy he puts off. Either he’s his own nuclear power plant or my body runs on some wavelength shared by just the two of us.
Which is batshit loco.
Still, awareness sings down my spine as he steps closer, his front less than a foot from my back. I have the crazy urge to lean back, knowing I’ll find the firm support of his broad chest and strong hands.
But I don’t, of course. I close my eyes tight and will myself to get my act together before stepping forward so I’m out of temptation’s way.
I clear my throat. “So, what is it you wanted to show me?” I turn and smile brightly, breaking whatever tension there was.
As usual, his expression is indiscernible, especially in the dark, but I see him extend his hand to gesture down the hall. “Here.”
I go where he directs on shaky knees until we’re in the same room from earlier today—the same room from the night I first laid eyes on him. The battling ropes lay rolled in the corner and a single light shines from a black lamp on the shop table, but I’m not looking at the lamp or the table or the ropes.
Instead, my eyes are drawn to a chair resting on the sealed concrete floor a few feet from the light source. Its design is deceptively simple, but it’s nothing short of beautiful. Ribbons of wrought iron fold back on themselves to create a curved seat that rises in the back only to fold again and curve down to the floor to act as the back legs of the chair.
“Wow.” I breathe the word out like it came from my toes. My boots slide against the floor as I creep closer and reach out a finger to the metal. I pull my hand back at the last second and shift my eyes to Mac. He’s watching me.
“May I?”
I get another nod, but it’s slower and deeper this time.
I know I’m smiling like a loon when I trace the cold iron and let my hand smooth down the back of the chair.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Good. It’s yours.”
I snatch my hand back like the iron is still red hot and almost choke on my saliva as I stare back at him.
“I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly.” My head is shaking like he just told me Mrs. Wilkes stopped serving fried chicken on Fridays.
Mac’s eyebrows inch together. “Of course you can.”
“No.” Still shaking.
His lips tighten in a straight line like I’m annoying him and so I roll my eyes.
“You can’t just go giving me a gazillion dollar chair. You don’t even know me.”
He releases the tension in his mouth and his lower lip goes back to its normal fullness, not that I notice or anything.
“That’s easily fixed.” His shoulders give an almost imperceptible shrug and it takes concerted effort not to let my jaw drop to the ground.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’ll get to know each other,” he grinds out like his statement is both obvious and final.
I open my mouth to respond but I’m just a goldfish sucking on water that’s not there.
If I’m not mistaken, Angus “Mac” McKinley just asked me out on a date.
“Right,” he says, like that’s all settled. “Send your address to Jonathan and it’ll get delivered tomorrow.”
“I can’t,” I practically shout, finally finding my voice.
He starts doing the tight jaw and mouth thing again so I jump in and the yammering begins. “I mean, I get the keys to my place tomorrow but I’m not moving in until Thursday. That is, if my sister can get up here without a damn police escort from Georgia. You’d think all of them would realize it’s the twenty-first century and a woman can, in fact, pull a trailer, but you try reasoning with a bunch of folks who still think a woman wearing long pants in church is a cardinal sin deserving of an extra stint in purgatory. Anyway…” I trail off, knowing I’ve officially sealed my impression as a lunatic in this guy’s eyes.
But when I look him over I see that Mac’s jaw isn’t the only thing that’s unclenched at my word vomit. If I’m not mistaken, his shoulders have loosened as well and he’s now resting with his legs shoulder-width apart and that damn eyebrow raised again. I’d be mad at the self-satisfied aura he’s exuding if I weren’t so damn turned on by it. I need to bite something.
I tuck my hair behind my ear again and his eyes narrow like something he doesn’t like just occurred to him.
“Where’re you staying now?” His voice drops even deeper and I can feel it in my gut.
I shoo him off, feigning a relaxed vibe. “Oh, I’m crashing at a friend’s place. I just moved here from Savannah.”
This earns me another of his slower nods. I’m beginning to understand the difference between the two. The curt one means, “Okay” or “Yeah, and don’t bother asking
again” while the slow one means he’s thinking on something and is probably gonna blow your mind with what comes out of his mouth next.
And, yup, I must be brilliant because he confirms this with his next words.
“I’ll bring it myself on Thursday, then take you out.”
Holy mother of David Beckham‘s backside.
When I don’t respond, because, let’s face it, my brain is still trying to process what just happened, he does one of his quick nods and starts walking back to the front of the studio. My eyes glue themselves to his ass in those jeans and I have to scurry to keep up with him when I realize he’s leaving and my boots are still nailed to the floor.
Without another word, we make our way to the front doors where he holds one open for me and I find myself back out on the sidewalk. New York has been buzzing on as usual while I’ve been lost in the Narnia of Mac’s building. The sound of chatter, car horns, and sirens are an assault, breaking whatever spell I was under.
Mac whistles and a cab stops at the curb in point-two seconds—without him even needing to raise a hand, of course. He opens the door for me and I know I should say something. I should tell him I’m not the kind of girl who dates gorillas. I’m not the kind of girl who can have a fling with a guy while he’s dating Charlize Theron. I’m not the kind of girl who can handle the emotions he’s stirring in me or pretend having a meal and owning a piece of furniture he created with his hands is no big deal.
But I don’t say any of those things.
Instead, I let him pay for my cab and shut the door with nothing more than a gravelly, “Thursday.”
Then I faint dead away in the cab. Not really, but would you blame me if I had?
Eleven
“Who needs enemies when you’ve got a perfectly good sister.”
– Cookie Rutledge
My new apartment is amazing. Small, but amazing. A bit noisy, but amazing. Kind of expensive but… okay, it’s tiny and the kitchen feels like a dollhouse kitchen, but it’s mine. The first thing I do when I pick up my keys is get my butt over to my new place and bask in the glory of having my very own New York apartment. This involves cranking up Spotify on my phone and dancing to “Hotel Key” by Old Dominion in every room—all four of them.
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