Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  “What. The fuck. Is that?”

  I perch my fists on my hips, pissed off I’m now at an even bigger disadvantage without my heels.

  “Tea. What did you think it was?”

  “That.” He points at the pitcher. “Is not tea.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes it is.” And to prove the point, I grab my glass from the counter and bring it to my lips. The sweet, icy concoction hits my tongue and it’s pure heaven on earth. I pull in a mouthful, moaning at the rich flavor and letting it slide down my parched throat. I don’t stop until the ice cubes gather at my lips and I’ve swallowed every last drop. “Ahh. Damn, that’s good.” I drop the glass back down to the counter and glance up at Mac.

  His jawbone could crack nuts, but he still manages to open his mouth far enough to growl, “Jesus.” And then he’s coming toward me again, wicked smolder firmly in place.

  I guess Mac likes sweet tea. Even if he doesn’t like drinking it himself.

  * * *

  “So that’s why Cookie says it’s not bragging when she tells people Savannah’s the best town south of the Mason-Dixon line. If Sherman himself couldn’t bear to burn any of that beauty, it must mean something.”

  Mac runs the back of his hand over my nipple while I shovel Chinese takeout into my face. It was his idea to eat naked and I was so starving I didn’t brook much of an argument. I did draw the line at sitting cross-legged with my lady town on display while I fumble with my chopsticks, though. Having a sheet there to catch any flying bites of hot food is basic common sense. Likewise, he’s got a sheet draped carelessly across his lap. His back is to my headboard and he’s picking at some bland steamed affair in between letting his hands roam my body. I’m sharing stories from back home while trying not to shiver at his touch or peek underneath the sheet. Again.

  He doesn’t respond much, but I can tell he’s listening from his sporadic hums and small upturns of his lips. So I keep talking.

  “She’ll brag to just about anyone about her beloved town and that inn. Of course, I brag about the inn too. I can’t help it. It’s the most charming spot on earth.”

  “You grow up in it?” He asks, lifting his gaze from my bare breasts and meeting my eyes.

  “The inn? Kind of. I mean Mama and Daddy’s place is just at the outskirts of town where they could get more property, but I’ve probably spent just as many nights at the Violette. My great granddaddy owned the building before passing it down. It’s really two townhouses put together, one for family and one for guests.”

  Mac nods and brings a snap pea to his mouth. I watch him chew, the memory of what he did not thirty minutes ago with that mouth making me shiver with renewed arousal. The man is skilled. At many things.

  I open my mouth to say one more thing about the inn, but something else comes out instead. “Don’t you get sick of eating all that healthy stuff?”

  He pauses mid-chew and looks at me before swallowing. Then he snags his glass of water from the bedside table and takes a sip. “Never really thought about it.”

  My jaw drops open. “How is that possible?” I swing a hand out toward my bedroom window. “This city has about six million restaurants and probably twice as many bakeries and dessert places. You never think to yourself, man, a big cheeseburger sounds great just about now?”

  “That shit’s not good for you.”

  I look at him like he just gave me whiplash. “That ain’t even close to being the point.” As if to prove it, I shove another bite of kung pao chicken in my face.

  He watches my mouth and I curse myself for focusing so much on being a smartass that I forgot to try maintaining a sexy vibe.

  Mac sets his takeout container on the table with his water and pulls me by my hips so I have to straddle him to avoid tipping over the side of the bed. I keep my grip on my dinner, though, and grab a piece of chicken with the chopsticks.

  “Here.” I hold it out to him. “Try it. I’ll make you a convert.”

  He leans forward and snaps his teeth over the bite of chicken, making all parts south clench. He chews it while holding my eyes and I can feel the effect my squirming is having on him.

  “It’s not that I don’t like it. I’m just careful with my body.”

  I raise a brow and deliberately take my time running my eyes over his bare chest. “And, let me be the first to tell you, it’s very much appreciated.”

  He smirks and his hips twitch, making my eyes want to roll back into my head.

  I decide to venture a bit further down this road while the opportunity presents itself. “Have you always looked like this?” I lean forward and set my own meal down so I can give Mac all my focus.

  “No. Not until my late twenties, I guess.”

  “So you were a total slob until then?” I shake my head. “Shame.”

  He pinches my ass and I yelp. He’s being playful again and I freaking love it.

  “My pops was in an accident. Made me re-evaluate some things.”

  My insides still and I try not to let it show. But when I do some counting in my head, the timing doesn’t reconcile with the article I read. I distinctly remember that incident with his father being from three or four years ago, not ten or more. I don’t want anything to get in the way of Mac opening up to me so I just wait for him to continue.

  He doesn’t.

  I decide to take a chance.

  “What kind of accident?”

  “Car accident.” Mac swipes a hand down his face and I’m afraid for a second I went too far. But then his eyes come back to mine. “He was helping me haul some stuff for a job I was doing over in Jersey where we lived. Roads were icy and a car came too fast in the other direction. Truck flipped. I got thrown free and he rolled six times before it was done.” He brings a finger up to the angry scar along the side of his nose, the one I’ve seen a hundred times when I close my eyes. “I got a souvenir. My pops got… more.”

  My hand comes up before I know what I’m doing and my fingers tremble as they settle over the warm skin of his hand at his face. “Mac.”

  He turns his hand so his fingers weave with mine. “It’s okay, Poppy.”

  I can’t believe he’s comforting me instead of the other way around. It’s clear from the faraway look he blinks away that he was right back in the moment of the accident.

  Any normal person would ask the logical follow-up question. Is your dad okay? But I already know the answer, even though I wish I didn’t.

  So I do the only thing I can and lean forward to place my lips on his.

  * * *

  Mac spends the night, making this our second sleepover in as many nights and making this a definite thing. Add to that the sharing he did last night and I’m flying high on a flight to relationship central. Now I’ve just got to remember not to get too far ahead of myself.

  Which is pretty freaking hard to do when Mac decides the thing our Saturday needs is more together time and a trip to Chelsea Market, where I told him I’ve never been. From what I know of Mac, it’s the furthest thing from his scene, so he’s clearly doing it just for me.

  To make me happy.

  That in and of itself is enough to have me skipping across the sky on a unicorn pooping out rainbows. Yeah, sorry. Gross.

  He doesn’t even give me a hard time when I insist on stopping at every one of the six bakeries just to make sure I didn’t miss anything. And I pretend I don’t notice the gawks and flirty looks coming his way from every third woman we pass. The others are obviously getting really good sex at home or they’re blind.

  We’re each carrying a shopping bag in one hand and holding hands with the other like one of those blissfully disgusting couples people live to hate. I’m talking his ear off about the magazine when he stops without warning. I almost drop my bag as my body goes flying back where our hands are still connected.

  I’m about to ask if he’s okay when I see he’s clearly not. Four weeks ago, I would have been at a loss to determine the meaning of his current expression, but now I spo
t it for what I’m sure it is—a mix of anger and panic. So I follow his eyeline and see his attention is caught on a slick-suited woman waiting for her coffee order and talking on a cell phone. She looks to be in her late fifties with perfectly coifed dark hair and a posture that smacks of good breeding.

  “Mac.” I squeeze his hand but I’m not sure he even feels it. I’m about to say something—anything—when the woman turns and does a double take before taking her phone from her ear and carefully returning it to her purse. She watches Mac, who stands next to me like the tension rolling off him is freezing him in place.

  Then her gaze slides to me and she plucks her coffee off the counter and practically glides over to where we stand in the middle of the busy concourse.

  “Darling, isn’t this a lovely surprise?”

  She’s probably five-foot-ten in her heels, but Mac still has more than half a head on her. I’m utterly shocked when she gets close and tilts her head, clearly offering her cheek for a kiss. Who the hell is this, and why would she think in a million years that Mac is a cheek kisser?

  He proves me right when he doesn’t move a muscle to comply.

  “Mother.” The word escapes through clenched teeth.

  I swallow a cough. This is Mac’s mama? This news requires a next-level inspection, which I attempt to be real subtle about. There’s no doubt she’s beautiful, with delicate features and stunning gray eyes. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen makeup this flawless, and if she’s had work done, I can’t tell. But no amount of makeup or surgery can hide the hint of disappointment when Mac doesn’t kiss her.

  I’m feeling at a bit of a loss because I don’t know the first thing about this woman, except for the fact that she makes Mac upset. Which, let’s face it, is enough to make me hate her on sight.

  She sighs a beleaguered sigh and I want to take Mac home and feed him carbs. But there’s no moving this mountain.

  “You didn’t return my calls. Elle said she’d pass on my message as well, but I see she must have forgotten.” She reaches out to pat the hand that’s holding the shopping bag and I can see Mac curl it into a fist in response. Either she doesn’t notice or she pretends not to. “Sterling and I were so looking forward to getting together while we’re in town. It’s been too long, don’t you agree?”

  Mac still doesn’t move or respond. What happened to the guy who has no qualms with walking away from a conversation he hates? Come on, Mac, let’s go!

  I squeeze his hand again and it seems to kickstart his brain.

  “We have to go,” he finally says and starts moving again, pulling me with him. His feet are unusually clumsy.

  But the woman has the nerve to step in front of me. I’ll give her this, her sense of self-preservation is keen given that she chose me instead of the big guy.

  I paste on an uncomfortable smile. “Excuse me.” But she grabs my arm in a grip way too firm for a lady so skinny.

  “You must be Mac’s… friend.” She smiles and it’s as tight as Ryan Reynolds’ ass—but in a bad way.

  Mac strikes like a rattlesnake and wedges himself between us, looking down his nose at her.

  His voice is pure caged lion. “I said we had to go. Now get your hand off her.”

  His mother releases a tense, humorless laugh but only tightens her grip. Her features turn pinched and what I mistook for beauty reveals itself as just a pretense for the vitriol lying underneath. “I’m just trying to meet your friend. Since when can’t a mother know her own son’s girlfriend?”

  My eyes are darting so fast between the two of them I’m afraid I’m gonna strain something. And I really wish she’d let go of me. I’m gonna have a frickin’ bruise from this witch.

  Mac’s nostrils flare and his face darkens even further, but he doesn’t answer her. Instead, he curls his fingers around her wrist and starts squeezing.

  She yelps like she’s been slapped and releases my arm. Which is complete bullshit because Mac has grabbed my arm more than once and he never uses a fraction of the power I know he’s capable of.

  As soon as my arm is free, he stalks toward the exit, me scampering after him to keep up and not dislocate my damn shoulder.

  His mother’s voice slams into our backs just before we reach the exit.

  “You’re heartless, just like he was!”

  Mac doesn’t look back. He doesn’t stop walking. And he doesn’t say another word the entire way home.

  I don’t see him again for a week.

  Twenty-Three

  “The best and worst thing about family is there’s no escaping it.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  The champagne corks pop and the room fills with cheers and whoops.

  WHL is officially approved and I am a real, live, bonafide creative director of a national publication. I can’t stop repeating it in my head—maybe one of these times I’ll start to believe it.

  Naveed hands me a glass and I take it with a smile, then clink mine with his.

  “Here’s to the future, Miss Peach.” He grins at me, giving me the dimple, and I can’t help smiling in return.

  The official announcement was just made and our crew of WHL faithfuls has gathered for an impromptu celebration in one of the conference rooms on Athena’s floor. Looking around, I’m amazed at what the small group of us have accomplished in such a short time. But this is only the beginning.

  There’s endless work ahead as we form teams and shuffle offices and then get to work on the first few issues. My stomach is swirling with excitement and nerves as the reality tries to settle in. I’m heading an entire department, complete with directors, editors, and staff designers. Thus far, it’s been a complete skeleton crew, but pretty soon things are going to get nuts.

  And I’m happy. I’m so freaking happy.

  Really.

  Okay, I’m miserable. But I want to be happy, so that has to count for something.

  I mentally curse Mac’s mother for the thousandth time this week. Because she’s the one I hold responsible for Mac going off the grid and making it impossible for me to fully immerse myself in this incredible life victory.

  The first thing I did when Kate marched into my office to tell me the good news was, of course, hug the crap out of her. Then I texted Iris because the girl wouldn’t stop blowing up my phone this week and I needed to throw her a bone.

  But when my finger hovered above Mac’s contact, a knot immediately settled in the pit of my stomach and I called his mom some filthy names before shoving the phone back in my purse and heading to the celebration.

  “We’re cutting out early for happy hour.” Naveed tilts his head to the door. “Come on, Pop-Tart.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. He knows how much I despise that nickname. As usual, he ignores me.

  “I don’t know, Naveed.” I shift uncomfortably in my heels. “Now that the reality is setting in, there’s so much work to be done.”

  He puts a hand to the small of my back and nods, steering me toward the door. “Yes, and it can all wait until Monday.”

  I sidestep and scramble for an excuse. “How about if I meet you there. I just have a couple calls to make.”

  His lips purse, but he’s distracted by a guy from circulation trying to top off his champagne.

  “Okay, but you better be there.” He points at me and I force a bright smile.

  “Who am I to turn down cocktails?”

  The amount of work ahead of me is monumental, but it truly can wait until Monday. We have almost four months until the first issue goes live and much of the work for that one is already under our belts. This is a marathon, and it’s undoubtedly best to approach it as such, which means not burning myself out in the first mile.

  I exchange a few more congratulations and make a point to thank Athena for her hard work championing us to the board, and then I head back to my office.

  But it’s too quiet and the air is too still. The room has no personality, as I didn’t think it was worth wasting the energy on a temporary sp
ace, but now the bare walls and bland carpet make me want to wince. I crave vibrancy and life, not this cold, stale box. I vow to myself to make my new office warm and inviting and lousy with color.

  I pack up my things and pull out my phone again. There’s a congratulatory text from Iris and a new email from Cookie with a link to a nasty review of the inn on Yelp.

  Before I can think too much about it, I hit the inn’s number.

  “Violette Inn, this is Cookie Rutledge speaking. How can I help you today?”

  “Is this the world-famous Violette Inn? The one that poisons unsuspecting guests with tainted biscuits?”

  She clucks her tongue and launches right in. “Don’t even get me started. I told that vile woman my biscuits are not gluten-free, but it didn’t stop her from gorging herself on half a dozen of the darn things, did it? I can’t be responsible for her gut exploding like an overfilled Macy’s Day Parade balloon. I even offered her cornbread, and you know I don’t make that in the mornings.”

  I wanted to sigh at the sound of her voice, even with the exasperated tone.

  “I’m mentally composing my rebuttal to the review as we speak.”

  “I appreciate that, darlin’. Now, enough about that gluttonous ignoramus. Tell me about you.”

  I play with the zipper on my laptop bag. I can picture her perfectly, pulling up a stool in the kitchen to give me all her attention. “Well, let’s see.” I pretend to think on it. “Work is going really well. We just got approval on a big project so that’s a nice feather in our cap.” I have yet to confess that my job here wasn’t exactly the sure thing I’d led them all to believe it was. But at least now it’s all on the level.

  “I’m still waiting for a copy of the first issue of this new version of Warbey’s. When is it coming out? Did I tell you Bunny is hording all her back issues, thinking they’ll be collector’s items?”

  Of course she is.

  “You’ll have to sit tight till January, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, that’s all right. Patience is natural when you reach my age.” This makes me want to laugh because Cookie’s never exactly been known for her patience, no matter what her age. “You still enjoying the work?”